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

by James Hunter

  For all its beauty, though, Ferraro had purposely picked an outfit that wouldn’t hamper her in a brawl. High-quality black flats—kicking ass in high heels just doesn’t happen, not in the real world—and a concealed thigh holster, sporting my Baby Glock. She also carried a shotgun, fixed on a three-point combat sling, loaded with specialty shells designed to deal out pain to the Fae: equal parts rock salt, silver pellets, and cold iron. Around her right shoulder hung a silver handbag housing a trio of grenades, a med-kit, and an extendable iron baton instead of the standard affair—blush, lipstick, and mascara.

  What can I say, the lady knows how to accessorize.

  Now, was her outfit subtle? Hell no. Covert? Not a chance. But with Arawn the Horned and the Unfettered Fae, subtlety didn’t win points. Showing up unarmed would likely be an insult to that lot.

  Even the Chiye-tanka had put on their best. Both wore buckskin ponchos adorned with polished turquoise and Native American breastplates made of leather, buffalo horn, and fine beadwork. Winona had stepped her game up a notch further still, clipping a girly pink bow into her hair, pulling shaggy bangs away from her eyes. Ridiculous, but also sort of endearing.

  The ring of footsteps on pavement floated through the perpetual twilight of the Hub. My right hand darted for my pistol as I reached for the Vis waiting just outside of my grasp. Two figures drew into view, the firelight from the burning tires illuminating their features. On the left, Greg Chandler—black, stocky, and fit—decked out in his Marine Corps dress blues with a fat stack of service medals glinting in the firelight and some heavy-duty armaments: A Colt 1911 sidearm, a Vis-imbued K-Bar, which I’d made for him years back, and his go-to weapon, the M-4.

  On the right, James Sullivan—tall and broad across the chest and shoulders—sporting a tuxedo not terribly dissimilar from mine, though of a much finer cut. The difference between a knock-off Rolex and the real thing. James wore the getup like he was born for it, built and designed to grace the cover of fashion magazines or movie screens.

  Despite being in the Remington corridor, about to embark on a near-certain death mission, James walked with a little jaunt in his step, twirling a black cane with a silver ball head. He almost looked happy—at least until he spotted the pair of Bigfeet standing in a pool of shadow. When his eyes brushed past them his smile slipped and his feet faltered, but only for a moment, and then he was right back to normal. But I’d known James a long friggin’ time, and that kind of slip was telling: he recognized the Chiye-tanka, and that was more than a little damning.

  “Good evening,” James said, flashing a warm smile and offering us all a wave.

  “Yancy,” Greg said, tipping his head. “And you must be Agent Ferraro. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He coolly assessed Kong and Winona, then dismissed them with a slight shake of his head, resuming a slow scan of the area. “This knucklehead”—he jerked a thumb toward James—“says we’re goin’ after the daggon Sirens. That true?”

  I smiled, a grim, unpleasant parody of the real thing, and nodded. “Payback time.”

  “Yancy”—James stepped between me and Greg—“might we have a quick word before proceeding with the evening’s festivities?” He smiled again, but I could tell he was nervous. He’d been caught with his hand squarely in the cookie jar, only to find out the jar was not filled with delicious Oreos, but venomous, man-killing scorpions. The question was, what would he do now, especially if he was the asshat running this carnival?

  He motioned me away from the others and I reluctantly followed—a second later, a silver dome swelled up from the ground, closing over us, cutting off the din from the street. The dome would ensure our conversation stayed private, which begged the question: what didn’t he want the others to hear?

  “So maybe you’ve got something you want to share with me,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, making the gesture look natural. In reality, I’d just wrapped my hand around the pistol grip of my revolver.

  “I know how this must look,” James blurted, losing any semblance of his usual poise.

  “Yeah,” I said, anger filling my words with heat. “It looks like you’re dirty as shit, and it looks a whole helluva lot like you’ve been playing me. Setting me up to take a bad fall. If I was a wiser man, I woulda sat right over there”—I nodded toward a recessed alleyway, the dark unbroken by the firelight—“and put one in the back of your skull. Quick and clean—not even a fight. I’m going out on a limb, James, but you’d better have a damn good explanation or one of us isn’t walking away from this street.”

