Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  I pulled out the driver’s wallet, flipping it open to reveal the driver’s ID before casually laying it out on the counter. “I found this guy’s wallet in a gas station bathroom,” I lied. “He had a room key in it”—I fished it out of my pocket and laid that down too—“room nineteen. Just wanted to make sure he got his stuff back. Is he in? Or does he maybe have a roommate I could leave this with?”

  The clerk’s smile slipped as he glanced down at the ID on the table. There was a wink of recognition in his brown eyes; he shuffled back a small step as though to put some extra distance between himself and the offending ID. “Sorry, sir,” he said, “that guest is not in right now. You can, of course, leave the wallet with me. I will make certain he gets it back.”

  A fat bead of sweat rolled down his forehead; he absently swiped at the moisture before reaching out a shaky hand for the wallet.

  “No worries,” I replied. “I’ll just hang on to it, if it’s all the same to you.” I snatched up the brown billfold and room key and dropped both back into my jacket pocket. “I want to rent a room anyway, so I should be around when he comes back.”

  The clerk’s smile was gone now, vanished completely, as if I’d stolen it by mention of the pudgy guest from room nineteen. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, backing up another step toward the connecting door. “We are full up just now. My apologies, sir. Truly.”

  I pivoted and cast a peek toward the parking lot. The large sign pronouncing the motel’s name had the “vacancy” light on full tilt.

  “Your sign says you have room,” I replied, turning back to him. Now he was a few inches from the door leading away from the office. His gaze darted left then right, his fingers dancing nervously against each other as he shifted in place.

  And that’s when I saw it: a brief ripple, which ran beneath the surface of his dark complexion, accompanied by a glow of yellow eyes. If you were a vanilla human—a Rube, not in the know—it’d be the kind of thing your brain wouldn’t really register. Your conscious mind would dismiss it, but your reptilian brain, the part responsible for your survival, would send out a warning: there’s something off about this guy, it would say, better just leave this whack job be. You’ve probably had that queasy and uneasy feeling at some point, and usually it pays to heed that extra survival sense.

  Except I wasn’t some Rube and this wasn’t my first rodeo—this guy wasn’t human, and I knew it all the way down to my toes. “Hold it, bud,” I said, slipping a hand under my coat lapel and drawing out my hand cannon. He froze, his eyes locking onto the pistol, roving over the black metal and gold scrollwork, brushing over the sigils of power and ancient runes imbuing it with deadly force far beyond mere hot lead.

  “Now,” I said, hefting the pistol, though not pointing it at him—not yet, anyway, “I know you aren’t human. I also know that the guy staying in room nineteen is involved in something dark and dirty. And I think you know it, too. This doesn’t have to get messy, so unless you’ve got something to hide, I suggest you open your gab and start bumping your gums, comprende?”

  The change came over him in a wave, his human face melting away to reveal a giant man-rat with a dark copper pelt, yellow eyes, and buckteeth. His hands were brown and claw-tipped, and a bald pink tail whipped around behind him, dancing as nervously as his fingers had a moment before.

  “You’re a halfie?” I asked. Most halfies and other critters from Outword could conjure up a rudimentary flesh-suit to conceal their true appearance, though they often looked wrong in subtle ways. The skin too saggy, the limbs disproportional in places, and the eyes … The eyes were almost always wrong. Not quite human.

  He nodded and let out a high-pitched squeak, his pink nose twitching as he sniffed at the air, taking in my scent. “Me and my family, sir,” he replied, still in accented English, though his voice now held an inhuman squeal. “Please, please don’t hurt me. We’re not involved. I swear, I don’t know what they’re doing. I’m not involved!” he cried out again, lifting his hands toward me, pleading. “I keep my head down and don’t make waves”—his voice grew oddly quiet as his tail jerked to and fro in agitation—“otherwise, they’ll-they’ll take my family.” He fell silent, nose still twitching, whiskers bobbing in a frenzy, eyes flashing around the room, seeking a way out.

