Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  One after another they fell, until the courtyard was a graveyard, a morgue, a recent battlefield filled with the dead. The music trickling from the club died, too, the outrush of power severing Beauvoir’s connection with the zombified band within.

  Sudden, ominous silence reigned. The tight pause before the other shoe drops.

  I regarded Beauvoir: etched across his face was fear, thick and pregnant. Around him, his few living henchmen shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, eyes roving over the mounds of dead, hands nervously checking the safety switches on their assorted weaponry. They were right to be nervous.

  “Yeah, that’s right, you asshat,” I said, voice booming, gruff, tinged with a harsh rasp that vaguely reminded me of Azazel. “I know your dirty little secret. And you know what I think?” I paused, letting the question linger and loiter like a gang of ruffians. “I think you’re not so different from those corpses on the ground, Beauvoir. I may not know everything—in the grand scheme of things, I may not even know much—but I know about killing. And you?” I jabbed a finger at him.

  “You I killed. Dead. Guaranteed. Yet mystery of mysteries, here you are, even though you have a hole that runs clean through your skull. And that leaves me with a few questions. First, what in the shit? And second, how in the shit? But I’ve had a little time to kick those questions around in the ol’ noggin, and what I think is that the Fourth Seal Bearer, your Baron Samedi, brought you back from the grave. Brought you back in much the same way you brought them”—I swept one hand toward the bodies littering the street—“back from the grave.”

  I reached out with the Nox, feeling the pulsing, rhythmic beat of undead power nestled inside Beauvoir’s chest, sending surge after surge of unholy power rippling through his body, giving life to his limbs. That power wasn’t in him, not like it was with me. No, it was originating from elsewhere, forming a complicated bond. One keeping Beauvoir upright and breathing. The construct animating Beauvoir was a complex piece of work, well beyond my understanding, but it was built along the same lines as the constructs that’d given life to the rest of the horde.

  Even with Azazel living in my head, there was no way I could build something as complex as the mechanism powering Beauvoir, but I didn’t need to build it. I just needed to smash it up good and proper, and that? Well that wouldn’t be so hard at all. I applied a little pressure to the knot of dark energy, pressing on it with a thin scalpel of invisible Nox, feeling strands of force snap like overtight guitar strings. I cut only a few reedy strands of power, and suddenly Beauvoir was on his knees, one hand, rigid and tight, clutched to his emaciated chest.

  “What are you doin’ to me?” he wheezed, voice ragged and pained.

  “Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m doing to you. And if you don’t give me exactly what I want, I’m gonna do it until you’re back in the grave where you belong. But this time, I’m not just gonna kill you, I’m gonna eradicate you. Scorched earth. I’m gonna burn you until you’re ash, then I’m gonna burn your ashes until they’re finer ash, then I’m gonna take those ashes and toss ’em into the void between the worlds. Make sure you never, ever, ever come back again. Understand?”

  He stayed hunched over, breathing hard, clutching his chest as he considered my words. “I tell you what you want and you leave me be?” he asked.

  “If you tell me plainly and tell me true, I’ll leave you alive, if that’s what you’re asking,” I replied, far more calmly than I felt.

  “What is it you want?” he finally asked, head bowed, voice resigned.

  “Three things, dickweed. First”—I stuck a finger into the air—“I want my damn pistol back. Second”—another finger joined the first—“I want to know where your boss, Baron Samedi, is. And last”—one more finger joined the fray—“I want to know how to get outta here. I know you’re savvy enough to have a Way connecting to the Hub, and I want to know where it is. You give me those three things, and I walk away. Leave you alive … well, as alive as a dead man can get.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me after I give you what you want?”

  I paused, frowned. Dammit.

  Unfortunately, I was planning to kill him after he told me what I wanted—he certainly deserved no less—so this was a development I didn’t care for. Finally, I sighed. “You swear an oath of power to tell me the truth and let me go free, unhindered, and I’ll swear an oath of power not to murder you. Today. After that, I’m making no promises.”

  What I was suggesting was no simple sworn promise; an oath of power was a pact, one imbued by a powerful construct of pure spirit, which would literally compel the swearer to fulfill the terms of the agreement. Once sworn, there was no way around the oath. They were words written in stone, implacable and immutable.