  He ran a hand over the side of his wavy brown locks, smoothing hair that didn’t need it. “First, I would carefully consider what you say next. We’re friends, Yancy, but I think we both know that of the two of us, I would be the one to walk away.”

  “Sure, in a straight up fight,” I admitted with a small shrug. “But I don’t do straight up fights, not if I can help it, and you should know it. Straight up fights are for suckers and heroes—I’m neither. Ferraro and Greg are both crack shots, and I’m sure Kong and his daughter would be more than happy to pound you into a human-pizza, and you’d have a tough time stopping them—Kong’s a Seal Bearer.” I dropped the clue hoping I could get a rise out of him, another tell.

  I saw no flash of recognition in his face, however, only a brief look of confusion. If he was the Big Bad running this show, he’d know about the Seals. So maybe he wasn’t the shot caller, but that didn’t make him innocent, either.

  “Fine,” he said, “I’ll concede that maybe the fight wouldn’t be a one-sided slaughter. But there’s no reason to fight at all. I understand how this might look in a certain light, but I’m not the villain, Yancy.” He placed one hand on my shoulder, his eyes boring into mine, challenging me to search him out. “I swear it,” he said. “During the course of my sleuthing, I discovered someone in the Guild was funneling unauthorized funds and resources into something called the Wendigo Project.

  “The whole thing reeked of subterfuge. The whole affair had been meticulously hidden away beneath layers and layers of security protocols—protocols only a handful of people could access. I happened upon a few details, but I couldn’t find who had authorized the project. Naturally, I started digging deeper. Conducted a few interviews, which eventually led me to a man named Arlen Hogg, who seemed to be the recipient of the funds. Couldn’t get much out of him, though, a slimy bugger, that one. And, since there wasn’t anything concrete I could bring to the Guild, I cut him loose.”

  “That so?” I asked. “And the Missoula sheriff? You told him to stay out of the operation. Why?”

  “Why?” he scoffed, placing one hand on his hip. “First off, because I didn’t want the idiot to get hurt—something like this is well outside the depths of some backwoods sheriff—Venántium or no. Bunch of half-trained nitwits, if you ask me. And secondly, I didn’t want the oaf to blow the damn operation, not to mention that I had suspicions he might not be entirely trustworthy.” He tapped his cane on the street, the noise unnaturally loud in the shielded space.

  “Well, you were right on the money about that,” I said after a time. “Guy’s dirty as a Bangkok sewer. It was the mustache that tipped you off, am I right?” I asked, envisioning the sheriff’s dastardly facial hair.

  He grinned at me—the look an older brother might spare for a younger, foolhardy sibling. “Could be, could be.” He paused for a time. “You know, I didn’t bring you in for the same reason. Not because I don’t trust you, of course, but because I feared you would blow the whole damned thing sky-high. Which, incidentally, is exactly what you’ve done.” He rolled his eyes and issued an exasperated sigh.

  “Sometimes, Yancy, to get to the bottom of a mess like this, subtlety is required. And you … well, you’re about as subtle and vulgar as a monster truck show. The more people poking around, the more likely the lead is to dry up. Had you not blundered along, it’s distinctly possible my leads would’ve pointed me right at the benefactor behind the operation.” />
  “Hmph,” I grunted, running through his story in my head, looking for flagrant signs of deception. As explanations went, it was solid enough. Everything fit together nice and neat, yet still failed to banish the nagging doubt lurking in the back of my mind. James’s mind was sharp as a razor and he knew me well—well enough to understand how to throw me off a trail.

  “Listen, James, if you’re mixed up in this shit …” I looked away, running a hand over my mouth, not sure what to say or where to take this shitty conversation. “Well, it’s not too late to back out.”

  “I’m not guilty,” he said, arching an eyebrow, “but even if I were, you know as well as I the Guild would issue a kill order. No lenience or mercy, despite my years of service. No, I’d be lucky to get a trial first.”

  I frowned, then shrugged off his objection. “I know how to fly under the radar, and I could help you get away from the Guild if it came to that. Wouldn’t be a comfortable life, but you’d be alive. You come clean with me right now and I’ll go to bat for you. We have enough history for that.”

