Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (9 page)

“Like us.” She smiled, nose crinkling, then swept one hand toward me.

“Like you,” the guard repeated skeptically. “And who exactly is your friend, Judge Drukiski? He looks …” She paused, brow furrowed. “Unwell.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she said, folding her hands. “He’s fine. And his identity isn’t important. We’re on special assignment from the arch-mage, and as an O4 grade officer with the Judges Office, the containment order doesn’t pertain to me anyway. Not at this location. You can check the reference manual if you’d like—you’ll find all the pertinent information listed in the chain of command section. Appendix B. You do have a copy of the reference manual with you, dontcha?”

The thickset female guard with the Beretta wilted a tad, glancing uncertainly toward the other guards. “Well, ma’am”—she cleared her throat—“no, actually.”

A gangly male guard with spidery fingers shrugged, his lips turning down, eyebrows raised. “It’s Judge Drukiski.” His words were clipped, precise, British. “If she says it’s in the regulations, it’s in the regulations.”

“Maybe we should call it in?” the fräulein offered to her fellow guards.

“Oh sure, of course,” Drukiski replied, issuing them all a hard smile. “Please, by all means feel free to call it in. Though gosh”—she paused, crossing her arms, tapping a foot restlessly—“I imagine the Command Staff probably has quite a bit on their hands already. I sure know I wouldn’t want to be the one bothering Arch-Mage Borgstorm or Fist Leader Quinn right now. Especially for a redundant, unnecessary request. But”—she shrugged apologetically—“you just do what you think is right. I completely understand.”

“Come on, Annaliese, just let them through,” said the last guard, a petite woman with braided black hair. “Annual reviews are next week—I don’t want to have a write up in my folder. Especially not from her.” That last was a mumble, but I still caught it.

“Yeah, okay,” the fräulein officer—Annaliese, apparently—finally replied, sliding her pistol back into the holster at her waist. “You and your guest can go, Judge Drukiski.” She paused, worrying at her bottom lip. “Just one more thing?” she asked, a sheepish grin skittering across her round face.

“Hmm, what’s that?”

“Well, annual reviews
are
next week, and a recommendation from you could go a long way with the board.”

“I’ll consider it,” she said with another warm motherly smile. The thickset fräulein edged aside while the other two unbarred the entry door, motioning us through with broad, fake smiles.

Huh, how about that shit?

Maybe I
could
learn a thing or two from her, after all. Who knew all those bullshit rules, which drove me batshit-crazy, were actually good for something? Like lawyering your way around all the bullshit rules, apparently.

The irony was not lost on me.

I glanced back at the Gwyllgi—there were five of those sons of bitches now—still lingering on the edge of the mist, staring hate and death and pain at me. A low growl built in the air as Drukiski and I headed into the
Cubiculi ex Ostia
, but the hounds made no move to follow. I grinned in spite of the terrible situation, feeling like this was a small victory, and flipped those asshole dogs the bird just as the door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the sound from outside, encasing us in silence.

SEVEN:

Cubiculi ex Ostia

My good mood was fleeting as the sudden quiet of the Chamber—interrupted only by my breathing and the scuff of Drukiski’s shoes over the granite floor—descended on us. Despite the fact that this place hadn’t been a crypt in a thousand years or more, it still held the feel of a tomb. Cold. Dank. Dark. Dead. There was a power in the air, an unseen force that rejected our intrusion into this place, as though our presence was somehow profane, sacrilegious.

I pulled up next to Drukiski and cleared my throat, the sound unnaturally loud, echoing off the walls. “That was crazy-good work out there,” I said, hooking a thumb back toward the sealed doors. “With the guards. Like some kind of paperwork, red-tape ninjutsu.” I shook my head, the rueful grin still plastered on my face. “And here I thought all those stupid standard operating procedure manuals weren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”

She blushed a little, bright spots of red growing on her cheeks. “Oh gosh, that was nothing, really. Besides, everything I said was more or less the truth. The general lockdown really shouldn’t have pertained to us anyway.” She fell silent, the confident administrator from a moment ago suddenly gone as the heaviness of the room settled over us.

She paced nervously, moving with the stiff shamble of a recent car-wreck victim, arms folded across her chest as though she were trying to physically hold herself together. That’s what shock looks like.

“You okay?” I asked hesitantly, not really sure if I wanted an answer.

She paused her restless shuffling and regarded me for a beat. “Honestly?” she asked, then shook her head, lips drawn tight. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” she said, pacing back and forth once more.

“Being a real field agent. Going on missions. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this. I thought it would be an adventure. Exciting. Like in a cozy mystery. A little sleuthing, a little travel, some interesting stories. My husband, he tried to tell me. He said, Darlene, this is just a midlife crisis. Buy a corvette, he told me, let’s go on a cruise. Take a vacation. Anything but this. He was right,” she said, “because this isn’t exciting. It’s scary.” She paused, rubbing hands along her shoulders as her gaze roamed over the chamber, taking in all the cold gray marble.

The room itself was fifty or sixty feet long, all weathered granite and ancient marble, filled with an unnatural gloom that seemed to radiate from the walls. A living murk that pressed at us, fighting to submerge us into darkness. Marble columns, like those positioned out front, lined the room on either side.

The columns offered a feeble illumination to fight against the pervasive darkness—each pillar was inscribed with a single long, looping line of text, running from the top of the column to its bottom, circling down in a tight spiral. The scrawl—flowing letters here, sharp angular text there—glowed with a watery opalescent light that didn’t offer much warmth or comfort.

The weak glow from the script did allow me to see the doors, however. Thirteen of the suckers running up each side of the room. Hulking sentinels of black obsidian with no markings, no hinges, no handles. More like polished stone than actual doorways.

