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

by James Hunter

  The headless horseman regarded James, its disembodied head sneering. “I am Lord Griggs, and you”—he surveyed our party—“are not on the guest list. This evening’s party is a private affair.” His voice was dry and gritty, like he’d swallowed too much grave dirt. “Turn around and leave. Now. Go by whatever manner you arrived, before I decide to add a few new links to my whip.” He casually snapped the weapon, which split the air with a crack.

  “Try it, bub,” I shouted, pushing my way forward as I conjured a globe of fire. “I’ll make sure your head isn’t the only missing body part, amigo. We’ll see how well you can flick that ass-ugly whip when I roast your arms off.”

  James shot me a long-suffering look, his lips turned down at the corners, then turned back to the emissary. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Griggs.” He gracefully offered the freak a small bow. “Sadly, my friend here”—he draped an arm over my shoulders—“was dropped on his head often as a small child. I’m quite afraid he has never fully recovered. My fellows and I are indeed aware tonight’s event is private, but we are collectively working as the representatives of the Lady Fate. We have urgent need to speak with the Lord of the Lodge and his guests.”

  The rider regarded us with a cool look of disapproval, indecision cavorting across his decaying features: Disembowel them? Or make them someone else’s problem? Decisions, decisions.

  “Very well,” he finally replied, caving to the bureaucratic instinct to pass the buck along. “But I doubt very much you’ll like the welcome you receive.” He smiled, his mouth full of rotten, blackened stumps, before wheeling his horse about and clopping his way back toward the lodge.

  “That went well,” Ferraro said, lowering her weapon. “How about we let James do the bulk of the negotiating from here on in.” I grunted noncommittally. Guess everyone’s a critic.

  We followed the headless horseman up a steady incline and to the looming double doors of the lodge—solid, heavy things capable of standing for a thousand years against an invading army. They parted silently as the rider drew near, swinging open without so much as a whisper, revealing a dimly lit antechamber with a chandelier made entirely of skulls—pretty tacky as these things go, though it would’ve been a goth kid’s wet dream. The Dullahan led us through to a connecting chamber with a giant staircase dead ahead and stone hallways circling off left and right.

  “I bet the Lord of the Lodge hates it when his horse drops fog turds on the carpet,” I muttered under my breath to no one in particular. The rider didn’t turn—instead, he twisted his hand, bringing the disembodied head around to face me, a scowl of utter loathing curling his lips and furrowing his brow.

  “Yancy,” Greg said, “I know how much you love bumpin’ your gums, but how’s about you try to stow it, devil.”

  The rider swung a leg over the saddle and dismounted; his horse melted away, vanishing in a splash of fog. The headless freak marched up the stairs, guiding us into the mead hall proper, though this too defied my expectation. I’d envisioned wooden bar tables with long benches, sawdust covering the floor, and scantily clad wenches dotting ol’ timey stripper poles—kind of a run-down version of Valhalla.

  But this was not that, not even close.

  Apparently, the inhabitants of Tylwyth-Tir had skimped on beautifying the town in favor of throwing all of their talent into fixing up the drinking hall—kind of an “all your eggs into one basket” approach to city planning.

  The room was as big as a football field. The floor was beautifully polished wood inlaid with mosaics of gold and black opal. Thirteen ginormous fireplaces filled the room with heat and brilliant light. Elaborate tapestries, depicting ancient battles and forgotten mythology, covered the stone walls while fluted columns of gold, encrusted in tanzanite and jade, stood guard throughout the room, supporting a ceiling part Sistine Chapel, part Mines of Moria. Directly across from us was a recessed alcove, housing all the high lords and ladies of the court.

  Believe it or not, but it wasn’t the lords and ladies of the court that held my eye. Off to my left, at the far end of the room, sprawled an elaborate platform that held my attention in a chokehold. Standing center stage—framed by a beautiful, inhuman band attired in classic finery—were the three ladies I’d come searching for. Three ladies I’d been hunting for over forty years: the Sirens.

  And in between us lurked a horde of otherworldly nightmares, all staring at us with amusement on their faces and hunger in their eyes. The Dullahan ushered us past the assembled partygoers toward the alcove.

