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

by James Hunter

  “Well …” I said, adjusting my position on the rock bench, stalling for time. “Yeah, more or less.”

  “You do not understand what you ask,” the chief said, shaking his head, his voice a bellowing sigh whispering across the surface of the water. “The Seal’s power is not a blessing. It cannot be harnessed or controlled. Those who would seek the power will be controlled by it instead. And the longer you hold it the more powerful its hold on you becomes.” He fell silent, his thoughts turned inward. “Even with the Seal,” he continued eventually, “you may not be a match for the Kinslayer. The power within him grows each day. So does his grip on my people. If you attempt to fight him, he will kill you. Kill you and take the Seal.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s my point.”

  “Your plan for the Kinslayer to kill you?” he asked slowly.

  “Yes, err, no. It’s like this, the Kinslayer wants the Seal, right? I mean that’s the real prize. That’s why he was hired on, you dig it? But you already wiped the floor with his sorry ass once, so he’s not gonna want a rematch with you—not until he’s entirely certain he can win.”

  “I still do not understand this plan,” Kong said flatly.

  “Just bear with me a second, okay? Now he knows he doesn’t stand a chance against you—not yet, anyway. But if I show up with the Seal and challenge him on his home turf, he’ll welcome me with open arms. Even with the Seal, he’s gonna assume I’m easy game, and he’s gonna be more than happy to tear the heart out of my chest and eat it in front of my eyes.”

  “Yes,” Kong said. “This I understand. He will know he can easily defeat you, and this will give him the thing he desires. The more I listen to this plan, the less I like it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Look, it would be a terrible plan if I had to kill him, because we both know I can’t. And he’ll know it, too. But I don’t need to kill him. I can hold my own in a battle of wills, a battle of minds, and for that I just need to get close to him—like eat-the-heart-out-of-my-chest close. But the only way I get close enough to do what needs doing is to make him think he’s holding all the cards. He needs to invite me up. If the Kinslayer thinks he’s got a sure thing, he’ll get greedy and take the bait.”

  The chief lumbered over to the dark lagoon, starring deeply into the water as if it held answers he urgently sought. “If you fail,” he said, his voice quiet and full of doubt, “then I will have failed in my duty. He will kill you. He will take the Seal and give it to his master. He will use my people for his will.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” I snapped, suddenly feeling the immense weight riding on this play. “I’m the one who’s gonna have his heart eaten if this thing goes south. Look, I wish there were some other way, but unless you’re willing to see your people eradicated from the face of this world, there’s no other way. Lady Fate chose me as her Hand, so I’ve gotta assume that if we’ve made it this far, there’s a least a small chance this plan can work. And if it doesn’t … well, have Greg put a fifty-caliber bullet through Kinslayer’s eye. Seal or no Seal, I bet he won’t get up from that. Maybe it means the death of your people, but better that than the death of all people.”

  Kong turned toward me, his great emerald eyes pinpricks of light in his dark face. “You would risk yourself so my people might live?”

  It was my turn to fall silent and regard the swirling waters washing over my body. “Don’t turn this into some sentimental cry fest, alright, big guy? Here’s the thing, I’ve been in your shoes, I’ve been exactly where you’re at. I know what it’s like to lose the people closest to you—people you’re supposed to protect. I also know what it’s like to have the people who could help turn their backs and flip you the bird instead.

  “Hope dying,” I said, “that’s the sharp pain sitting in your gut right now. And there’s no worse feeling in the world.” I shrugged, trying not to make a big deal of it. “Despite what you did to my car, you and your daughter seem like decent folks. You’ve endured a lot for the good of others. I’d hate to see you lose everything if there’s a chance to make things right.”

  He nodded. “When my daughter revealed to me you were the Hand of Fate,” he said slowly, “I didn’t believe her. I took you to be a feebleminded buffoon—”

  “Jeez. Thanks for the honesty,” I grumbled softly.

  “But I see now,” he continued without pause, “the Wyre choose right. But know this, once I relinquish the Seal, I will not hold its weight again. This is not a thing to be done with a half heart. You will be the Seal Bearer in truth. Do you still want it?”

