Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 5)

by James Hunter

A beautiful Lily with burnt red skin and emerald eyes caved in the head of a winged Betty with a bat wrapped in barbed wire. Another Betty swept low and kneecapped a Lily with a wrench, snapping her shin and sending the woman to the ground in a spray of blood and a howl of agony. Damn. Brutal as fishing with hand grenades. And it wasn’t but a handful of seconds before someone tumbled into one of the saw blades. A husky Betty, named Robin Blocksley, lost her footing, courtesy of Mama Murderwheels and a length of rusty chain.

  Down poor Robin went like a felled tree, belly flopping onto a blade, which chewed through her guts like a hungry lion, painting the floor with a slick halo of crimson gore. I turned away, raising a fist to my mouth, fighting back a wave of vomit threatening to crawl up my esophagus. I’ve been around the block a time or two and seen some pretty horrific shit—my buddy, Martin, blown to pieces on a 105 round in Nam, Ailia impaled on the Morrigan’s scythe blade—but nothing could prepare you for something like this. There was no way to normalize it.

  Except, the Hellions all around me didn’t seem to care in the least.

  Shit, they reveled in bloodshed and butchery as if this was the best friggin’ thing since beer and ice cream—which, FYI, is the ambrosia of the gods and anyone who tells you different is a dirty liar. The whole display was a not-so-subtle reminder that the denizens of Hell had left their humanity behind a long, long time ago.

  Reluctantly, I turned back to the grisly scene, not wanting to attract any unnecessary notice, just in time to see a hunched-backed man—his skin gone, revealing the red muscle beneath—drag the butchered woman over to the sidelines. Her wound was one hundred percent deadly. One giant, jagged gash, showing off a gaping cavity and glints of rib bone. No one anywhere could ever survive that shit, yet badass Robin Blocksley merely gritted her teeth, eyes narrowed to slits as she scooped her guts back into her stomach. Meanwhile, the skinless hunchback knelt beside her and pulled out a thick curved needle threaded with suture string.

  The doc went to work.

  Sewing her back up all willy-nilly like this was just another day at the office. He worked quickly, his hands deft and practiced. In less than thirty seconds, he finished the impromptu surgery, slapped some dirt-caked bandages on over the top for good measure, and helped the woman back to her feet. She wobbled on her skates for a moment, one hand clutching at her gut, but a rough shove from the skinless Doc sent her back into the heat of the deadly fray.

  I shuddered, disgusted to my core.

  The battle continued in earnest for another few minutes, but it was a commotion outside the rink that drew my eye.

  Levi shoved his way through the throng of people, making his way to the edge of the crowd, placed his hands along the top of the retaining wall, and stared thoughtfully down at the manic action below. His moment of contemplation was brief, however, and in a heartbeat he vaulted over the wall, landing like a meteor on the floor, the spray-painted concrete buckling from his weight. Most of the Derby girls were on the opposite side of the rink, but one player, Machoman Candy Savage from the Lilies, zipped around the corner, only to smash face-first into Levi.

  TWELVE:

  Follow the Leader

  The Derby girl hit like a wrecking ball of muscle, spikes, and skates, and if it had actually been me down there, I would’ve been a bloody smear of meat paste spread across the concrete. Levi, however, absorbed the blow like the boulder he was, bouncing her away as if she were a toddler careening into a brick wall. It was embarrassing. Her arms flapped and flailed as she tumbled backward, landing on a roaring saw blade, which sliced cleanly through one of her thighs, just above the knee. Levi looked on placidly and unruffled as fetid blood splashed across the floor and splattered his chest and face.

  If anything, I’d say he looked mildly self-satisfied. Weirdo.

  He turned away from her, though, crossing his arms as the rest of the Derby girls, Lilies and Betties alike, crawled to a halt. They glared at Levi with silent snarls and raised weapons. I’d faced more than my fair share of insane, murderous psycho-monsters, but at that moment, I was whispering a silent prayer of thanks it was Levi down there and not me. Mama Murderwheels—a hefty dark-skinned woman with pigtails and bone spurs running all over her skin like rose thorns—rolled forward, one hand planted on a curvy hip, the other clenched around a pitted length of chain.

