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

by James Hunter

  Another torturous scream as Levi crammed the second leg into the thing’s guts right next to the first.

  Heckabe continued tearing through the shambling Revenants like a twister in a mobile home park: merciless, uncaring, and utterly destructive.

  And I went to work on the third leg gracing the Bone Collector’s left side.

  The creature still scrambled—bobbing, weaving, hooking, jabbing—but it was slower now, its movements marked by both hesitation and low-grade panic. I got the sense it understood exactly what we were up to, and realize just how excruciatingly vulnerable it would be if we managed to hobble it. The third leg came away with the sound of a rifle report, and suddenly the creature above me was wobbling dangerously; though all of the legs on the right were intact, only a single leg remained on the left.

  “Get ready,” I screamed at Levi as I shoved the third leg across the rough floor with a grunt. “This asshole’s about to go over.”

  Levi grunted his reply and shot me a hasty thumbs-up before hefting the third limb from the floor and rudely jabbing it up, wiggling it in deeper and deeper as the Bone Collector howled. I didn’t want to be beneath the thing when it came crashing down, so I inched forward, then darted into the open. The spiked tail immediately descended, nearly taking my head off in the process, but a lightning fast drop and roll saved my neck.

  I shot to one knee and smashed into the fourth leg as though I were a major leaguer swinging for the fences.

  “No!” the Bone Collector bellowed as it swerved, desperate to prevent me from finishing the job. “Get the mage! Stop them. STOP THEM!” it screamed at its minions, but at this point there weren’t many left to respond. And the ones still tooling around were thoroughly occupied by Heckabe’s persistent harrying. She darted through their ranks as agile as a plume of smoke and as quick as the wind.

  I ducked low beneath an incoming pincer, rolled past another sweep of its deadly tail, then pivoted and slammed the hammer home again. The leg bowed unnaturally, the cracks in the chitinous armor spreading like cracks along a windshield. “Fire in the hole!” I yelled as the last hammer blow landed with the force of a car crash. The leg gave way, and the creature pitched to the side, crashing down with Levi trapped below the Bone Collector’s significant bulk. I backpedaled, holding my breath as I scanned for signs of the MudMan.

  Levi was tougher than mountains—he’d made that much clear a thousand times over—but that freak show scorpion had to weigh in at five tons.

  But then, just when a real tremor of worry started to wriggle its way through my guts, the Bone Collector shifted and rose steadily into the air. My jaw dropped: Levi was standing beneath the creature on trembling legs, his muscles bulging and straining under the immense weight of his load. With one guttural, wordless roar his arms surged up, sending the scorpion flipping through the air. It landed on its back with a boom that shook the floor and rattled the walls, sending pieces of bone cascading down in a shower.

  The MudMan promptly pitched over, the black spikes retreating into his body as golden blood oozed out from a thousand wounds. He’d done it, though, or close enough it didn’t matter. I glanced toward Heckabe and noticed that only a handful of Revenants lived, and those stood stock-still, directionless without the hive mind of the Bone Collector feeding them instructions. Still, though, I needed to make sure this thing was well and truly over. I marched forward, turning the hammer in my hands until the deadly barbed spiked was facing forward.

  The Bone Collector stared at me through a multitude of watery, blurry red eyes. It was alive, but one look told me it knew this was game over. I planted my feet again and raised the hammer high, ready to drive the spike into its head until it was dead—or, at the very least, no longer even remotely a threat.

  “Wait,” the creature mewled through its damaged jaw. “Wait, I can help you.” The words came out slowly and badly distorted, but I understood. Just barely.

  “You can’t even help yourself,” I snarled back, exhausted, tired, and sick to death of demonic bullshit.

  “I can help you kill the great lord, Asmodeus. There are more tunnels than those penned on the old maps and blueprints. I can get you and your friends anywhere. Anywhere. Into the animal cages. Into the Flesh Palace. Into the prison. You name it, and I’ll show you the way.”

  Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner. I lowered my hammer just a skosh.