  Although that was what I’d just lobbied for, I was suddenly reluctant. Talk is one thing, but action is something else entirely. Was I really gonna let this giant ape-man load me down with one of the seven Seals of Revelation? Was I really gonna turn my soul into Club Med for a demonic essence, one of the most powerful creatures in creation?

  I wanted booze and cigarettes. I wanted good food and better music. I wanted a couple of one-night flings now and again and the freedom of the open road. This choice was the opposite of that—choosing the Seal was the antithesis of everything I wanted out of life. Of everything I’d already given up and walked away from. If I chose this road, I’d be shackling myself with a life-altering burden and one I couldn’t just run away from if things got too heavy, because this would be a burden I’d carry in my soul. And all for some furry ape who ripped the door off my Camino.

  I sighed and crawled from the Jacuzzi, letting water run off me and puddle at my feet. Screw it. Besides, this wasn’t just about Kong and his daughter. This was about the homeless folks from the motorhome—dragged away in chains, their freedom taken and their lives stolen. This was about all the people who would die if I walked away.

  And not just people in the nebulous, big-picture sense of the word. No, I wasn’t worried about saving humanity. I was concerned about saving people like crusty-ass Greg or douchewaffle James—friends who were worth dying for. People like my two sons, both grown with children of their own. I’d left under the pretense of protecting them, sheltering them from all the craziness of my life. I’d stopped lying to myself about that a long time ago—I’d abandoned ’em because I couldn’t hack it as a father. But I could do this for ’em. For my grandkids, who I barely knew. And this was about Ferraro. Knowing that, for some unfathomable reason, she respected me and believed in me even though I didn’t deserve it. I wanted, in some small way, to live into that respect.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Dark times,” Kong muttered. “But I believe you are worthy to bear this.” He pointed toward a stone bench near the hot spring. “Go and lay.”

  I complied, walking over and sprawling onto my back, gently resting my head against rough stone, even as a sense of dread grew in the pit of my stomach. Kong ghosted over to a recessed dip near the far wall and returned a second later with a branch—maybe an inch in diameter and half a foot in length—in one hand, and a crude stone edged knife in the other. The dread morphed from a small seed of worry into a massive tree of outright terror.

  I cleared my throat, eyeing the troubling stone blade. “I’m sorry,” I said, “maybe you could just walk me through how exactly this whole transfer thing works. I kinda thought you would just lay your hands on me, offer some kinda blessing. You know, something not involving knives or surgery.”

  He merely extended the stick to me. “Stop talking. Bite down on this. The pain is great.”

  “I’m rethinking this plan,” I said, hysteria taking hold and flowing through me like liquid fire, tightening my muscles. This was like a scene out of one of those Saw movies. “Maybe there is another way. How ’bout we just sleep on it for the night, tackle the problem in the morning.”

  I tried to sit up, only to find one huge hand pressing me down. “I will be quick,” he said gravely.

  “Shit, knock me out at least,” I said. “You and your daughter are good at that. If you’re gonna cut me open, the least y
ou could do is make sure I’m not conscious for it.” I was hyperventilating. My heart labored like a car engine working in overdrive, my breath came in short, rapid pulls, and sweat slicked my already wet body.

  “I cannot,” he said, taking the branch and sliding it between my teeth. “We must speak old words. The words of binding.”

  Before I could protest further, he brought the knife to rest against my sternum and pressed down. The blade bit in, and a line of fire seared its way across my skin as blood welled and flesh parted beneath the razor’s edge. I bit down, hard. Sinking my teeth into the wood, tasting a hint of pine as my body went rigid, legs hyperextended, arms straining and flexing in agony. In reality the cutting lasted no more than a few seconds, but it seemed to drag on for a lifetime or two.

  With the gruesome task done, Kong set aside the knife and placed one hand over the wound, pressing down into the incision while bringing his other hand up to his chest. He began to utter words that made no sense to my mind, slow and muttered at first, but growing louder with each passing second. After a minute or so the muttering transformed into an elegant, beautiful song. Even in his low, gravely voice, the rhythmic chant became a poem, the cave itself seeming to reverberate and dance to the melody. It had to be the language of the angels, the Enochian tongue.