  “You must be the dumbest sumbitch in Pandæmonium,” she said, her words thick with Southern twang. She canted her head to one side and eyed Levi up and down, real slow, cataloging him for later dissection. “Ain’t nobody walk into our joint and touch one of our girls. Nobody.” That last was a barely a whisper, but it sent chills sprinting along my spine and down my arms despite the heat.

  Levi shrugged his shoulders, a cocky, lopsided grin on his face—my face—arms crossed in cocksure defiance. I’m not scared of you or anybody, that look said.

  “I ain’t just nobody, lady. I’m Yancy friggin’ Lazarus, vessel of Azazel the Purros, the Horseman of War,” he replied in my voice, smugness radiating through the words. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that was damn close to what I would’ve said in his place. “I’m also the most wanted sumbitch in Hell,” he continued after a smug pause, “and I need to have a word with your boss, Tez.”

  For the first time, I saw a chink in the Derby girls’ badass armor—worry flashed across their scarred faces as recognition dawned in their eyes. All except ol’ Mama Murderwheels, that was.

  She crossed her arms, unmoved by Levi’s revelation, leaned over to one side, and hocked a fat wad of bloody phlegm to the floor. “Listen here, you candy-ass squib. I don’t bow and scrape for that ball-gurgler Asmodeus. I don’t do it for the Mighty Succubus Queen Hecate. I don’t even do it for Tezrian—a woman who already owns me heart and soul. So, I sure as shit on a sidewalk ain’t gonna do it for you, sugga. But if you wanna see the Big Bad Boss Lady …” She trailed off, a cruel smile spreading across her face. “Well, me and the gals will be happy to oblige you.”

  She lifted her fingers to plump lips, letting loose a shrill whistle.

  All the Derby Girls moved as one, charging forward, ignoring whatever fear they might’ve felt deep down, descending on Levi like a biblical plague of locust. The MudMan broke right and launched himself at a Betty, smashing her teeth in with a powerhouse hook. She tumbled back, clutching at her ruined face, but Levi was already moving on, clocking a Lily so hard in the belly she vomited blood.

  These Derby girls were made of steel, grit, and hellfire, though, and if oversized saw blades wouldn’t stop ’em, what did they care about a sucker punch to the face?

  They sacked Levi, pipes and clubs flashing out, beating him down as they pressed in, driving him to the ground like a hog on the slaughter room floor. Levi vanished beneath the flood of bodies, buried in a dog-pile of roller skates and fishnets. Every fiber in my body told me to attack now, to unleash torrents of blazing flame, gouts of gale-force wind, or javelins of deadly Nox. But I didn’t. Instead, I hunched in on myself, schooling my face to neutrality as I lingered. Waited. Before long, the flood of bodies let up, and the Derby girls crawled back to their feet.

  A pair of Lilies hoisted Levi into the air. They’d bound his hands and legs with thick steel chains and looped a pair of black leggings around his eyes: a makeshift blindfold.

  Then, with practiced ease like they’d done this a hundred times before, they draped his frame over the shoulders of #8, Rapunchel—a blocky woman, who was clearly part troll, part grizzly, all nightmare Amazon. Despite looking like me, I knew Levi had to weigh in at seven or eight hundred pounds, but ol’ Rapunchel didn’t even seem to notice. Heck, she handled his weight like he was a bag full of dry leaves. I edged right, slowly slipping and weaving through the dancers and gamblers, but never taking my eyes off the Derby girls for long.

  They moved over to a metal platform near the rink wall, clambering on board, their skates clinking on the steel. Once everyone was on board, the platform lurched upward; it was a rusty elevator, prope
lled by squealing motors, clanking gears, and groaning metal. When the elevator reached the top of the rink, the girls slipped over the retaining wall with ease, skating off toward a set of rusty iron doors set into the far wall by the MC’s elevated platform. It looked like a service entrance, but when they pushed their way through, I caught a glimpse of a sloping, poorly lit concrete tunnel.

  Bingo.

  I kept my head low and maneuvered through the crowd.

  By the time I got to the crude iron doors, the Derby girls were already gone. I half expected to find a bouncer guarding the way, but no. In a way, that made sense. If half of what Hecate had said was true about this Tezrian, no one with the will to live would go anywhere within fifty miles of her—not by choice, anyway. I posted up against the wall, pressing my shoulder blades against the too-warm concrete as I fished a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. I couldn’t take too long, but neither did I want to jump the gun and blow my cover.