  It took only a moment for Beauvoir to nod his assent—say what you will about him, but Beauvoir obviously knew a good deal when it was about to shoot him in the face—before conjuring the framework of spirit necessary for the oath. After he swore to my terms, I embraced the Vis and did the same, agreeing to a very temporary ceasefire, which still chapped my ass. Once done, Beauvoir fished my pistol from his waistband and handed it to one of the child soldiers, shooing him on with a quick flick of his wrist.

  “Baron Samedi,” Beauvoir said as the boy made his way toward me, pistol in hand, “is a powerful being, but he is a creature at war with himself. It takes a great toll on him, I think, so every few months he goes away. To rest. He goes to a city. His city. Bhogavati—the city of the Nagas. Far in Outworld, beyond the borders of the Autumn Court.”

  “That’s far enough,” I commanded the kid with my pistol. The boy, wearing a filthy Mickey Mouse shirt, came to a tumbling halt ten or so feet away. “Wouldn’t want you to hit me with any more of that zombie powder,” I said with a scowl. “Just toss it here.”

  The kid nodded, then chucked the pistol toward me underhand; it landed on the dusty road a few feet from me with a dull clank. Carefully, I picked my way forward and retrieved the gun, checking the cylinder for rounds, then slid the hand cannon back into the holster where it belonged. I let out a sigh of relief. The pistol was a familiar companion that’d seen me through a lot of bullshit. Felt good having it back at my side.

  “Okay,” I said, turning my focus back on Beauvoir. “So your boss is in this snake city, past the Autumn Court. That’s one helluva trek. There a quicker way? If he’s heading there every couple months, I bet there’s a quicker way. Dark gods hate commuting.”

  Beauvoir seemed to war with himself for a moment, fighting to keep his lips sealed tight, unwilling to give away any piece of info he didn’t strictly need to. But he’d sworn to answer me and, at last, his mouth opened, words spilling out almost against his will.

  “He is a secretive man, Baron Samedi, a secretive god.” He paused, stroking his chin. “But I have heard a rumor, whispers in the shadows, that there is an axis mundi, a thin spot between the worlds, connecting to Bhogavati. In Thailand, close to the Laotian border, there is a shrine called Sala Keoku. Maybe”—he shrugged noncommittally—“you go there and you find your way to the Baron? I think, though, what you gonna find is death waiting for you instead.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t need any life advice from a corpse who just cut out my eye. Now tell me how to get out of this trash-heap, rag-tag shit-hole.”

  “Inside,” he said simply. “Down in the basement, where we had our fun. There is an old bookshelf. It is on hinges. You will find a portal behind. Custom built. Lets out near the Lonely Mountain. That fulfills the terms of my oath,” he said. “Now be gone from my city. And if you ever return, I’ll catch you and skin you alive.”

  I was about to respond, when something buzzed in my coat pocket, the manic vibration of a cell phone. I reached down and felt the shape of an unfamiliar brick burner phone through the fabric of my jacket. Didn’t know where it had come from, or how it had gotten into my pocket. But now sure as shit wasn’t the time or place to check it. I put the myst
ery phone from mind as I narrowed my eyes on the Voodoo Daddy.

  “I’ll only be too glad to put this place in my rearview mirror,” I replied. “But first, I’d like to leave you with a little parting gift.” Once more, I extended my invisible razor of Nox toward the knot in Beauvoir’s chest; with a few quick, economical slashes, I parted a handful of quivering strands—specifically the ones connected to his arms and legs. The cables of energy parted without any resistance, and Beauvoir dropped like a box of rocks, his limbs temporarily useless.

  “What is this!” he bellowed from the ground, jerking his head left and right, but unable to get his body moving. “You promised me I would live!”

  “I’m not gonna kill you,” I said, shrugging one shoulder, though the words were bristling with menace. “You’ll keep right on living—you just won’t be able to use your arms or legs for a while, a day. Maybe two. But you’ll be alright.” I eyed his henchmen, my gaze lingering on each of the child soldiers in turn.