  I knew without a second glance who the Big Bad was here. Lord Arawn the Horned was fifteen feet tall with tussled ebony hair and a wicked set of deer antlers protruding from his head. Guy had the rugged good looks of a Greek statue and the fashion sense of a 1920s playboy: crushed velvet smoking jacket and black silk pants. He lounged in a high-backed leather chair with a fat cigar dangling from his lips—in his mouth, the cigar seemed little more than a cigarette—his amber eyes tracking our progress across the dance floor.

  On the floor to either side of him lurked a pair of “dogs”—though, bear in mind these critters were related to dogs in the same way the pet iguana is related to the T-Rex. Both undoubtedly came from the same family lineage, but they were very, very, very distant relatives. These things had a lion’s build with blocky heads, crushing hyena jaws, and manes which burned with sulfurous blue flame. Their bodies were covered with bulky muscle, all wrapped in scaly plate mail. The creatures stared at us through molten yellow eyes, heavy-lidded and sleepy. The Cwn Annwn. Hellhounds. Charming little fellas, really.

  The folks surrounding the Playboy Lord—I counted ten, presumably the highest-ranking members of his court—weren’t nearly so dashing as Arawn.

  The bulbous, blue-skinned freak—sporting one monstrous eye, misshapen arms, and a single leg, thick as a tree trunk—had to be Balor, the demon king of the Fomori. Leaning against one of the Cwn Annwn was a whip-thin woman covered in a thousand filthy rags, with dark hair knotted into a multitude of dreads and an ancient whistle of wrought gold hanging around her neck. She could only be Matilda of the Night—enforcer of the Unfettered Fae and Keeper of the Hounds.

  The others I didn’t recognize, but I was sure they could all squish me into a human-flapjack with the same amount of effort it would take to kill an irksome sand flea. With that said, it was important not to cower or show weakness and fear. These were predatory creatures through and through, and the only thing they respected was strength.

  Our headless guide stopped short, stepping to one side and gesturing us into the alcove proper with a sweep of his free hand. The plush sitting area fell deathbed silent as we entered, every baddie in the house watching the show with rapt attention.

  “What have we here?” Arawn drawled, his voice a booming drum, deep and rich. “Intrepid mortals, come to offer us sport, mayhap?” His eyes darted over each of us, dismissing Greg, James, and me without a pause, lingering for a moment longer on Ferraro, and finally taking a thorough survey of the Chiye-tanka.

  James strode to the front and bowed deeply, the motion refined and regal as if he bowed to Fae royalty every day. “To the king of Spirits, and to his court—to Arawn the Horned, Gwyn ap Nudd, you who are yonder in the forest, for love of your kin, permit us to enter your dwelling.” The words held the formulaic ring of one old world ritual or another, and produced an uneasy silence. Couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

  “Charming and droll,” Arawn finally said, pulling the cigar from his teeth and holding it between his fingers. “It’s not often we entertain mortals who remember the old ways. Very quaint, perhaps there will be some sport in this yet.” He glanced at each of us again, a look of hazy boredom painted across his features. “Well, let’s be on with the spectacle then. You”—he waved his cigar at James in a get-along-with-it motion—“who would you be, and why, pray tell, have you interrupted us this fine evening?”

  James didn’t pause or break a sweat, he was an actor playing his part
flawlessly. “I’m James Sullivan”—he offered up a dashing, movie-star grin—“mage of the Guild, Lieutenant Commander of the Fist of the Staff, and chief diplomat on behalf of the Hand of Fate. We have come on a matter of great urgency and need to speak with some of your delightful party guests—the Siren sisters.”

  “James Sullivan,” Arawn said, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “A polite mage, sharply dressed, of which I always approve, and accompanied by such interesting travelling companions no less. Chief Chankoowashtay.” He inclined his head a fraction of an inch toward the Bigfoot.

  “It’s been an age since the People left the forests. I fondly recall the old days when your kind tended all the great woods—Uffmoor, Rothiemurchus, the Shervage Wood. You know, I hunted the Gurt Wurm of Shervage with one of the great cheiftains of yesteryear—slew the beast after a glorious, three day battle … then some human woodcutter blundered along, stumbled over the corpse, and took the credit.”

  “Chief Dhoire,” Kong said with a rare smile. “My uncle. I have heard the tale many times.”