  I lit the smoke with the merest trickle of Vis, absently puffing as I surveyed the crowd.

  Despite the craziness that had just transpired, everyone had already moved on.

  The MC played new music—awful screechy, emo garbage that sounded like a cat in a blender—the gamblers around the rink dispersed back into the crowd, and the ravers continued to dance and flail, as oblivious as ever. Huh. Apparently, Derby Girl beatdowns and kidnappings were so common they went completely unnoticed. That was more than a little unsettling and didn’t bear thinking on too much. Not if I wanted to keep my nerve.

  Finally satisfied that no one was covertly watching the entryway, I bent over, snubbed my cigarette on the pitted floor, and slipped through the heavy iron doors and into the tunnel beyond.

  The walls were rough concrete, the ceiling overhead was lined with metal piping, and the floor beneath was all cold gray stone as smooth as glass. Perfect for skating. Neon-green chem lights hung from the piping at irregular intervals, shedding weak pools of ghostly illumination, which did all of jack shit to dispel the darkness pressing in around me. Which, in this case, was probably a good thing since I could already feel my face starting to revert as the Flesh Tailor’s spells and potions wore off. We’d made it, though just barely.

  I inched over to the right wall and pressed my fingers against the stone as I held my breath and listened. Even though I couldn’t see much, the tunnel’s acoustics were amazing. It was easy to hear the click-clack of skates and the jumbled mutter of voices echoing down the passageway. I’d have be careful, though, because there’s this funny tidbit about acoustics: if I could hear them, they’d be able to hear me too.

  They had a pretty good head start on me, but that was okay since I didn’t need line of sight to track Levi. I reached into my pocket and touched a moist piece of clay, oddly spongy, about the size of a golf ball. It quivered in my palm, urging me forward, into the black and toward the nattering voices. A bona fide piece of the MudMan, filled with ichor, like a stomach-churning jelly donut. And it wasn’t just any ol’ lump of clay, it was alive and attached to Levi, drawing me toward him like a magnet.

  “Easy there, Flubber,” I whispered under my breath, breaking into a shuffle-footed jog, my feet ghosting over the concrete. “We’ll get there, don’t sweat it.” The industrial tunnel continued straight on for another couple of hundred feet, the floor gently sloping down. There were service doors every fifty feet or so with “Authorized Personnel” signs plastered on the surface, but I never saw another soul, and I could still hear the Derby girls up ahead. They were slowly pulling farther and farther away, even though I was moving at a pretty good clip. That’s the miracle of the wheel for you.

  Eventually, the tunnel ended, or rather, it morphed into something else.

  The industrial shaft dead-ended at a wall of cinder blocks and concrete. Or at least that’s what had been there once.

  Now, there was a gaping hole the size of a subway train, connecting to a passage carving its way through dark natural stone, similar in makeup to the strange termite spires littering the city skyline. I paused at the opening, running my fingers hesitantly along the edge of the concrete wall. I half expected there to be rough, jagged edges, like maybe someone had demoed it with a sledgehammer, but it was all as smooth as pristine porcelain. Glassy and slick.

  I grunted, unsure what could make a fissure like that, and headed in, following the faint sound of skates on stone.

  The tunnel sloped sharply downward, and the floor was just as slick and treacherous as the glassy walls; before long, I was damn near sitting, sliding slowly down on my ass. Eventually, the drop leveled out as I came to a natural cavern with a labyrinth of interconnected tunnels snaking away into the stone. Some climbed, a few dropped, and still more twisted out of sight, disappearing into the earth. Above each tunnel was a fat rune, gouged into the stone and glowing with soft green light, courtesy of bioluminescent foxfire growing in the grooves.

  Bright, brilliant markers, pointing the way for those in the know.

  Except, I wasn’t in the know. A twinge of panic swelled inside my chest—tight, hot, and painful. I’m not claustrophobic or anything, but the thought of getting trapped in a stone maze in the bowels of Hell gave me pause.

  I pulled the lump of too-warm clay from my pocket—so friggin’ gross—then slipped over to a passage on the left, holding the golem’s flesh out like a peace offering. But no, the ball wiggled minutely in my palm, guiding my hand right. The wriggling muck led me to a downward sloping passage on the far side of the chamber, marked by a runic wheel with a series of curved spokes. The Arevakhach, an ancient symbol for eternity. Either that or a bitchin’ roller skate wheel.