  “And, and, and I can help you fight,” the Bone Collector continued, sensing my hesitation. “Your hatred for Asmodeus cannot be greater than my own. He put me here. Made me into this thing. Stripped me of my flesh. Of my mind. Of every good memory. I can repair my forces. I can help you beat the Flesh Eaters. I can give you an army, and if you want to kill the Demon King, you will need an army.”

  “Kill it,” Levi said, trudging over, holding a broken section of leg like a spear. “It’s evil. An irredeemably vile creature.”

  “Besides,” Heckabe added, “we don’t need it, and we can’t trust it.”

  “Lies,” it mewled again, the noise clawing at my ears like a wounded cat. “I’m useful and trustworthy.” The jagged stump of one leg crept out and began tracing out a series of harsh symbols and crude lines in its green blood. “By blood and bone, by ash and stone, I swear upon the White King above and the Great Wyrms below to do you and yours no harm, to hate that which you hate, shun all which you shun, and seek the just punishment of Asmodeus the vile, King over Pandæmonium.”

  The creature paused for a moment, its wounded leg scritch-scratching across the floor—drawing ever more complicated sigils of binding. “Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, subvert this oath. And if I should, let all the fiends of the Phlegethon fillet my soul and take my eyes. Let them cast me to wander, deaf and senseless, into the blinding darkness and the bitter frost of the outer pits. So mote it be, so mote it be, so mote it be. Thrice sworn and thrice bound.”

  The sigil on the floor, traced in blood and bound with deep magic, flared to brilliant life, an opalescent light filling the air and settling over the Bone Collector like a silk blanket, then sinking down, into its skin. The creature shivered and shuddered as the power worked its way in deeper, like a sliver digging into the skin.

  For a time, everyone was quiet, shocked into silence.

  The Bone Collector had just sworn a binding oath of power not only to not hurt us, but to help us murder Asmodeus the Demon King. In the supernatural community, trust was a fickle thing, and the only way you could be sure someone was on the level was with an Oath of Power. But almost no one did them—they were too damned binding, and the consequences for breaking an oath like that, if you even could, were too heinous to even think about. And what the Bone Collector had done? Well, that was the next level up: an oath of power, sworn in blood.

  This creature was desperate, sure, but now it was firmly in our corner.

  “Alright,” I said, stepping back as I let the hammer vanish in a puff of violet light accompanied by a brief whiff of sulfur. “You sold me, bub. But a word of warning: if I sense even a hint of bullshit outta you, you’re gonna wish I’d just smashed your head in.” I pulled back my coat, flashing the handle of the revolver riding my side. “’Cause this right here? This is the Reaper’s Scythe, and I’m the Horseman of War and Death. Now it’s time to get to work. Levi”—I glanced at the MudMan over one shoulder—“let’s break out the bag, and get this place rigged to the gills.”

  THIRTY:

  Rigged to Blow

  I released a tiny trickle of pent-up Vis and oily Nox into the pitted sandstone wall, then wiped the dust and sweat from my forehead as I surveyed the circular runic sigil painstakingly scrawled onto the wall with black paint. In front of me was a softball-sized seal filled with flowing script, looping swirls, and strange arcane shapes all pilfered from the Clavis Salomonis, the Picatrix, and the Sefer Raziel Ha-Malakh Liber Razielis Archangeli. Try saying that last one five times fast—I dare you. It wasn’t a work of art by any stretch of the i
magination, and not even in the same league as what Levi could make, but it would do the trick.

  Back topside, I typically mass-produced these types of things on a pack of yellow Post-it notes, perfect for the savvy mage on the go. Unfortunately, since this was Hell and Post-its were about as elusive as angelic, rainbow-farting unicorns, I had to do it the old-fashioned way. One at a time, by hand, with an actual paintbrush. But it would be worth it.

  I glanced left, surveying the long line of glimmering seals decorating the wall like war medals at evenly spaced intervals. Individually, none of the seals would do much damage. But there were hundreds of these things—an army of little Vis batteries ready to release their charge when I uttered the single Word of Power binding them all together: Dick-cheese. Okay, so it wasn’t super mystical or whatever, but the words themselves were less important than the intent. And intent is all about finding a word that taps into the primal emotion fueling a given construct.