  “I keep telling you, old boy, I’m. Not. Guilty. But thank you all the same.” He hesitated, his features more somber than usual. “You’re a good friend, Yancy. I mean that.”

  “Whatever. Look, your story adds up, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But James, you’d better know I’m gonna be keeping an eye on you.” I grabbed his lapel and pulled him in a step or two. “If you stab me in the back, I swear I’ll find a way to make you pay for it, history or no, you understand that? Make one wrong move, and I’ll be on you faster than a hobo on a ham sandwich.”

  He rolled his eyes again. “Good grief, you say I’m the thespian, but your flair for the theatrical outshines me every time.” He gave me that roguish James Sullivan grin. “I know you have trust issues, but believe me, I only have your best interests in mind. Now, how’s about you be a good fellow and stop rumpling my jacket. It’s Gucci, you know.” He appraised my clothes with a frown, as though he knew my monkey-suit hailed from the Missoula Tux-Barn. “You have heard of Gucci?”

  “Pompous asshole,” I muttered, letting go of his suit coat and stepping aside.

  “Excellent. Please, lead the way. We have a party to attend, after all, and I do so hate missing a good party. Hopefully Arawn will have some fine spirits—I could use a stiff drink.”

  The dome wavered for a moment and vanished.

  “Everything okay?” Ferraro asked as we approached, her gaze roving back and forth between James and me.

  “Yeah, everything’s sunshine and rainbows,” I replied. “Alright, everyone, let’s mount up and get this show on the road. Since Greg and James are just joining us, I want to give a quick brief to get everyone up to speed.” Quickly, I recounted my run-in with the Wendigo, the grisly discovery at the mill, and the info Fortuna had given us, making sure to touch on the formidable creatures we’d be confronting once we arrived at the Endless Wood, home of the Fae Courts.

  “But in order to get to Anwnn,” I said, once the brief was done, “we’re gonna have to get past Harold the Mange. He and I aren’t friends, but generally we’re on good terms, a working relationship. With that said, you shouldn’t trust this guy further than you can throw him, which isn’t far, believe you me. Harold’s a huckster through and through. He’d sell his grandmother out for a McDonald’s kid’s meal. He’s revolting and not even close to human, so try not to freak out when you see him.

  “I want a single column,” I continued. “I’ll take point. Greg, you grab the rear, and no one touch anything. And I mean anything. This place is locked down and warded up tighter than a super-max—one foot wrong and it might be the last time you ever see that foot.”

  TWENTY-THREE:

  What the Fu ...

  I led us to the reinforced front door, conjuring a meaningless knot of elemental force as I walked—the weaves had no practical purpose, but rather functioned as backdoor key, which let me through the potent wards built into the entryway. The wards were a varied lot: some designed to fool the mind or trick the eye, urging passersbys onward, while others would unleash a surge of raw Vis powerful enough to reduce even the most stalwart adventurers into a splatter you could wash down the drain with a hose. But since I’d personally installed those suckers, getting past ’em was a breeze.

  I turned the knob and shoved open the door without a hitch, guiding our intrepid party inside. Straight ahead we trudged, down a disheveled hallway, the walls sporting tattered and peeling wallpaper, the hardwood floors pitted, chipped, and bloodstained. Anyone with a working pair of eyes would’ve assumed the place was abandoned—an empty junker not worth the time or effort to rob. All a lie. The house was a clever illusion designed to keep the uninvited from looking too closely and to blast the piss out of those few who got too curious.

  Harold was a bit paranoid when it came to his personal protection. Since Harold was a revolting asshole who had pissed off virtually everyone, everywhere at some point in his miserable life, his paranoia wasn’t totally unwarranted.

  We passed a set of drunkenly leaning doors which connected to barren, beat-to-shit rooms, all filled with additional wards—offensive constructs packing more punch than a claymore mine.

