Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (25 page)

I suspected most of the Rakshasa would be bunkered down in the nest. Al’s Charger sat in the driveway, accompanied by two other vehicles: a white, soft topped Jeep Wrangler, and a sporty, blue, Mazda hatchback. A good tell that someone, or several someone’s, had come home to roost. Plus, the sun had risen not long ago and Rakshasa tend to sleep during the day. Now, this isn’t like a “vampire” sunlight thing—it’s not a hard and fast rule. Rakshasa are nocturnal predators, and nocturnal predators go back to the den when the sun rises. Common sense. Even supernatural animals have habits and routines they usually abide by.

I was also sure the Rakshasa would still be nesting here despite the fact that I’d discovered their hidey-hole. Again, Rakshasa are predatory creatures. Like most predators, they’re highly protective of their territory—think a pack of junkyard dogs guarding their bounty of old cars and abandoned couches—when they make a home, even temporarily, they like to hold onto it. Rakshasa may be hard-hitting, human-eating, shape changing badasses, but they’re also predictable in their own way.

At least, I was hoping so.

The only way to know for sure, though, was with the wispy construct I was manipulating toward the detached garage. Well, I guess I could’ve gone and knocked on the garage door disguised as a pizza man or something, but that probably wouldn’t have turned out so well.

My spirit construct brushed up against the outside of the garage and I could feel the presence of warm bodies in there. I also sensed several Vis wards, set in place since my last visit. The wards were weak things not meant to pack much of a punch; they were small-scale deterrents meant to warn away any Rube mortals who wandered by, or give warning to the Rakshasa if some dastardly mage type showed up again.

Excellent. Time to kick the anthill.

I let my probe construct dissipate while simultaneously bringing a wrecking ball of force into play. I was going to crash their slumber party—I was gonna go all big bad wolf on those slumbering, human-eating, piggies. Dastardly indeed.

I attacked, left hand out, palm open, a tight grin cutting my face. A silvered hammer of air and spirit coalesced into shape, rocketing forward like a friggin’ scud missile of Vis. A second later, the garage door exploded with a
crack
, a shower of white-painted wood chunks and rusty metal flew inward exposing the garage interior to the soft light of the new day.

Cockroaches—the disgusting little bastards—swarmed out in agitation, a living river of black and brown pouring out into the back yard and driveway. Cockroaches are also creatures of the dark. Night is when the little chitinous buggers venture fourth to dig through trashcans and otherwise be creepy and gross; they don’t like being exposed to daylight any more than Rakshasa. The Rakshasa were a little slower in their response, fine by me. That first Rakshasa—outside the motel in Las Cruces—had caught me on the john with my pants around my ankles. It was nice to return the favor.

Turnabout is fair play, they say, and damned if I wasn’t going to dish out some hardcore turnabout.

The Rakshasa were laying in a literal dog pile, all their rancid, flabby flesh intertwined in a heap of limbs and claws, gray-flesh and fangs. They started to stir, to wither and twist in distress, but I wasn’t about to give them time to wake up and splash some water in their eyes before we started our game. I conjured up a bit of flame and doused the interior of the garage and the fleeing bugs. Not enough flame to actually set the garage on fire—I didn’t want to accidentally burn some poor schlub’s house down—but enough to get their attention and befuddle night-adjusted eyes. There’s virtually nothing more disorienting than having someone throw on the light and make a bunch of ruckus when you’re sound asleep.

I have to imagine it’s even worse if you suddenly find yourself on fire.

Some days, being a mage is a very rewarding occupation.

Before the nest could even think about getting their shit together, I drew my pistol and fired into the mass. I was careful to aim only at protruding arms or hands, legs or feet. I wanted to inflict painful and annoying wounds that would seriously piss them off, but which wouldn’t be crippling. I wasn’t prepared to kill all these baddies here. And I sure as hell didn’t want to start a full-fledged war in a residential neighborhood. Some misplaced bullet could easily careen into some innocent kid the next block over.