  I lowered my gun and pushed it back into its holster. Guy was about to wet himself, which was totally reasonable, given the circumstances. Listen, if a maniac ever shows up at your doorstep and pulls a monster-killing gun on you, it’s okay to be nervous. I won’t judge you, honest. But it also told me he was probably being honest. Guy didn’t seem like much of a fighter, and I bet if he did know something, he’d roll faster than a log down a hill.

  “I’m new in town,” I said, “and I got a serious bone to pick with the guy in room nineteen and whatever business he’s involved with. So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna tell me everything you know—everything, even stuff you think is insignificant, y’dig?—and then I’m gonna search room nineteen for evidence. After that, I’ll scoot along and you can pretend this never happened. Sound like an agreeable plan?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Lolo is a sanctuary town,” he said in a rapid-fire burst, eager to give me anything so I’d go away. “The majority are human, of course, but there is a thriving halfie community here, too. And some fullbloods.” His tongue flitted over his teeth as he thought. “Mr. and Mrs. Robertazzi are Blemmyes, but vegetarians—good people, truly. The Lippmans are brownies, from the Autumn Court, and Deanna Leblanc is a dryad. She’s with the Spring Court, I believe. But it is a good community, sir, a great place to raise kids.”

  “And the sheriff?” I asked. “I’m assuming if Lolo’s a sanctuary town, the law must be clued in.”

  “Yes, yes. Lolo doesn’t have a proper police force, but the Missoula sheriff, Jack Kelly, knows of us. About the community. He’s human, a member of the Lucis Venántium.”

  The Lucis Venántium was a secret order of humans devoted to policing, hunting, and executing any of the supernatural threats that dared to prey on hapless mortals. Their ranks were largely filled with law enforcement and military types, though soccer moms or stay-at-home dads occasionally found their way into the fold too. Guys and gals who’d once been plain ol’ Rubes, but who’d stumbled upon the supernatural and refused to leave things be.

  If the sheriff was with the order, that’d make this way, way easier. Though it did make me wonder why he hadn’t already stopped whatever nonsense was going on ’round these parts. If the halfies knew there was trouble afoot, it stood to reason the sheriff knew, too.

  “Good to know,” I said. “Now what can you tell me about the guy in room nineteen and whatever sheisty business he’s involved with?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” the rat-man stammered. “I swear it. There are two of them—Mr. Bradford is human, the other is a halfie, of what sort I do not know. I let them use the motel, but that is all. And I don’t want to know anything else. People have disappeared. Humans. Halfies. Anyone who dares to step out of line or starts asking too many questions—one day they’re just gone. Poof.”

  Suddenly, the “H” and “NH” designation from the spreadsheet I’d scored at the motorhome made sense: “Human” and “Non-Human.”

  “Everyone’s afraid,” he said. “Please, just leave me out of this. I can’t help. I’m, I’m just a halfie. I’m trying to keep my family safe. That is all. Please understand, sir. Please?”

  He looked up at me, his yellow gaze growing wide as he held out his hands, a plea for mercy. Guy had some damn good puppy-dog eyes, considering he was a giant, talking rat.

  I sighed, nodded, and stepped away. Whatever was underway here, this schmuck wasn’t a part of it. I’m not the brightest kid on the playground, but I’ve got street smarts in spades, and I can tell a bullshitter when I see one. This guy was scared. Scared and honest. Not everyone is cut out for heroics, and that’s cool. Hell, I’m not cut out for heroics … that s
hit’s for the birds. I’d much rather be drinking a cool beer while playing a dirty-blues set in some hole-in-the-wall tavern than running down clues and sticking my neck out like a Thanksgiving turkey. This guy had his priorities straight. Good for him.

  “Keep your head down and forget I was ever here, got it, partner?” I said, pushing the door open with my foot.

  “Yes, of course, of course, sir. Thank you,” he squawked, then ducked back through the connecting door, swinging it shut behind him.

  NINE:

  Complications

  I beelined across the parking lot, straight for the currently dark room nineteen. Probably, the clerk would go hunker down in the back and pretend I didn’t exist—the smart thing to do—but it still made sense to hurry things along. Sure, he would probably hunker down, but, hypothetically, he could also phone in our little chat to whoever was running this operation. I pulled the room key from my pocket and slid it through the bulky automatic lock above the doorknob. A small green light winked on and off, followed by a small click granting me admittance to the room.