  All thought was ripped rudely away from my mind as my sternum cracked and my ribcage groaned, my chest cavity opening wide to the world like a giant mouth uttering a wordless scream. My eyes rolled up in my head as my legs beat and flopped against the stone. I wanted to die, to pass out at the very least, but whatever spell Kong had spoken over me kept me awake and alert. Yay for my life.

  I glanced up at the solemn-faced chief; his chest was also cracked wide open, revealing the massive piece of meat beating within. Carefully, he reached in with his free hand, questing about for a moment before his huge fingers latched on to the red and black shard of crystal attached to the organ like a leech.

  The shard resisted his grip at first, as though whatever entity resided within actively fought his attempts at extraction. After a few brief heartbeats—quite literally, in this case—it came away with a sickening pop. The stone pulsed with a faint light, a hazy aura of anger and death all wrapped up into one fun-sized party treat.

  “Yancy Lazarus, mage of the Guild and Hand of Fate,” Kong intoned. “Do you swear to stand guard over the Second Seal and defend it with your life as you wait for the great and glorious Day of the Lord Most High?”

  “Yesssh,” I mumbled around the branch.

  “And do you swear to resist the power of Azazel the Purros, Grigori of Old, Scourge of Mankind, Maker of War, and Lord of Dark Magicks, bound within?”

  “Scourge of Mankind?” God, my life sucks so much sometimes. “Yesssh,” I grunted again.

  He lowered the shard toward my splayed chest—a sharp pain like a jumbo-wasp stabbing into my center followed, a jolt of white-hot electricity racing outward through my body and along my limbs.

  “Then I, Chief Chankoowashtay, Leader of the People and former Seal Bearer, stand as witness and charge you to bear and guard this Seal until another worthy soul is found or death robs you of your final breath. So mote it be.”

  A crack of ozone ripped through the air. The pain in my chest faded as wonderful unconsciousness stole over me. The last thing I remembered was Kong picking me up, my arms and legs like limps noodles, and carefully, gently, lowering my body into warm waters.

  THIRTY-ONE:

  Foolhardy Plans

  It’d been ten hours since I’d gone under the knife for open-heart surgery, but, surprisingly, I was feeling damn good. Whether that was from my time spent in the hot spring, the eight-hour snooze fest, or having the essence of a demonic being implanted into my chest cavity, I couldn’t say. Still, I’ll take my victories where I can get ’em.

  I crouched near a large fir tree, its needles brushing up against my leather jacket as I surveyed the cave opening ahead and the guards milling around out front. I was alone, concealed by a serviceable illusion—nothing fancy like James could manage, but good enough to hide me from the hired muscle. Heck, even without the illusion, there was a good chance I wouldn’t have been seen. The cave entrance was westerly facing, and the sun was dipping down below the horizon for the evening—the last rays of light temporarily blinding onlookers while also casting long shadows over the land, easily camouflaging me.

  The cave entrance before me, an actual axis mundi, a weak spot between worlds—this one connecting backcountry Montana with a sacred grove of ancient trees somewhere deep in Outworld—wasn’t overly impressive. I’d been expecting something giant and medieval: like a clunky castle gate with a moat filled with fire instead of water. Something flashy and epic. But it was just a cave. A narrow, craggy opening in an insignificant face of rock.

  The folks guarding the cave entrance, though, were definitely worth a second glance. Fast Hands sat in a plastic folding lawn chair—a trailer park staple—cigarette between his reptilian lips and a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand. He wasn’t even bothering with a flesh mask, not anymore, which earned him a bubble of space from the handful of nervous Rube cops standing around at evenly spaced intervals.

  The only human apparently unbothered by Fast Hands’s bizarre appearance was Sheriff Kelly, who occupied his own lawn chair, likewise nursing a bottle of Pabst while he casually twirled his mustache. Evil bastard. The rest of the folks guarding the premises were hard cases, one and all. A spattering of muscle-headed goons and wiry scrappers. Most of them were sporting ink of one flavor or another, prison tats or halfie gang brands.

