Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  I pounded again, thump, thump, thump, hoping Ferraro was home and not out on some assignment.

  Once we’d cleared the final Door to DC, I’d tried to call her only to find my phone both dead and in a questionable state of repair—the screen crushed, most of the keys broken, water dripping from the casing. Naturally, I didn’t have her number memorized, because I’m a moron with very little foresight. So instead of just calling, Darlene and I “borrowed” a car—and when I say “borrow,” I mean “stole” from the parking lot of a seedy strip joint—and drove down instead.

  If she wasn’t home, I’d just have to break in and wait for her to turn up, but I wasn’t going to break in until I was absolutely, positively, one million percent certain she wasn’t in.

  Crashing her pad uninvited was a damned good way to end up with a face-full of military-grade pepper spray or, even worse, a gutful of 9 mil slugs. Yeah, no thanks on either account.

  I saw a flash of movement behind the peephole, then heard a muffled string of Italian swear words.

  The door opened, though only a few inches—the security chain stayed firmly in place—and out came the black barrel of a Glock. I dropped my eyes down as a devilish grin broke across my face. Not that I like having a gun pointed at me, mind you, but it felt good to know she was taking the security precautions I’d taught her to heart. Lots of things in Outworld could assume a person’s appearance, so you could never be too careful.

  “What did I cook you on our first date?” she asked, squinting at me, most of her body still hidden behind the thick wooden door.

  “Well,” I said after a pause to think, “I guess that would have to be the spaghetti you whipped up for me at the Farm—but I’m not sure I’d consider that our first date. More like an impromptu, on-the-lam survival cookout. All just semantics, I guess.”

  “Jerk,” she muttered, then nodded toward Darlene, loitering in the hall behind me. “And her? She okay?”

  I nodded. “She’s my Guild appointed supervisor.”

  Ferraro eyed Darlene, appraising her long and hard, lips quirking into a ghost of a smile. She knew exactly how I felt about authority in general and Guild authority in particular, so I could just imagine how entertaining it would be to see me humbled before someone like Darlene. A doughy, paper-pushing desk jockey with negative thirteen field experience. “Your Guild appointed supervisor.” She was definitely smiling now, even if you needed a microscope to find it.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, a flare of annoyance and anger bubbling up, “and we need your help.” I gingerly held up my left arm and gently slid back the sleeve of my leather jacket, revealing the bloody skin and jagged teeth marks. “Had a dustup on the way here. Could use some Bactine and a little Duct tape.”

  Her eyebrows seemed to climb into her hairline as she surveyed the mangled flesh. “Managia. Bactine?” She said it more like an accusation than a question. “You need a doctor and fifty stitches.” The Glock disappeared and the chain clattered, falling against the frame as the door swung inward. “Come on in. Go sit on the couch. Try not to stain anything. I’ll get the first aid kit,” she said, before offering me her back and stalking off into an adjoining room.

  I pushed my way in and motioned for Darlene to follow, wincing at the movement, then headed for the couch—a dark gray three-piece thing with a spattering of designer throw pillows and a chaise jutting out on the far end. I took stock of my clothes: damp, muddy, stained with blood and other assorted fluids from all over Outworld. After a moment, I peeled off my jacket—taking great care with my battered arm and shoulder—before likewise sliding out of my jeans, leaving me in black boxer briefs and my stained undershirt.

  “Mage Lazarus,” Darlene said, averting her gaze with a shocked gasp.

  “Anyone that’s saved my ass from murderous sea-folk gets to call me Yancy, okay?” Then, without further ceremony or comment, I shuffled over to the couch and retrieved a fuzzy black blanket neatly draped over one couch arm and wrapped it around my shoulders, pulling it closed with a clenched fist. “At least she can wash the blanket,” I offered by way of explanation, before plopping down onto the padded sofa, a groan escaping my lips.

  I pressed my eyes shut, leaning my head back, letting the oversized cushions cradle my neck. Amazing. When I finally opened my eyes again, though, I noticed Darlene was still standing in the entryway, swaying from reluctant foot to reluctant foot. “Stop standing there, already,” I said. “You’re in shock, Darlene, and I know you’ve got to be friggin’ exhausted. I’m friggin’ exhausted. So come in, grab a seat”—I nodded at a stiff-looking black love seat against the wall—“take a load off. We’re safe for a while. It’s time to relax. Recuperate.”