I wanted to get them sufficiently angry enough to pursue me. Essentially, I was kicking over their sandcastle and then throwing some beach sand in their collective eyes. Now typically, I don’t condone bullying—heaven knows I’m usually on the wrong end of that equation—but sometimes being the bully does
feel good. Like Scrooge McDuck backstroking through an obscene pile of gold, good.

The Rakshasa were moving now, breaking free of the debris littered confines of the garage, spilling into the backyard in all their full, flabby-ass, Rakshasa glory. I knew they weren’t thinking clearly since they didn’t even bother to don their human flesh masks.

They were charging toward me, unthinking, full of hate and anger, a herd of red-eyed bulls hot on the trail of some audacious matador. Perfect. In bullfighting, the matador taunts the bull, twirling his cape, and lashing out with sharp, painful javelins, always in reach yet just out of grasp. The bull, understandably, becomes incensed, seeking to gore that damned matador whatever the cost, all the while becoming both wearier and more careless.

It’s a dangerous gamble for the matador and there have been many who get the pointy, business end of the bull in the process.
But,
if the matador plays the game right, they can finish the job with a helluva flourish: a dead bull at the end of a single, meticulously placed sword thrust, the
estocada
.

I had a flourish of my own for these evil, fang-toothed, ass-cows. My own version of the
estocada
—assuming I didn’t get gored in the process.

On a completely unrelated note, it’s better not to ask why I know so much about bullfighting. I’ve lived a long and … well, let’s say complicated
life. Some things are just best left alone.

The Rakshasa were closer now, their long legs eating up the distance between us in a mad dash to take vengeance on me, presumably in a variety of horrible and unsavory ways. Though they were moving at a good clip, it was a disorganized rush. I’d wounded many of their number and not a one of them had thought to grab a gun. I back peddled for the car, pumping a few more rounds into their bodies with a nice compact Walter PPK—a sporty little German-made pistol—which Morse had graciously loaned to me. It barked in my hand, and though I knew it wouldn’t do much to hurt the Rakshasa, it did slow them down a little.

I ejected the mag when it ran dry, letting it drop to the ground, while I speed reloaded, pulling a fresh clip from a mag-pouch attached to my flak jacket. What can I say, sometimes it’s nice to have friends in low places—you never know when you’ll need a favor from a gunrunner. I’m sure my mom would be proud of me, making friends like a real life grown up.

The nearest Rakshasa howled in fury as I got close to Greg’s idling car. The thing leapt into the air, its muscles flexing, its fangs flashing.

“DOWN!” hollered Greg from the driver’s seat. I let the Walter drop as I ducked, curling into a roll which brought me well out of Greg’s line of fire.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Greg open up with a 12 gauge pump-action, one of the guns Morse and his guys had been playing with back at the safehouse
. Boof, boof, boof, boof.
The sound was nearly deafening and the impact effect was truly spectacular.

Greg wasn’t firing off any ol’ rounds, he’d loaded the weapon with an alternating combination of Bolo and Dragon’s Breath shells. Bolo rounds are fierce: two large buckshot pellets connected by a thick razor sharp wire; they’re designed to spin through the air and carve out huge channel wounds in whatever they hit. Dragon’s Breath is an incendiary round, filled with hot burning magnesium pellets—it turns your plain-Jane shottie into a bon-e-fide flamethrower.

Greg’s gun alternated between spitting out the fast moving bolos and literally belching flame at the oncoming Rakshasa. The first four or five rounds hit center mass, and the Rakshasa went tumbling tail over teakettle, as though it’d taken a real wallop from a professional linebacker. It was also burning merrily—looked like a grumpy makeshift yuletide log—as it lay unmoving on the street. I knew the fire wouldn’t do much in terms of long-term damage, but I still felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

I got to my feet and was sorely tempted to try a hood slide, all Dukes of Hazard style. Then I ran around the front instead of making a giant jackass out of myself.

Probably would have shot myself accidentally had I tried the damn thing, something Greg would never let me live down. It sure would have
looked
badass though.