“I’ve read so many reports.” Darlene limped over to a stone column near the entryway and sat, legs folded beneath her. “The other Judges, the real ones, they come back with their stories. Fighting off a school of
nanaue
”—terrifying sharklike creatures that could swim through dirt and earth the way a great white could swim through choppy ocean waves—“in the Samoan islands. Hunting a rogue
enenra
in Shimamaki.” She sighed fondly. “The way they tell those stories …” She faded into awkward silence. “They just make it sound so exotic,” she finished weakly.

“I suppose I just wanted a story like that. Just one. All day, every day I listen to their stories, rubber stamp their reports, then go home, cook for my family, wash dishes, and watch an hour of TV before bed. I’m lucky if I get to a yoga class once a week. The most exciting place I’ve ever been is the
Brokers of Iskdarla Shopping Emporium
, over Hub-side. And I only did that once. Ate at a falafel stand and ended up with dysentery.” She clutched her stomach with one hand, as though acutely recalling the discomfort. “Took me a month to get rid of the stomach bug, and I swore that was the last time I’d ever go there.”

I moseyed over next to her and plopped onto the ground, then scooted over so my right shoulder pressed into her. For better or worse, Darlene was my partner now. We’d fought together, bled together, killed together, bullshitted our way past armed guards together, and that was a bond few people shared.

“I’m supposed to be a mage—a wielder of the primal forces,” she said, snuggling into me a little. “In reality, I’m just a boring soccer mom with a boring desk job. I was
so
excited when the arch-mage came to me. So excited to finally be part of something. And when I heard I was going on assignment with you? With the Yancy Lazarus? My word, I was ecstatic. That’s like getting to ice skate with Michelle Kwan. But this isn’t what I wanted. I’m cold, I’m tired, my feet hurt, my chest aches from where that Gwyllgi hit me, and I’m scared. Terrified. I may have just committed a crime against the Guild, for Pete’s sake.”

Her voice hitched a little.

Oh shit, she was on the verge of tears.

“What if something happens and I never see my husband again?” She sniffled. “John needs me. He doesn’t even know how to balance the checkbook. And my kids. Jules. Brian.” A small sob escaped her throat. “I might never see them again. I
need
to see them again. To tell them how much I love them.”

Well, this was awkward. Uncomfortable. As unnatural as a pig wearing a prom dress.

I’ve never been one for offering comfort. I’m not a shoulder to cry on. Mostly, I’m the guy to come to when the crying’s done and the only thing left to do is kick some ass and take some names. Still, I slipped an arm around her and patted her on the shoulder the same way you might pat a stranger’s dog. Uncomfortable or not, it was the right thing to do. She needed someone to reassure her. To tell her it was all going to be okay, even if it wasn’t.

“We’ll get you home, Darlene.” I used her first name, trying to sound relatable. Personable. “You’ll see ’em again, your family. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.” I hoped to hell that was the truth. Sadly, in my line of work, those kinds of promises have a way of coming back to bite you in the ass.

I knew from a lot of personal experience.

“We’ll get you home,” I repeated, this time working to convince myself. “And you’ve got nothing to feel ashamed of,” I said. “I swear to God, it doesn’t matter how many times you go on assignment, it’s always miserable. Always. Believe me, I did this shit for more than twenty-five years before I left the Guild, and that’s not counting my time in Nam. Field jobs always, without exception, suck a bag full of soggy ass.

“It’s either too cold or too hot,” I continued. “You never get enough sleep or enough food. Something’s constantly trying to murder you—to mount your head on a wall or turn your innards into a festive holiday sweater. It’s always scary and that tight-bellied fear never really goes away. Even the highlights usually suck—they’re the kind of memories that are cool in hindsight, but
only
in hindsight. You dig it? I mean, when you’re living through those stories, you’d rather be anywhere else, doing literally anything else. IRS audit. DMV appointment. Retinal surgery. Anything.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right,” she replied, “but at least you’re good at what you do. I shouldn’t be here. I thought I could do this—went to all those qualification classes—but I’m terrible at this. My first fight and I set you on fire,” she said, eyes darting toward my blistered shoulder. “Which by the way, I’m so, so sorry for. As soon as we can, I’ll get some disinfectant on that.”

“This?” I nodded toward the burned skin on my shoulder, which hurt like running face-first into a cheese grater. For the record, burns are the absolute worst. “This is hardly nothing,” I lied. “I’ve done worse with a cigarette. Besides, for your first fight, you did damned good. My first fight with the Vis was about as neat and clean as carving a turkey with a chainsaw.”

My sight hazed as thoughts of Nam tore their way through my head like the explosion of a rigged 105 round.

For a moment, I could almost hear
the sound of otherworldly music, Siren song, floating on unseen currents like streams of brilliant Christmas garlands. Strings of Vis-wrought power—invisible to all, save me—dancing, swaying, burrowing inside me and the knucklehead Marines in my squad as we tromped through the Vietnamese bush. Filling us with rage and hate and fear. Turning us against each other … Men screamed in my head as I unleashed a torrent of flame, charbroiling four
Dac Cong.
Cooking ’em alive. Blackening skin, melting muscle, snapping bones in the intense heat.

Underneath those sounds—the screaming, the cries, the spectral music—I could hear something else. Laughter.

It was the deep rumble of a demonic chuckle, and with it came a burning sensation on my forehead. The Demonic Seal. On instinct, I reached up trembling fingers, tracing over the skin. Nothing.
“I’ve always been with you,”
that shit swizzler Azazel whispered inside my head.
“From the beginning, you’ve been my disciple. You are mine.”

“You really mean that?” Darlene asked with another small sniffle, dispelling the demon’s voice stampeding through my skull. “That we’ll get out of this alive, I mean?”