Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  She took another photo from her dossier: an ancient jungle, filled with stately old trees. “Case in point. What do you see?” she asked.

  I frowned, shrugged. “A jungle.”

  “Correct,” she said. “And if you wanted to locate this jungle, where would you go?”

  “How the hell would I know that?” I said. “That could be anywhere.”

  “Precisely, though in point of fact this is actually a snapshot of Bhogavati,” she replied. “Such is the Prophet’s gift. Vision without context.”

  “Sounds like a pretty shitty gift if you ask me—not that I’m complaining, mind you—just saying. I mean, what good is it?”

  “Do not underestimate him,” Fortuna cautioned, glancing at me over the top of her glasses. “To one well-trained in its art, the Sight is a powerful tool. With it he can read a myriad of possible futures and orchestrate events to give him the best possible outcome. Using the Sight, he located Ferraro in Haiti and arranged your escape from Beauvoir, knowing that doing so offered him the best possible chance to capture both the Seal Bearer’s location and his crook. He is dangerous. Treacherous.”

  “Okay, fine, but he’s not the only one who can see into the future. You’re Lady Fate,” I said, then gestured toward the grand cavern of silken cables. “You have the Tapestry right here. So how’s about you level the playing field a little—just tell me what this shitweasel’s planning and how to stop it. Boom. Done.” I brushed my hands together.

  Fortuna and Lady Fate lapsed into an uneasy quiet.

  “What?” I asked eventually. “Do I have something in my teeth?”

  “No,” Fortuna replied, “it’s just that we can’t help you in that department.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” I asked, eye squinting, brow furrowing. “If you tell me this is more bureaucratic bullshit, meant to dick me over and make everything fifty-friggin’-times harder than it needs to be, I’m walkin’, ladies. I swear, I’ll leave you to mop up this shitstorm on your own.”

  “Can. Not,” Lady Fate responded finally, then issued a haggard sigh. “As in it isn’t possible, boy. Though there are rules about how much we may directly interfere, that is not the issue. The Tapestry is of divine origin, so only divine power can influence it. Someone is using one of the Seals to obscure my vision. At this point, we know little more than you, or so it seems at times. But what little we do know we will give you.”

  I folded my arms. “Figures,” I said with a shake of my head. “Well, lay it on me so I can get this show on the road.”

  “Excellent, excellent. Now that’s the spirit,” Lady Fate replied, the hag face breaking into a mad cackle. “We have three warnings to offer you. And these are imperative, boy, so pay careful attention. First, unless you intervene in the next eight hours, the Prophet will murder that lovely partner of yours, Ferraro, and if she dies, all is lost. Perhaps you will battle on for a time, but eventually the future goes black. An endless void, which, I must confess, I do not understand. But a void future cannot be good, I should think, so you must prevent her from perishing.

  “Second, should you allow the Prophet to obtain the Fourth Seal from Ong, all will be lost. Along that path there is a future of sorts, but one where the Prophet and his master—who is still shrouded to me—reign supreme. In some shadow futures along this path you live. In most you die. But in all futures the world as we know it is gone. Thus, no matter the cost, you must stop the Prophet from gaining the Seal. There are no second chances in this—if you fail, you fail completely.”

  The words hit me hard, a baseball bat to the gut, and I didn’t know how to respond, what to say. I knew the stakes were high, but it seemed like everything was coming to a head. Just a few days ago I’d been locked up in a Guild holding cell, without a lead in the world, waiting for those bathrobe-clad geezers to decide my fate. And now? Now, I had to save Ferraro and stop the Prophet or the world was over. Done. Everything important to me would be gone.

  No pressure or anything.

  “What’s the third thing?” I asked, somehow knowing they’d left the absolute worst for last.

  Lady Fate stared at me for a long beat, all three of her mouths twisted in concern, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “You must save Ferraro and get the Seal without killing the Prophet. He must survive this night. Alive, he will almost certainly kill you and bring about the New World Order. Almost is the operative word. With him dead, however”—she paused, a look of concern bordering on terror sliding across her face—“the world’s fate is worse still.”

  “You kidding me? What could possibly be worse than the nightmare I saw in future Seattle?” I asked.