  I cracked the door a smidge, then pulled out my revolver and opened myself to the Vis, conjuring up a small blue orb of light, which floated an inch above my left palm. I used my shoulder to push my way inside, preparing myself for the worst: mutilated bodies, a McThug poker tournament, or an interdimensional portal into the far-flung regions of Outworld, complete with a gibbering, face-eating slug monster.

  You know, the worst.

  I crept along a short hallway—scanning a tiny closet and bathroom in passing, both clear—which let out into the main bedroom. I swept my left hand around the room, letting the conjured light wash over everything. Much to my shock, there actually wasn’t a terrifying, face-eating monster waiting to punch my ticket or turn me into snack food.

  Well, how about that shit?

  Guess everybody catches a lucky break once in a while … except this didn’t feel like a lucky break.

  There was this sense, sitting deep in my gut, which said, Oh no, you don’t get off that easy—just you wait, this is gonna blow up in your face yet. I waved my hand, dispelling the weaves for the orb, though not releasing my stranglehold on the Vis, and casually flicked on the light switch. The overhead bulb buzzed for a moment, then burst to life; astringent white light spilled over the room. There was a pair of full beds. The sheets on one were rumpled and bunched up at the end of the mattress. The covers on the other, by contrast, had been hastily thrown in place, though clearly someone had slept there.

  Meant two people had been here: one neat, one messy, both in a rush to leave—which pointed toward the pudgy, now dead driver, and his partner.

  First, I checked the nightstand positioned between the two beds, which turned up a whole lot of nothing. No gun, no journal describing their nefarious plot, no incriminating or helpful evidence of any kind. Why couldn’t bad guys be less paranoid and more helpful? Ugh. I spotted a black suitcase sitting on a luggage rack near the TV, which looked promising. I glanced back toward the door for just a second. Dammit. I couldn’t shake this terrible sense of impending disaster looming over me. I’ve learned through years and years of poor decision making and awful consequences to listen to that little voice yammering away on the inside.

  But no one burst through the door, guns blazing. Everything was quiet and still, which only intensified my unease.

  I flipped back the lid of the black suitcase—in one side, there was a neat pile of folded clothes, and in the other was a messy heap of dirty laundry, which reeked like an old gym sock that’d been shoved into a sweaty jockstrap. Nasty. If there was anything worth finding, however, it’d be under the dirty clothes—I mean, what better place to hide sensitive stuff than in a mound of dirty underwear? That’d be the one place no one would want to check. Considering I’d pawed through the pockets of a corpse earlier in the evening, this didn’t seem so bad. A little perspective is important in life.

  I pulled the clothes out, letting them drop to the floor, not caring a lick if anyone realized I’d been here or not. Sure enough, there at the bottom was a thick unmarked manila envelope. Yahtzee.

  That, my friends, is what we call pay dirt in the clue-finding business.

  I pulled out the envelope, brought it over to the bed, fumbled with the metal clip holding it shut, then up-righted the contents onto the mattress. There were four different passports inside—two for the driver, and two for his partner. There were also driver’s licenses, credit cards, and a fat stack of cash—both US dollars and Canadian bills, a couple thousand dollars, total.

  The money I stowed in my coat pocket—I’m not ever hard up for cash, not with my supernatural luck at the poker table, but I’ve never been the kind of guy to pass up a wad of cash, either.

  As to the other stuff: I’ve been on the road for a good long while, flying low, living under the radar, so I knew an emergency go-bag when I saw one. This was definitely that. There was also a file folder marked “Insurance” across the front in bold, black Sharpie, which sure as shit got my attention. I flipped the file open and found a stack of papers and photos—if I had to gamble, I’d say it was the stuff someone would need to run a successful blackmail scheme.

  I spotted a copy of the shipping manifesto I’d seen earlier. There were a few lab reports, filled with pages and pages of technical, scientific mumbo-jumbo, which meant nothing to me. But best of all, there were photos. Photos of the motorhome interior, complete with prisoners chained to the floor—that one made me want to burn the friggin’ motel down on general principle. There was also a picture of a roly-poly son of a bitch with a swatch of brown hair, sporting a too-small lab coat. It was labelled “Doctor Arlen Hogg.”