  “But I’m not gonna make any promises that your friends there”—I nodded to his goons—“won’t do something. I mean I know you said these kids belonged to you heart and soul, but I gotta wonder if they’ll feel the same way when they realize you’re as helpless as a newborn kitten. Hear that?” I shouted. “This monster who took everything from you—your lives, your families, your childhoods—he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag with a machine gun in one hand and a machete in the other. Might be,” I said, smiling at Beauvoir, “they’ll decide they have a score to settle with you.”

  I spit at him, then wheeled around, slipping back into the club’s interior, quickly pulling the doors shut behind me.

  It wasn’t but a handful of seconds before Beauvoir started to scream, his voice a shrill shriek of tortured agony. Apparently the dead man could still feel, even if he couldn’t move. I smiled. Not as good as putting the miserable bastard down myself, maybe, but still as satisfying as a cold beer on a hot day. By which I mean smashing a world-class asswad in the head with a cold beer bottle on a hot day.

  Then, though, that grin slipped clean off my face. Ferraro and the Prophet were gone, nowhere to be seen.

  The hell was this?

  My pocket buzzed again.

  The mystery phone.

  I pulled the thing out with trembling fingers, my gut tight with anxiety. The cell was a cheap black burner with a wake-up alarm set to go off at five-minute intervals. I killed the alarm with a press of my finger and flipped open the phone. There was one unread text waiting for me. With a few jabs of my thumb, I opened the message and read, my blood coming to a low boil with every word.

  I have Ferraro, meat-monkey. Call me at the number saved in this phone to discuss the terms of her safe release. Don’t wait too long or bad things will happen.

  There was no name, no other information, but I didn’t need anything else. The Savage Prophet. That asshole had played me like a friggin’ fiddle. Somehow, he’d known I’d pull one over on Beauvoir and drag the info out of the Voodoo King. He’d been expecting it. He’d been scamming me from the get-go. Must’ve planted that damned cellphone on me in the basement, maybe when we’d been preparing to breach the club proper.

  Guess it didn’t really matter when or how, only that it’d happened.

  I folded the phone, slipped it back into my jacket pocket, and promptly unleashed a sledgehammer of raw force, smashing through one of the interior walls—concrete and plaster exploding in a rain of debris.

  I stormed through the club, marching past the dance floor, now covered with the dead, and into the VIP lounge. I noticed a few of the tables were now empty, but not all of them. Despite everything that’d happened—the explosions, the gunfire, the zombies, the screaming—at least half the tables still housed customers. I tarried just a moment, the spidery veins of black and purple creeping up my hands and arms.

  “You have two minutes to leave,” I said, my voice almost unrecognizable, demonic, “then this place is gonna burn to the ground. Two. Minutes.” Without further comment, I pushed myself through the door into the kitchen—still empty—and beelined for the basement.

  I located the bookcase, shoved up against the far wall, without a hitch. Right where Beauvoir had said it would be. The case, though heavy and solid, was affixed to a heavy-duty set of hinges, and it swung out with a whisper, revealing a crude doorway, decorated with intricate and unintelligible symbols, painted directly onto the brick wall behind. I recognized the workmanship: Harold the Mange. Figures. The fat, slovenly freak had one helluva talent with the Ways, so I really shouldn’t have been too surprised.

  Generally, these types of Way-points required a specific access key to operate, but with my power I could force it open without much strain. Especially with an assist from Azazel. I called up complicated weaves of Vis and Nox and swept one hand over the portal with a whisper of will. The brick doorway disappeared in a flash, leaving a pitch-black hole standing in its place. I stole a look over one shoulder, gaze sweeping around the torture chamber, my good eye landing on the gurney, stained with red.

  Then, the box cutter, decorated with chunks of skin.

  Finally, the melon baller with a pulpy mess in its stainless steel cup.

  I raised my right hand and a wave of flame roared out, the room blistering with enough heat to melt metal, to turn that gurney into blackened slag, and to raze this charnel house to the ground. Then I stepped through the portal, letting the black hug me like a brother as Ge-Rouge burned.