  She assessed the sofa for a moment, then seemed to melt a little, as though finally realizing we weren’t in imminent danger of being murdered horribly. “You know, maybe I will have a seat,” she agreed, dragging her feet as she stumble-lurched for the couch. She flopped down, legs out, head back, then closed her eyes—a mirror of my own posture. She wasn’t asleep, but even at a glance she looked happy. Well, maybe happy isn’t the right word. More relieved, I suppose.

  Despite my pain and hurt and anger, I grinned. Poor lady was goofy as hell and in way, way, way over her head, but there was something irritatingly likeable about her. Endearing.

  I settled back into my seat, letting the cushions draw me in deeper and deeper as I absently scanned the condo through heavy-lidded eyes.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d been here, not even the second or third, but I was always taken aback by how little it seemed to reflect the woman who called this place home. It was nice, sure. Neutral cream-colored walls, dark wood floors, a hardwood coffee table, several bookcases filled with unread books—you could tell they were merely decorations by the perfect spines staring out at the world. The appliances were all new and clean. Hardly used.

  Everything about her pad screamed sterile.

  Her home was a little like the corporate office paintings hanging in the hallway: nice, professional, boring. The place almost looked staged, like the kind of empty home a realtor uses to convince people to buy, buy, buy. As much as this condo was Ferraro’s, it wasn’t really her home. She was in the field all the time, I knew, running assignments and missions, traveling wherever the job took her. Though she would never, ever admit it, Ferraro was a lot like me. Living out of hotels or catching a wink in a car as often as spending a night in her own bed.

  She was basically a traveling homeless person with a very expensive storage locker for her shit.

  Ferraro walked back in a second later, banishing any other thought as I tracked her movements. She was a good-looking woman. Better than good-looking, even. Tall, just shy of six feet, with medium-length black hair tied back into a tight ponytail. Strong features, Mediterranean complexion, chestnut eyes, sharp as daggers, and enough athletic muscle to give me pause. I was used to seeing her in either professional business attire—dark pantsuits, say—or tactical wear suitable for a SWAT officer.

  Now, however, she was sporting a pair of navy pajama pants and a baggy white T-shirt that looked a size too big for her. One of my shirts, from the last time I’d slept over.

  She came over and eased down next to me with a first aid kit in hand. Though this wasn’t your standard first aid kit—you know, the little red pouch you stow under your sink or in some dusty drawer. Nope, this sure as shit wasn’t that. Her med kit was the size of a backpack—MOLLE webbing ran over the front, dotted with modularized pouches filled with assorted tools. This beast looked like a heavy-duty Corpsman kit, the kind of bag a doc might take into a no-shit combat zone.

  Lady takes her first aid very seriously.

  She unzipped the main medical pouch and set about pulling out various items, placing them neatly on the table. A bottle of iodine, followed by a meaty pair of trauma shears, several packages of gauze, medical tape, a curved needle, suture thread, and a first aid bandage. Her eyes flashed from my arm to
my blistered shoulder. With a muted tsk, she added a burn dressing package to the growing pile of medical supplies.

  “You look like shit, Yancy,” she said, giving me a sidelong glance and frown, before picking up a cotton ball and dousing it with a stream of iodine. Working with efficient, dexterous fingers, she took my arm and began dabbing at the wounds. I grimaced, shifting uncomfortably from the pain as orange iodine stained the myriad of lacerations, and she wiped the dried blood away. After a few minutes and a growing pile of used cotton balls, she nodded her approval and stood, then headed over to the kitchen.

  She came back a few minutes later with a couple of Vicodin and a bottle of Gentleman Jack. She passed both to me without a word, then picked up the curved needle. Time for stitches. Yay.

  I downed the pain pills with a huge gulp of Jack—followed by several more gulps for good measure—then braced myself as she began to work, curved needle dipping down, digging into my flesh, pulling my skin shut. She worked in focused silence for a few minutes before finally speaking.

  “Did a bear maul you?” Her tone was stern, serious. I couldn’t tell if she was joking.