  The door we wanted sat at the end of the hall: the last one on the left. It looked no different from its fellows, yet there was a steady, though subtle, thrum of power emanating from the space. A telltale sign of the Way that lay beyond, connecting the run-down shanty house to Harold’s pocket dimension. I broke the last set of wards down shotgun-style—nasty buggers were built into the steel reinforced door—and pushed my way inward. A short rock hallway trailed down into a low-ceilinged cave, lit by a mixture of torchlights and electric miners’ lamps.

  One foot over that threshold and we would no longer be in the Hub. In point of fact, we’d no longer be in any proper dimension. Harold’s pad was a handcrafted, drifting bubble, which floated through the ever-shifting empty space between the worlds. From an objective standpoint, it was pretty friggin’ impressive—I mean I sure couldn’t build something like that. Hell, most minor deities couldn’t whip up their own pocket dimension, not like Harold. That was Harold’s gift, though, his singular talent. Well, that and collecting: information, weapons, antiques, pretty much anything that tickled his fancy or promised to turn a buck.

  To hear Harold tell it, he was the last of an ancient species of dwarves called the Cragwier, who had, once upon a time, and long, long ago—so legend holds—built a pocket dimension, which gave birth to the Hub itself. I sure as hell didn’t believe Harold about most things—that’s called wisdom around these parts—but I was less skeptical about his ancestry because it was the only way I could explain away his peculiar ability.

  The fat sack of shit was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean much. Probably, he was working in the massive warehouse which housed his ginormous collection of stuff—guy brought hoarding to a whole new level. But there was no way I was venturing back there uninvited. The path to the warehouse proper was a tunnel of slick stone, a mile long and filled to the gills with enough booby traps to roast me and the gang ten times over. We’d just have to wait, which I was sure wouldn’t take long—I’d bet dollars to doughnuts there was an alarm blaring in the back, alerting Harold of our arrival.

  “Guess we’ll just have to kick back for a few,” I said, turning to face the others, who’d all piled into the foyer. I heard the scrape of stone coming from deeper in the chamber and swiveled back, expecting to see Harold scuttling along on his gigantic metal legs. Instead, three beastly slabs of jade prowled forward on thick, powerful limbs, their stony muscles shifting as they advanced. Broad-headed creatures, with angry teeth fashioned from black obsidian. They had curling manes of carved stone, which framed their wide faces and trailed down their backs.

  Shi, sometimes called Fu Dogs—Chinese Guardian Lions, animated by powerful conjurations. They were unthinking sentinels, murder-machines devoid of human intelligence, w
hich followed orders exactly. Generally, the Shi weren’t much good as offensive field weapons since their thought process was too rudimentary. They were, however, damned good at staying in one place and mauling the crap out of anything that ventured too near. The creatures couldn’t be bribed, couldn’t be reasoned with, and couldn’t be killed—not without dropping a friggin’ nuke on ’em.

  I heard the nervous shuffle of feet from the team assembled behind me.

  “Be a good sport and deactivate the guardians,” James said, his voice smooth and steady.

  “I didn’t install them,” I replied.

  The creatures strode forward, slow at first but building momentum as they broke into a lumbering run, rushing at us like an oncoming rockslide.

  James was at my side in an instant, raising his cane like a lion tamer holding a snarling pride at bay with nothing more than a chair. “Everyone stay behind us,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Do nothing, we will handle this.” He locked eyes with me. “Eighteen-Delta,” he said, staring down the onrushing Shi, opening himself to the Vis. A halo of white—invisible to all save me, or any other mage—engulfed him, clothing him in brilliant light.

  He was asking for a lot. He was asking for my complete trust, asking me to put my life squarely in his hands. Giving him the benefit of the doubt was one thing, entrusting him with my fate was another entirely. Any mage, by themself, can pack one helluva punch, but the most powerful, hard-hitting constructs take more than one mage. They take a team working in concert: sharing flows of energy, weaving different braids together to construct a single mega-working far more powerful than the sum of its parts. Binding.

  But binding was an intimate act, one which required absolute trust because, when bound, only one person could direct the flows of Vis, leaving the other effectively defenseless. Since I could draw and hold far more raw energy than James, my job was to gather in all the power needed for the working while he siphoned energy through me, providing the force and willpower to shape the massive flows of Vis into something useful. If he was the bad guy, however, it also meant he could hang me out to dry right and proper.