  TWENTY-SEVEN:

  Good Fortune

  True to his word, Beauvoir’s portal let out in a dimly lit section of the Hub—a cramped alleyway, the air filled with a sour stink, the ground littered with garbage of a questionable origin and variety: broken bottles, dirty diapers, something that looked suspiciously like a hand. It was also a section of the supernatural city I knew reasonably well, just a couple blocks from a notoriously ill-reputed bar and brothel called the Lonely Mountain, which boasted a list of clientele that read like the horror shelf at the local bookstore.

  I didn’t move, though. Couldn’t muster the motivation. I needed a break, a minute to breathe and think.

  So instead, I lumbered over to the alleyway wall, the side of a concrete-slabbed tenement painted a dusty yellow, and plopped onto the ground, propping my back against the cool stone. Holy shit I was tired. Worse than tired. I was empty, used up, hollowed out. A husk.

  Worse still, with Haiti behind me, the adrenaline was starting to wear thin. All my pain was returning in waves, slapping against my nerve endings like the ebb and flow of the ocean tide. Creeping and receding in turns. I glanced down at my hands—about the only things that didn’t hurt—and noticed the skin had turned a brilliant red the shade of broiled lobster. Like Azazel. A chill, which had nothing to do with the cold wall behind me, ran along my spine, and I broke out in a fit of shivers, great beads of sweat breaking out on my brow.

  Chief Chankoowashtay, a formidable Sasquatch and the last great leader of the People of the Forest—I just called him Kong, ’cause you know, giant, hairy ape-man with a chip on his shoulder—had been the former guardian over Azazel. I remembered watching him go from a generally good-natured Bigfoot to a bright red murder-machine in the blink of an eye. His shaggy hair turned the color of a nosebleed, his eyes glowed like cigarette cherries, and thick spikes of gleaming black bone protruded along the outside of his hands, arms, and shoulders. One big ol’ scary son of a bitch.

  I hadn’t known the cause for the abrupt and terrifying transformation at the time, but in hindsight I knew it was Azazel’s demonic nature asserting itself, overriding Kong’s mind and grabbing hold of the steering wheel. Was the same thing happening to me?

  Carefully, I peeled off my leather jacket, cringing as the fabric scraped over the freshly carved markings etched into my shoulders. The leathery red skin extended all the way to my elbows, and spidery veins of purple and black were still spreading upward, greedy tendrils running over my biceps, past m
y shoulders, and clumsily reaching for my heart.

  I was still holding both Vis and Nox, I realized, the opposing powers lending my body aid and keeping the pain momentarily at bay. The longer I pulled on that power, leaning on it like a crutch to keep me going, the more those veins would spread. Until, eventually, Azazel would have enough of a stronghold to boot my ass into the passenger seat, which didn’t sound like my idea of a good time. So, against every instinct, I cut myself off, pushing away the flows of Vis and Nox until the power was a distant drug, far out of reach.

  Unfortunately, without that power buffering my physical senses, the terrible agony of everything that’d been done to me landed like one huge hammer blow. Felt like someone had dropped a mountain on me. A mountain made of razor blades, dirty syringes, and red-hot coals. Stars erupted in a shower before my eye—singular—nausea barreled through me like a speeding rollercoaster, and an intense combination of achy pain and fatigue settled over me like a cloak.

  Fuck me.

  Everything hurt, and not just the obvious things either—my friggin’ gallbladder hurt for Pete’s sake—and with all that pain came images, flooding my brain: Beauvoir. The Prophet. Ferraro gone, taken. My eye … Each flash demanded my focus, screaming at me to pay attention. But I couldn’t. My conscious mind rejected all of it, unable to cope with my new, grim reality. My brain, instead, urged me to forget all that awful bullshit. It urged me to crawl out of this alley and into the bottom of a whiskey bottle, where I could live for the rest of my short, miserable life.

  That sounded good. Sublime, even.

  Get so plastered I could just ignore everything. Fuck the world. Fuck Lady Fate. Fuck the Guild. I’d given enough already, suffered more than anyone could ask of me, and I was done. So fuck everything. The world could burn to a crisp as long as I could be shit-faced while it happened.

  With a groan and a muffled cry, I slid my jacket back on and righted myself, then stumbled from the alley, already moving with the lurching gait of a drunk.