  I gave the jagged teeth marks a once-over. Honestly, a bear mauling was a pretty good guess. And hell, it was just as likely an explanation as what actually happened, which is always a sure sign your life has jumped the tracks at some point.

  “That’s a helluva guess,” I replied through gritted teeth, “but no. Guess what did this in two, and dinner’s on me.”

  She paused, bottom lip protruding in a quizzical pout as she thought. “One of those evil unicorns,” she offered at last, still deadly serious, which sounds funny but isn’t.

  Whenever I tell people I have night terrors about unicorns they always laugh, but that’s only because they’ve never seen one of those suckers. Bastards are as big as rhinos—all beefy muscle, pebbled hide, and burning eyes, with a single twisted spike of ebony, sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. Plus, they’re more vicious than a SS Officer on a bender. Smart, too.

  I shook my head. “Naw. They have flat teeth. If it was a unicorn, you’d be looking for deep punctures, like a knife attack. That, or tons of blunt force trauma, since they like to get you underfoot, then line dance on your torso.”

  She grunted noncommittally, completely involved in her grisly work. After several more minutes of quiet, she exchanged the needle for sections of sterile gauze, which she lightly laid over the wounds, securing them in place with strips of paper tape. “So, not a bear and not a nightmare unicorn. Kraken?” she asked offhandedly. “That’s a real thing, right?”

  I snorted, my arm jiggling, which hurt like a punch to the groin. “Most things are real things, but no, this wasn’t that. A Kraken wouldn’t have left enough of me to fill a thimble. This was done by a type of supernatural wolf called a Gwyllgi.” I waved my good hand through the air, it’s not important.

  “Stop moving,” she said, pinning me in place with a steely-eyed glare. “This is hard enough without you flopping all over the place like a dying fish.” She secured the last bit of tape in place, then snatched up the first aid wrap. “And why, pray tell, was a Gwyllgi munching on your arm?”

  “Long story,” I replied, “but we’ll get there.”

  She nodded, not pushing me. That’s one of the things I love about her—she knows when to let silence do the talking.

  “What about that shoulder?” she asked clinically, finishing up on my forearm. “You fall asleep with a cigarette again? I’ve warned you about smoking in bed.” Her eyebrows were knotted together in concentration, but that had been a weak attempt at humor.

  “No,” Darlene’s voice came, “no, that was me. Just a little accident,” she finished, blushing a deep crimson.

  Ferraro glanced over to the woman occupying the love seat. “Right. And who are you again? Aside from his supervisor, I mean? As a general rule of thumb, I like to know who I’m getting mixed up with, so maybe you could give me a few details about yourself.”

  “I completely understand,” Darlene said, sitting up a bit straighter in her seat, primly adjusting her wrinkled and bloody shirt. “I’m Darlene Drukiski, with the Judges Office. And before we get any further, I just wanted to say thank you so much for allowing us to use your home. It’s been one heck of a night”—her eyes looked a little wild when she said that, as though she could see all the craziness on the horizon—“Gwyllgi. Mermaids. Outworld jungles …” She shivered a little. “Glad that’s behind us. Also, on a completely unrelated note, I just wanted to say you have an absolutely gorgeous home. Really.”

  “Thank you,” Ferraro replied tersely, eyeing the babbling Judge like she was something totally alien and unfamiliar.

  “Do you have a cleaning service?” Darlene forged on. “I’ve considered that, but can’t afford it on my salary. I wish I could get my house to look like this, though. I’ve got two kids, twelve and eight, so it seems like no matter how much I do, my house perpetually looks like Godzilla just rampaged through.” She snorted at her own joke.

  Ferraro leaned away from me and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those are not the details I’m looking for. “You’re with the Judges Office, but why are you here? Why does Yancy have a supervisor dogging his heels in the first place?”

  “Oh that.” She grimaced and seesawed her head. “Well, I’m here in sort of a support capacity—really to supervise him as one of the conditions of his parole.”

  “Parole,” Ferraro said flatly.

  “Uh-huh. On account of all the various crimes he’s committed, though obviously he’s been pardoned—”

  “What crimes?” Ferraro cut her off, freezing her with an icy glare cold enough to cause frostbite. “Doesn’t he work for you guys? For the Guild?”