  One guy sported a two-tailed scorpion burned into the meat of his left forearm—East-end Legion. Supernatural thugs, drug dealers, and pimps. Another had a painstakingly detailed Reaper, leaning on a bastard sword, inked onto the side of his bald head—6th Street Grims. Those turdbags worked a bunch of Hub-side protection rackets, squeezing the poorest of the poor, and exploiting the needy.

  The cops seemed to be a solemn lot, by and large, clearly uncomfortable with their temporary partners in crime, but doing their best to retain some degree of professionalism. Good for them. Always take pride in your work, my granddad used to say.

  The hired thugs mostly loitered in small pockets of three or four, standing behind hastily constructed sandbag barriers as they smoked, joked, and drank. A folding card table with a lantern had been erected directly at the cave’s opening, barring the way completely. Four guys sat around the table throwing down on a game of Spades, while a few more looked on. Money passed from hand to hand as bids were placed and cards were played.

  In movies and books, the bad guys are usually self-disciplined professionals, standing their posts like stony-faced, royal British guards—you know, the ones with the funny black hats. Well I’m here to tell you that real life rarely looks like that. Guarding shit is boring. Hell, standing guard is more boring than watching the golf channel for fifteen hours straight. Sober.

  Despite the apparent lack in security, however, I knew better than to get overconfident. These guys were probably all career criminals, each was armed to the gills—a few shotties here, a handful of AKs there, some AR15s, and a handgun for everybody just for good measure—and I knew these shitheads could be ready to dance at the drop of a hat.

  The crack-snap of branches breaking in the woods brought every head up in an instant, cards forgotten, and beers left to warm.

  “Somebody out there,” Fast Hands called out, his raspy voice echoing in the cool air as he drew his pistol from its holster and spun it lazily in a series of delicate arches. “That you, Lazarus?” he asked. “Ferraro?” he called, his voice a low caress when he said her name.

  No answer. After a few minutes of nothing, the guards settled back in, mutters of “false alarm” circulating through the air.

  Another crack split the air. Instead of the snap of a branch, however, it was the sharp report of a high-powered rifle. More specifically, the crack of
a Barrett M107, a semi-automatic, long-range sniper rifle—the weapon of choice for elite sharpshooters all over the world. Greg was holed up in a concealed fire position about five hundred meters away—a quarter of the distance the M107 could be fired accurately from—a lethal guardian angel standing watch over the craziness to come.

  One of the halfies idling near the card table toppled over in a violent jerk of motion, most of his head vanishing in an explosion of skull fragments and a spray of gray meat. I blanched and looked away, my stomach churning at the unsettling sight. In the damaged and broken world we live in, this kind of violence is sometimes a necessary evil, but it never makes looking any easier. The guards weren’t smoking and joking anymore—they grabbed weapons and dove for cover, throwing themselves behind sandbag shelters, rifles and shotties poking out like a hedge of porcupine quills.

  Ferraro strutted into view a moment later, walking at a brisk, professional pace, flanked on the right by Kong and the left by Winona. She looked unconcerned by the fact that twenty-four men remained, all glaring and pointing weapons in her direction. She wore Marine Corps woodland cammies with a beige flak jacket over the top. But even with heavy-duty SAPI plate inserts, she’d never survive a simultaneous attack if all those guards decided to open fire at once.

  That was where James came in. Though I couldn’t see him, I knew he was positioned just behind the tree line, hidden by a veil while he held the weaves for a defensive shield at the ready, waiting to toss that bad boy up at a moment’s notice. His job was general backup: watch, observe, and make sure everyone got out safe—or in safe, in my case. The proverbial ace in the hole.

  “Fast Hands, Sheriff Kelly,” Ferraro said, offering both men—who were now standing at the alert—a terse nod. “I’m glad I have your attention. Now please kindly tell your men to lower their weapons so we can have a civil conversation.”

  “Civil conversation,” Sheriff Kelly said, his face red, his eyes bulging as he stole a peek at the gore covered corpse laying not far off. “You just killed one of these men.”