  “A world under your thumb, Yancy Lazarus,” the Hag said solemnly. “And a cruel thumb it shall be.”

  My legs, still weak, collapsed, and I found myself sprawled out on the oddly warm stone beneath me. I heard the words, sure, but they all sounded like a bunch of indecipherable gibber-speak.

  “What?” I asked, voice hollow. “What?”

  “If he dies tonight,” Fortuna said, sliding up next to me, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “a series of events will leave you with unspeakable power. And you will do terrible, terrible things with that power.”

  No, that couldn’t be right. I wouldn’t do that.

  I’d fought my whole life against corrupt monsters and would-be tyrants—I stood up against the dark godlings, stood in the gap against the things that wished to reduce humanity to ashes. What Lady Fate said was impossible, had to be.

  “How?” I asked, subdued, nauseous.

  “It is not permitted to tell you the how, but know this, should you kill him, you will go from reluctant hero to ruthless warlord. A warlord completely lost to demonic power. A murderer far worse than Pa Beauvoir and the Savage Prophet combined. You tread a very treacherous path, Champion—you must thread the eye of the needle—and if you fail in this you shall lose yourself. And the world will follow you to hell. Like it or not, you are the Champion of Fate. Our savior. Our destroyer.”

  I grunted, staring at the floor, feeling the weight of terrible responsibility settle on my shoulders like a rucksack loaded down with gear.

  I didn’t want this, any of it.

  All I wanted was to keep my head down, cruise around in the El Camino, sleep in shitty motels, and play the blues for beer money. I wanted to disappear. To live out my years in relative peace. Was that too much to ask for, too much to want?

  And the worst thing was I could.

  Lady Fate had made it clear to me the first time around—this was no magic prophecy. If I intervened, there was no guarantee I’d win. And if I chose to stay out, no one would stop me. Lady Fate wouldn’t make me do this—hell, she couldn’t make me do it. But if I ran away from this, there would be no one else to stop the Prophet and his boss.

  “Fine,” I said halfheartedly, still surveying the smooth stone below me—slick gray, threaded with spidery veins of silver and gold. “I got the message. I’ll do what I can.”

  Suddenly, I found the thin fingers of a shriveled old hand under my chin, lifting my face upward. Lady Fate, the Three-Faced-Hag, stood before me, clad in a gauzy gown, no longer a terrifying spider-horror, but a bent old woman. “I know,” she said, all three faces bearing thin smiles. “That is why you were chosen. Not because you are the best man, but because you are a persistent man. There is good in you, Yancy Lazarus, a better heart than you know. And, mayhap we cannot tell you all that you would know, but there are a few tricks I have yet for you. This is the seat of my power, after all, and that comes with perks.”

  She shot me an eyeless wink as her hands rose into the air, fingers skimming back and forth. “Sadly, I cannot give you back your eye, nor remove the scars Beauvoir gave you”—one digit hooked into a claw, then she carefully plucked something from thin air. A glimmering strand of golden silk, clutched between thumb and index finger. “But I can take the pain and give you a well-deserved rest.”

  A wave of cool power hi
t me in the face like a pillow, then rolled down, washing over my hearty collection of cuts, bruises, and hurts. A perfect shower that swept away the pains, washing them down some invisible drain like dirt finally coming free. When I glanced down at myself, I noticed my clothes had undergone a similar treatment—the rips and bloodstains gone, vanished as though they never were. Everything was as pristine as though I’d actually popped out of the shower and tossed on freshly laundered clothes.

  She’d done this for me the last time I’d come here too, but it was still amazing to see, to experience. A miracle, far beyond my comprehension or ability. Though the miracle was far from perfect: half the world was dark. My eye was still gone, even if she’d somehow managed to steal the pain away.

  Lady Fate frowned, as though guessing my thoughts, then extended a hand; the section of golden thread wriggled and writhed as it transformed into a simple cloth eye patch made of the same silky material. “A parting gift.”

  I accepted it gratefully. It’d certainly do better than the strip of dirty cloth I’d been using. “Not that I don’t appreciate this”—I hefted the eye patch—“but I was just wondering if I could get another trinket for the road. Something I saw back in that armory of yours.”