  “Well,” Darlene continued tentatively, a woman walking on eggshells. “He did work for us. But when he left the Guild, he technically became a deserter, so all the assignments he’s conducted since leaving in 1998 are—according to the CCGJ—considered unauthorized acts of vigilantism. And vigilante acts are, obviously, illegal. He was looking at fifty years in prison, but that sentence has been commuted. Instead, he’s going to work off his prison term in the Judges Office.”

  “So, let me see if I have this straight,” Ferraro replied, voice a low growl, eyes squinting, fingers now dabbing at my wounded shoulder a tad too forcefully. “He’s been tried for saving innocent lives, because the Guild didn’t first authorize him to save those lives?”

  A tense, awkward silence enveloped us.

  “Technically? Yes,” Darlene finally squeaked. “But, like I mentioned, he’s been conditionally pardoned in exchange for future services rendered to the Guild. I’ll admit, formally stripping him of his rank was a bit unfair, but the rules are the rules, dontcha know,” she offered with a shrug. “Anyway, that’s where I come in. The arch-mage personally assigned me to oversee this mission.”

  “You’re his babysitter,” Ferraro said, the sentence an accusation.

  “No, no, not at all,” Darlene said, fingers fidgeting nervously at the crease in her dirty slacks. “Though I guess it might look like that from a certain angle, I suppose.”

  Ferraro opened her mouth, and I could tell she was about to lay into Darlene—it was in the lines of her body, the set of her shoulders, the scowl on her face—which wasn’t totally fair. Darlene was a pawn of some higher level bureaucratic bullshit, and she didn’t deserve the blame. Not entirely.

  “It’s not her fault,” I said preemptively before Ferraro could rip her to pieces with an ass-chewing of epic proportions. I faltered, aghast that I was actually defending a Guild red-tape-warrior. “She’s—she’s just doing her job,” I finished in a disgruntled whisper.

  Ferraro’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Judge Drukiski,” she said, voice sharp as my K-Bar. “Could you give us a minute in private?”

  Confusion flashed across the Judge’s face, but then she nodded and stood, swaying slightly on her feet. “Gosh, I suppose I could do
with a splash of water on my face. Where’s the restroom?”

  Ferraro jerked a thumb toward a hallway behind her. “First door on the right,” she said.

  Darlene gave the FBI agent her most winning, dimple-cheeked smile, then strode off.

  Ferraro tended to my wounds in silence until the soft click of the bathroom door floated to us. “So three questions,” she said without preamble. “First, what’s the real deal with her?”

  I shrugged. Scowled in a flash of pain. “She’s just an office worker who got caught up in something much bigger than her. A goody two-shoes with no field experience. She’s pretty by the book, which is worrisome, but she’s also an alright person. I think we can trust her. She might be a little ditzy, but she understands what’s at stake here. She knows what happens if we fail.”

  Ferraro nodded, clearly not happy but seemingly mollified by my answer. Then her faced softened. “That’s a load of BS,” she said, “the way they busted you down like that. You’re too good for them.” She patted my cheek fondly. “I’m not sure how to phrase my second question.” She leaned away, staring at me in a moment of thoughtful silence.

  “You look awful,” she finally said, motioning toward the ferocious punctures in my arm—“but you should look worse. I know wounds, and these? They look a week old instead of a few hours old. What’s going on?”

  She knew about Azazel’s presence in my head, and knew there were dangers associated with being a Seal Bearer. Her question, though delivered without accusation, held the faint ring of indictment. Are you still in there, Yancy? it seemed to ask. Are you still you?

  “I don’t have an answer for you,” I replied, refusing to meet her gaze, “but I think it’s the demon. Me and Cassius are doing every conceivable thing I can think of to keep him contained, but his essence is still seeping out. Kong told me something like this could happen. The demons are bound to try and preserve the life of their hosts. Even though we have Azazel’s influence down to a trickle, I think he’s using that trickle to heal me. Which is awesome, right up until he breaks free and takes control of my body. Turns me into a friggin’ meat-puppet, which, trust me, I am not lookin’ forward to.”