  “Needless to say, you and your daughter are welcome to the Lodge. And Winona, let me say how beautiful you look. Perhaps, after this business is sorted out, you would dance with me.” It wasn’t a question.

  I glanced at Winona. Though she couldn’t blush, what with being covered head to toe in hair, underneath all those curls I bet she was beet red. She refused to look up at Arawn and instead twisted a long lock of hair around her finger. “Thank you,” she whispered, never meeting his eye.

  “Sadly,” Arawn continued, “I cannot promise the same hospitality to your, your”—he twirled his free hand absently—“companions.” He said that last word with a contemptuous sneer, plainly showing his thoughts on trucking around with mere mortals.

  “Arawn,” the chief inclined his head, deep enough to show respect, but not so deep as to show submission. “This is a matter of grave concern—an unbalancing of the natural order of things. I stand in support of the Hand of Fate in this matter.”

  “Duly noted,” the horned god said, sitting up and stretching his back before crossing his legs. “But truth be told, I have little care for your ‘grave concerns.’ Mortals are always running about, worried over this crisis or that. Five thousand years I have lived—five thousand years filled with one grave concern after another, yet here I sit. And, as it happens, I actually quite like things which unbalance the natural order. So much less boring than the dreadful status quo.” He frowned. “Already, I’m inclined to turn your companions over to Matilda of the Night and the pack.”

  One of the monstrous dogs lifted its bulky head from the floor, turned its demon’s gaze on us, pulled back great lips, and revealed char-black teeth before setting its muzzle back onto the floor with a snort.

  “Yes, my lord,” the woman with the dreads purred. She crawled over to him on all fours and ran a dirt-smeared hand across his silk-covered thigh. “It’s been too long since the last hunt. Let us have them, my lord. I promise it’ll be amusing.”

  Arawn shooed her away. “Perhaps, dear, perhaps. Before I render a verdict, let us first hear from this Hand of Fate.” He paused, waiting for me to step forward, but my legs didn’t want to behave properly. This guy wasn’t a few cans short of a sixer, he’d downed the whole pack and thrown the cans into the fires of Hell to melt for all eternity. “Well, which of you is it?” he asked, his voice taking on a hard, cruel edge.

  Holy shit, but this guy scared the great, good bejesus out of me. He was crazy in the worst kind of way: absolutely insane and completely unstoppable. If he decided we were corpses, that’d be all she wrote. My legs moved into a shaky sort of life as I threaded my way forward, carefully nudging James aside. “I’m the Hand of Fate, sunshine,” I said, masking my fear. Arawn was a predator all the way to his soul, I reminded myself, and I couldn’t afford to display an ounce of weakness. “I’ve got business with the Sirens.”

  Arawn sat forward, steepling his fingers as a grin slipped across his mouth. “And who are you?”

  “I already told you, the Hand of Fate. This is official business, bud, so unless you want to have ol’ Atropos snip your playboy ass outta the Tapestry of Fate, I suggest you let us do what needs doing and then we’ll get the hell out of your well-coiffed hair.”

  I’d say the look he gave me fell somewhere between slow-death-by-a-thousand-cuts and instantaneous-decapitation.

  “Unless you are the Three-Faced Hag dressed in drag,” he growled, “I care not for your title. There have been hundreds of Hands before you. If I were to smite you where you stand, the Wyre could do naught to me but shrug. Not so long as I am here and she is there.”

  He leaned back in his throne, smug and confident in his ability to destroy me utterly. “Now I will have your name or I will have your tongue.” There was a glint in his eye that said playtime was at its end and limb removal time was getting ready to start up in full swing.

  “Yancy Lazarus,” I said, preparing to blast him with everything I could muster. And as quick as that angry spark in his eyes had come, it faded and disappeared, leaving behind the jocular frat boy once more.

  “I’ve heard that name before.” He placed a finger against his chin, tapping idly. “But where?”

  A woman with skin as dark as polished ebony sauntered over, leaned in, and whispered something into his ear. He laughed, a weary chuckle.

  “You’re right, of course.” He stopped tapping his chin and pointed at me, waggling the digit as though he were brandishing a weapon. “My darling Carman has informed me that you are the mage who slighted the Morrigan—mocked her in front of the whole of the Tuatha De Danann, no?” He arched a well-manicured eyebrow and gave me a shit-eating grin.