  Given the circumstances, I honestly wasn’t sure which was the truth.

  Once more I followed, ignoring the butterflies dogfighting in my gut. The passage quickly hooked left, curving into a tight corkscrew drilling down, down, down for a hundred feet before connecting with a tunnel the size of a super highway, ten lanes wide, which showed definite signs of habitation.

  Wall-mounted torches, burning with ghoulish green fire, and intricately carved stone archways lined the way. And then there were the rooms. A giant cavern on the left was full of flowers. A whole garden of ’em. Now, that might not sound all that ominous on the surface, but these bastard flowers were the size of trees, and they swayed and danced with subtle life even though there was no breeze. I moved on, pausing at the edge of an archway, then stealing a quick peek into a connecting room on the right.

  Foxfire fungi overhead splashed weak light over everything. The floor was smooth, the walls scarred with giant honeycomb hexagons like in a beehive. A host of yellow eyes stared out from each of those hexagon holes, connected to maggot-white insect heads with flailing antenna and tearing mandibles. Monstrous larvae, waiting to hatch. Maybe the giant black buildings above really were some sort of termite mound, and maybe these things were the builders.

  I shuddered at the thought, since giant bugs top the list of things I hate the most in the world, followed by root canals and prostate exams.

  The worst part, though, were the bodies, tightly cocooned with silver gossamer silk and stacked up like cordwood along the right wall, waiting to be consumed when the larvae emerged, hungry and ready to feed. And whoever those poor souls were … Well, they weren’t dead. The cocoons squirmed and writhed as muffled, barely there cries for help trickled out. Part of me insisted on doing something, anything. Setting them free, maybe. That or dousing the whole room in wave after wave of fire until nothing but slag and melted rock remained.

  Instead, I steeled myself and moved on. This was Hell, I reminded myself, and I couldn’t save everyone from the torments in this place. Shit, I’d be lucky to save myself.

  THIRTEEN:

  Lost City

  The distant sounds of talking and click-clacking skates had died a while back, but the lump of flesh ushered me onward. I must’ve walked for another ten or fifteen minutes, down in the dark with the earth pressing in all around m
e, before finally creeping to a halt at the edge of yet another tunnel. In front of me was a humongous set of ancient stairs, meticulously carved from huge chunks of pale white sandstone, descending into a giant bowl the size of an asteroid crater.

  In its center was a city.

  An ancient one, framed in by the rough cavern walls shooting up and up and up, so high I couldn’t even begin to see the ceiling. A strange shard of jagged rock, the size of a school bus, floated overhead—defying all the known laws of physics as it burned with brilliant yellow-red light. This place had its very own sun. The city itself was laid out in a disorganized, haphazard sprawl of asphalt roads and blocky two-story buildings cobbled together from white sandstone, blood-red clay, and bits of repurposed trash: old canvas tarps, trash can lids, wooden pallets, rusty car doors, and wooden struts.

  Interspersed among the buildings were graceful arches, glittering gold domes, and tall spires, capped with pointed minarets, all of it old-world and vaguely Turkish. But for all its rustic charm, there were also power lines littering the air—casting the streets in shadow—neon signs, burning with gaudy brilliance, and splashes of graffiti art depicting legions of naked women and flaming skulls. A handful of rusted-out cars and motorcycles puttered along next to sidewalks covered with corrugated metal awnings, propped up on spits of rebar.

  And the residents were anything but ancient.

  Roller Derby girls. Hundreds of ’em.

  Even from my distant vantage, the colorful tattoos and crazy hairdos marked them out like bonfires on a dark night. Apparently, the Roller Nation wasn’t just a catchy name. There was literally an entire nation, even if it was a small one, of these crazy women.

  Perfect.

  I crouched down, pressing my back against the smooth tunnel wall, chewing absently on my bottom lip as I scanned the city. I didn’t spot any sign of Levi or the Cobalt Lily Rollers, but it was easy to figure out where they were headed even without the lump of clay. In the center of the city was a massive multilevel stone ziggurat. All blocky corners, sharp edges, steep stairs, zigzagging ramparts, and gold-topped turrets. Surprisingly, colorful trees and lush gardens surrounded the base of the temple and covered the upper levels: beautiful greenery in an otherwise dry and desolate urban wilderness.