  Dick-cheese pretty much summed up my feelings toward Hell and Asmodeus.

  I stowed the brush in my pocket with a tired sigh, then headed over to Levi, who was hunched over on his hands and knees, painting a thick line of gold onto the floor, then decorating it with splashes of beautiful Hebrew text. Prayers and passages from the Old and New Testament, imbued with both the power of alchemic magic and potent faith.

  “How goes it?” I asked, plopping down on the ground, pressing my back up against the wall, and pulling a cigarette from my pocket—I was down to less than a handful of smokes. Highly concerning.

  “Fine,” he offered absentmindedly, his fingers dipping back into a deep, self-inflicted wound carved into his opposite forearm. “I’ll need to break soon, though. To recuperate. Heal.” He shook his blocky, Cro-Magnon head. “I’ve never done a containment ward this big. Never heard of anyone doing one this big.” He fell quiet, muttering a silent prayer under his breath as his pudgy fingers began a new line of text.

  I pressed the cigarette between my lips, lit up, and took a deep, steady inhale as I surveyed the room. Levi was right. He’d only finished about half the room, but even half done, it was impressive. A thick line of gold ran around the perimeter of the room, edging the wall, and on the inside, the circle was an entire grimoire’s worth of prayers, incantations, and arcane symbols of power. It was beautiful really, the patterns glimmering with a faint golden life just like the tattoos snaking around my right arm.

  I took a drag, savoring the smoke in my mouth, then pushed it through my nose as I glanced at Heckabe, who was hanging from the roof of the cavern. She was suspended from a length of black rope, digging out a small, pre-marked hole with her talons. She was back in human form and looking far worse for the wear. Her clothes were in tatters, but instead of revealing copious amounts of sexy skin, everything was fresh pink scars, a mosaic of yellow and purple bruises, and thick swatches of charred flesh.

  Looking at her was physically painful, even though she didn’t seem particularly annoyed by the wounds. I mean, she punched me in the face after the battle as a matter of principle—I totally had it coming—but then, she’d just shrugged and muttered existence is pain, followed by a half-hearted I’ll heal in no time. I’m tough, but if someone accidentally set me on fire, I very much doubt I’d just walk that shit off like a twisted ankle. Another example of why it’s best to avoid the supernatural if at all possible.

  “Do you think this is gonna work?” I asked Levi, pulling the cigarette away and ashing the cherry on the floor. “Bringing a section of cavern down?” I stole an uneasy look at the bricks of C-4, rigged with det charges, duct-taped to the support columns. There was a shit-ton of explosive down here, and Heckabe was plugging the ceiling with sticks of dynamite.

  “It’ll work,” Levi muttered, scooting over a few feet as he went to work on a new portion of the ward. “I can read the earth like a map. I know every fault line, every cave, every crack—the earth is my mother and father—and they tell me every secret. Most of the rock above us is shale and limestone, with a few pockets of chalky feldspar. Assuming Heckabe places the charges right, it’ll all come down like a controlled demolition. But that’s the least of your worries. If it works, you’re going to be trapped inside this place with Asmodeus. That’s what you oughta be concerned about.”

  “Well, good thing you’re not me,” I said, snubbing my smoke on the floor, then flicking the butt away as I stood with a groan. “Maybe I’m not as tough as Asmodeus without Azazel riding in the driver’s seat, but I can prepare. Most of the time I’m working on the fly, shooting from the hip, but if you give me the element of surprise and the time to get my shit together, I can bring the friggin’ thunder, man. You’ll see.”

  He grunted a noncommittal reply, thoroughly engrossed in his work. The sigils on the walls were only the first step in my game plan, and I still had loads of work left to do yet—it was gonna be a long, long day. I headed off toward the entryway, avoiding a pair of docile Revenants clearing away bony debris from our earlier scuffle with the Collector. I headed over to a pile of human heads near the front entry and went back to work, picking up a chalk-white skull and turning it over in my hands.