I got into the passenger seat and glanced out of the window as Greg gave her gas. The Rakshasa were melting into human masks and loading up into their various cars: three in the Charger, two more in the Wrangler, and the last pair—which included the one Greg had set on fire—into the Mazda hatchback. As each pulled out to give chase, Greg put the pedal down, and we roared forward.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking here—Ford Focuses don’t
roar
forward.

But we weren’t in the Ford Focus, we were riding in a souped-up, midnight-black, 69’ Ford Fairlane. This was the car Greg worked on—his hobbyhorse—and it was all fat wheels, slick lines, and over-clocked engine. It could go as fast as the Roadrunner on jet-powered roller skates and it looked good doing it. With that said, the three cars carrying the Rakshasa were gaining on us. We could’ve lost these suckers in the time it takes to blink a handful of times, but we wanted them to follow—we wanted rage to guide them right into the jaws of our nasty trap. Our final, bull-fighting, sword thrust.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Bat Outta Hell

I’ve said it before, anger makes people act in some intensely careless and profoundly
stupid ways. Rakshasa may be evil, but they aren’t generally stupid. Under normal circumstances, this lot wouldn’t have chased me out in an onslaught of gunfire, completely exposed and lacking even the forethought of their flesh masks. Probably, they wouldn’t get in a car and chase Greg and I to some undisclosed location, where bad things would happen. But when you spit in someone’s eye, bust up their house real good, and set their pet on fire, people do irrational things.

“Buckle up,” Greg said as he put the pedal down, zipping south and west along Amherst Drive. Peaceful suburbia cruised by in a flash of single-story houses and green lawns edged with Californian ash—tall thin trees, with great billowing green tops. “Wouldn’t want you to get a boo-boo if anything happens. Heaven knows I’d never hear the end of your cryin’.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” I said as I peeked back over my shoulder. “How about you drive the car and save the standup for someone funny.” I did buckle up, even though it annoyed me to do it. Seat belts
do
save lives.

“I am funny,” he said as he took a hard left onto North 6
th
, followed in close succession by a right onto Bethany Road. The maneuver left a long streak of black on the asphalt.

“Yeah,” I said, “you’re about as funny as
Schindler's List
. Now drive.”

More single-family homes zipped by, their glass eyes closed to the world—curtains drawn against the morning light.

Though Greg was pushing the speed, a glance in the rearview mirror showed me that the Rakshasa were keeping pace, all three vehicles still with us. I could feel the tension building in Greg as he focused on the road, knuckles white against the steering wheel. Car chases are not easy and they never look like they do in the movies.

Probably, you’ve never been in a car chase, but let me tell you, things happen so friggin’ fast it’s hard to believe. One moment you’re cruising along—everything’s buckled down—then
boom
some poor state trooper’s scooping up pieces of you with a spatula. A real car chase is like trying to drive while playing hot potato with a basket full of grenades. Intense, and it all seems to happen in the span of a single, adrenaline-filled, heartbeat.

We flew along Bethany for another four blocks. I left Greg to his task while I craned over my shoulder, scanning our tail, making sure the Rakshasa didn’t get too close or too far behind. We wanted them to follow, but we also wanted to convince them that we were genuinely trying to get away. It was a damn fine balance.

The tires screeched and my seat belt snapped tight against my chest—

A golden Toyota pickup pulled through the diagonal intersection in front of us: an elderly gent, out for an early morning drive. Greg avoided plowing into the poor guy—though I think we gave him a helluva scare—and got moving again, but the delay cost us priceless seconds. Like I said, car chases are fast and any slip up can have terrible repercussions.

I peeked back at our pursuers and I felt my stomach drop out of the bottom.

I only spotted the Charger and the Wrangler. We’d lost the Mazda.

“We’re one short!” I hollered, “I don’t have eyes on the Mazda.” Greg nodded his assent, but didn’t take the time to spare me a glance. His attention was all for the road, the drive, the pedal beneath his foot. The suburban homes gave way to the sprawl of eateries and large shops as we zigged onto North 3
rd
Street, angling toward the freeway. The buildings transformed into modern stucco things, but only a few shops were open at this early hour. Thank God.