  The same Arlen Hogg I’d come to Montana in search of.

  It was the last photo, however, that kicked my teeth in and knocked the wind out of me like a two-by-four right to the gut. A photo of Doctor Arlen Hogg having some words with a man I knew very, very well: James Sullivan, Lieutenant Commander of the Fist of the Staff—the Mage special enforcement division—and my only true friend in the Guild. I stumbled back a few steps, suddenly light-headed and sick to my stomach. I plopped down onto the bed, which squeaked under my weight, staring at the photo, my hands trembling minutely. I couldn’t breathe … this … it didn’t make sense.

  The hell was this?

  There had to be some reasonable explanation for this photo, some way to reconcile why my buddy James was talking with this Doctor Hogg, who was clearly up to his lab-coated elbows in whatever evil hijinks were afoot. There had to be an explanation, dammit!

  Something. Anything.

  Except I could only think of one good one: James Sullivan was the dickbag traitor in the Guild. The dead driver’s words floated through my head: I don’t want no trouble, but you know the Doc is close with the Boss. No one wants to piss off the Boss. I studied the photo of Doctor Hogg chatting with James. Close with the Boss—a perfect assessment based on the photo. But that couldn’t be right. It couldn’t. If James was running the carnival, why had he helped me put Randy down?

  Then a terrible thought hit me like a pool cue to the back of the head. How did I know Randy had been dealt with? I didn’t have any eyes or ears in the Guild except for James. He was my only link to the inside these days, so there was no way for me to confirm a friggin’ thing he’d told me. If James was the Big Bad, then the Guild might not even be aware there was a traitor or a problem. Shit, James even had history with the Lich—taking down Koschei had been one of his first major assignments with the Fist. He’d only bragged about it a million friggin’ times.

  I pushed myself onto shaky feet, shoved all the evidence—passports, IDs, papers, and surveillance photos—back into the manila envelope with numb hands, and made for the door. I needed fresh air.

  Needed to think.

  Needed to get out on the road where there weren’t so many walls closing in on me like a prison cell.

  I slammed the door behind me, not caring who
heard or who I woke, then shambled over to the Camino. I climbed into the car, brought the engine to life with a roar, and peeled out of the lot like a wildebeest desperate to escape the tearing jaws of a pursuing lion. Except I couldn’t get away from the thing hunting me: dark thoughts, broken trust, and consuming despair.

  My gut had told me true: that room was a bomb waiting to blow up in my face. And boy how it’d blown up. Sure, nothing had tried to tear my limbs from my body or string me up from the ceiling by my intestines, but sometimes the worst blows aren’t the ones to the body. Hell, assuming you live through the bodily wounds, those puppies tend to heal nice and clean. No, usually the worst wounds are the ones that tear into the soul, the ones that eviscerate hope and crush your faith in people. Crush faith in those closest to you. In yourself, even.

  I whipped the car through the night, taking turns at dangerous, reckless speeds and not caring. I drove for a solid half-hour, beating away thoughts of the traitorous asshole, James, with a baseball bat of will. It was midnight when I finally pulled the Camino onto a wide shoulder and into a patch of swaying grass next to the road. Weary down to my bones, I hurt from my tussle with the Wendigo, and my soul felt wrecked—shattered like a fine crystal vase dropped from the top of the Sears building. I needed rest. Sleep.

  Ferraro would be here in the morning, and maybe, with a few hours of shuteye under my belt, I’d be able to make sense of all this. Maybe I’d see something that made it all click into place. Some other explanation, one that didn’t flay my mind with thoughts of betrayal.

  I turned off the Camino, hopped out of the cab, and made my way around to the camper, popping the hatch and crawling in. I took a few minutes to draw deeply from the Vis, tossing up a hasty illusion to mask the car, making it blur and blend into the tall grass around it. With that done, I turned the mini heater on, stripped down to my undershorts, and tracked down my iPod—stowed away in my jacket pocket.