  I nodded, not sure whether my admission of guilt would get me leniency or a death sentence.

  “Good show, that. We don’t have much love for her around these parts. The Morrigan was instrumental in having my dear Carman”—he brushed a hand across the ebony-skinned woman—“and her boys exiled from the ranks of the Tuatha De Danann. And I, for one, have always found her to be a frightfully self-important bitch. High time someone offered her a taste of her own medicine. And a mortal, no less.” He stopped, the moment thick and tense, pregnant with possibilities. Whatever was going on in his twisted head would ultimately decide our collective fate. “Still,” he finally said, “I’m inclined to feed you to the dogs.”

  “Hold on a sec there.” I raised my hands, attempting to placate his quicksilver temper. “Kong, err, Chief Chankoowashtay mentioned someone was trying to unbalance the natural order of things and that includes your court. Someone is supporting upstart usurpers in every supernatural nation, from the Guild of the Staff to the High Court of Winter.” I halted for a moment, surveying the nobles, looking for the jittery nervousness of a guilty conscience. But the nobles, one and all, were cool characters, not so much as a twitch among the whole lot. “Look, I’ve even seen video footage of your lodge—I know you’ve got a traitor in your midst, and if you don’t help us, you could find yourself ousted.”

  That gave Arawn pause. But then he shrugged meaty shoulders. “I’ll take your warning under consideration,” he said, “but I’ve also dealt with more than my share of revolts. We’re a cutthroat lot, you know. Honestly, if one of my lieutenants wasn’t scheming behind my back, I’d be a trifle disappointed. We of the Unfettered are creatures of the wild—I rule because I am the most fit to do so. Should I become weak, pathetic, and foolish enough to fall, I will deserve my fate. Survival of the fittest. Now on to the hunt!” he hollered with a pump of his fist.

  “No,” Kong bellowed. “I will not allow this. If you intend to hurt these humans, you will face my wrath and the wrath of the People.” He crossed his arms and bared his teeth in a snarl.

  “Surprisingly,” Arawn said, “that doesn’t bother me in the least. I’ve never hunted Chiye-tanka.”

  “You will find we are no easy game,” Kong growled, his hair standing on edge a
s he flexed enormous muscles.

  “Even better,” Arawn replied. “Easy game is no fun at all. Matilda,” he said, turning to Dreadlocks, “prepare the pack—I think we’ll have a bit of sport and then commence with the dancing. Tonight, I intend to flay these creatures and fashion them into a rug for the entry hall.”

  The nobles surrounding him broke into polite clapping as Matilda licked her lip and gently lifted the gold-wrought whistle to her cracked lips. “Excellent choice, my lord,” she said. “You shan’t regret it.”

  The sound of rifle safety switches disengaging followed. Then the rasp of James’s silver blade pulling free from its cane-sheath. I conjured a globe of fire in one hand and an orb of pale blue ice in the other.

  “You just try it, douchestick. Maybe I can’t do anything to you, but I swear I’ll burn down every single one of your wall tapestries. Plus, I’m gonna turn that guy”—I waved toward the headless horseman—“into the most hideous ice sculpture you’ve ever seen. And then I’ll turn that guy”—I gestured at a weird blob of living green slime with a small army of tentacles waving through the air—“into a carpet stain you’ll never be able to get rid of.”

  “So many delightful promises,” Arawn said, rising to his feet. His smoking jacket and pajama pants melted away in a swirl of smoke, replaced with black and red armor adorned with spikes, chains, hooks, and blades of every shape and size—a mobile torture chamber.

  Sometimes my life blows so hard.

  TWENTY-FIVE:

  Battle of the Bands

  Chaos was a knock-knock-knocking at the door and I was a hairsbreadth away from answering with all the earth-rending destruction I could muster before those hellhounds got moving. Power surged in me, swelling, growing, pumping into the weaves of fire and ice in my hands, demanding I make these asswipes pay with my dying breath.

  “Now, now, boys,” said a silky-smooth voice as sweet as all the honey in the world. A hand, small and delicate, the skin as pale as ivory, came to rest on my outstretched arm. A gentle pulse of energy rippled through my flesh and into the muscle and bones beneath, urging me to calm down, take a deep breath, and let the Vis go.