  The brush came out again, and a few minutes’ worth of doodling saw the forehead decorated with more sigils—these meant to hold explosive force and a few other nasty surprises. A dash of energy, stored in the haphazard seal, set the skull glowing with soft blue light like a dying glow stick. One down, nineteen more to go.

  Hours passed that way: Heckabe meticulously placing charges along the support columns and into the ceiling. Levi, working his way along the floor inch by inch to complete the impressive binding circle. The army of Revenants, presided over by the Bone Collector himself, cleaning up the area, preparing it for the inevitable battle to come. And all the while, I slaved away, placing more wards—on skulls, the floors, the walls—turning the cavern into one part armory, one part death room.

  By the time we were finally done, the cavern looked almost nothing like it had when we first arrived. The whole place glimmered with the light of primal Vis, violet burning Nox, and golden ichor invested into just about every damn inch of stone. And boy was I tired as a result. Even breathing felt like a labor, and trying to keep my damned eye open was an effort of sheer will. Knowing I’d done everything that could be done, I finally pulled my hand cannon from its holster, eyeing it long and hard as a pang of panic washed through me at the thought of stashing it.

  But there was nothing else to be done. I needed to make it into the colosseum, and the only way to do that was to get arrested. Heckabe seemed to have a way in, but no way would they let a prisoner into lockup with a monster-killing pistol at his side. So, reluctantly, I shuffled over to the left-hand wall and stashed the weapon in a little niche in the sandstone Levi had been kind enough to carve out for me. The hole wasn’t deep, just the right size for the gun, and I’d already gone through the trouble of warding the damned thing to the gills.

  If any hand but mine went into the compartment, they wouldn’t have a hand for much longer. Probably wouldn’t have much of a torso or head, either. I laid the gun down, glanced around to make sure no one else was watching, then cast a hasty illusion to cover the opening. In seconds, the divot vanished, and the section of wall was seamless and whole, indistinguishable from the rest of the stone around it. To anyone but me, anyway. To me, the rectangular space burned with a soft crimson light—a signal flare to help me find the thing in a hurry.

  “Alright,” I called out. “That’s the best I can do here.” I headed for the exit, refusing to double-check the weapon. It would be there. Everything would be okay. It had to be. “Time for us to get moving, I think.”

  Levi stood from his work, took one long, sweeping look around, then nodded in satisfaction at what he saw. Heckabe was already waiting at the cavern’s entryway, leaning against the wall as she munched on some very questionable-looking meat the Bone Collector had acquired for us. Most of her burns were gone, replaced by healthy gold
en skin, which was distracting to say the least. She might’ve been a crazy, psychotic werewolf who worked for a demon, but she was also stupid good-looking.

  I averted my gaze out of courtesy and turned to Levi.

  She laughed in response, just a soft chuckle, but a laugh all the same.

  The MudMan, oblivious to anything with social nuance, blundered up, pulled out the familiar silver drinking flask, and thrust the container into my hands.

  He didn’t say anything, but then he didn’t need to. I’d used a lot of energy getting this place ready, and I couldn’t go into the final showdown tapped out. I begrudgingly accepted, unscrewed the cap, and downed the gross metallic liquid within.

  “The circle’s almost complete,” he finally said while watching me drink. I finished and wiped my mouth with my forearm. “Except here near the door.” He trudged over to the entry, crouched down, and pointed out a six-inch section of the golden circle that remained unfinished. A gap.

  “This here,” he said in the tone of a professor lecturing a particularly dense student, “is going to be the most difficult part, and you’re going to have to do it quickly. Right now, the circle is useless. It won’t keep demons out, and more importantly, it won’t keep them in. You’ll need to complete this line”—he traced his digit over the empty arc—“then you’ll need to draw a dalet here.” He gestured at a string of Hebrew words with an open space. He carefully sketched a lopsided “T” in the dust on the floor. “That’s a dalet—don’t mess it up or all of this is for nothing.”

  I nodded, licking my lips as I eyeballed the text. Although I can’t read Hebrew, the words blurred and swam in front of me until I could understand what was there—minus one letter, of course. Hear, Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.

  “And you’ll get to the animal cages?” I asked, looking up from the floor.