  Lady Fate smiled at me, a wicked grin full of devious, malicious promise. “You may have one item”—she held up a crooked finger—“provided you can carry it from this place.” She tapped at her chin. “Now, time is short and precious, so what boon will ye take and where shall we send you, Yancy Lazarus?”

  I only had to think for a second.

  THIRTY:

  The Coup

  I lounged on a brown futon, puffing away at a well-deserved cigarette, with a hardline phone sitting on my right leg and my contact book perched on my left. The futon in question was nestled in the cramped living room of my super-secret underground fallout bunker, snuggled away in the Colorado backcountry, a couple hours outside Gunnison. The Farm. My bolt-hole, armory, and safe house, all rolled into one. Nothing fancy, but it had everything a guy needed—a place to crash, a Spartan kitchen, a shitcan, a shower, a fully stocked armory, and enough wards to keep a dark-godling like the Prophet at bay.

  The front room was roughly the size of a large shipping container—a couple of small cots hung from the wall, there was a couch, television, and small dining room table with a pair of padded folding chairs. It also had a bookcase full of dog-eared paperbacks, a portable electronic keyboard, and a guitar resting on a stand in the corner. A few little touches that made it feel less like a doomsday bunker and more like an awesomesauce crash pad for when you absolutely needed to sleep off a wicked hangover.

  I glanced down at my contact book and punched in the number for Ferraro’s place back in Dumfries, then lifted the receiver to my ear, willing Darlene to pick up the friggin’ phone on her end. I’d already tried three times, and the calls kept going through to voicemail, but I knew she had to be there. Where else would she have gone? I finally left a curt message, hung up, then immediately tried back—she’d answer eventually if I just kept at it. Unless, of course, something had happened to her.

  But, after the fourth ring, she answered, and some previously unnoticed tension melted away, running from my shoulders like hot water sluicing over my body. Maybe Darlene wasn’t the first person I’d pick as backup, but it was nice to know I wasn’t alone in this—not to mention, she had access to the best supernatural assault squad on the planet: the Fist of the Staff, my old alma mater. I had a damned ugly battle in front of me—as ass-ugly as a hairless Chihuahua in lipstick—but Darlene had the bureaucratic clout to summon the very best the Guild had to offer, and I reckoned that would even the odds.

  “Yancy?” Darlene asked tentatively.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I said, melting back into the couch, letting the faux leather cushions draw me in deeper and deeper. “I was starting to get worried there. Thinking maybe something had happened to you.”

  “Oh gee, no. Everything’s alright here. Just didn’t want to answer the phone and have it be someone from the FBI or something.”

  I grunted vaguely. “Well,” I said after a lapse, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

  “And what about you?” she asked without a pause. “How did things go in Haiti? Did you find the location for the Seal Bearer? Is Ferraro alright? What’s our next move? Where should I meet you?” She belted out the litany of questions like a hail of machine gun fire, hardly room for a breath in between sentences.

  “Slow it down, crazy,” I said when there was finally a lull. “Let’s take those questions one at a time.”

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’ve just been so worried. I took the liberty of looking up Cité Soleil in the old case files, thinking that would put my mind at ease, but after reading the details on the Voodoo Daddy … Well, I only got more nervous.”

  “There were some complications,” I said, trying to sound steady, confident, and unfazed instead of just wailing and weeping, which is kinda what I wanted to do. “Definitely hit a few rough patches,” I said, before launching into a brief account of events without going into too many details—poor Darlene didn’t need to know all the sordid facts regarding my alone time with Beauvoir. I also filled her in, using broad brushstrokes, on my meeting with Lady Fate—though I carefully left out some of the more sensitive information. Like that whole bit about me potentially becoming an evil, demon-possessed warlord.

  No reason for anyone to know that. Not ever. I had enough problems with the Guild without them thinking I was gonna turn into a Sith Lord.

  “Good gravy, Yancy,” she finally said. “I don’t even know what to say. Except, maybe, I’m glad you survived.” I could practically hear her blushing in embarrassment through the phone.

  I grunted again—surviving wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. “Forget about it,” I said eventually. “The only thing I really want to hear is some good news. Did you find anything on Darth-Bathrobe?”

  She paused then, and though I could hear her shifting uncomfortably on the other end of the line, she was quiet for so friggin’ long I almost started to believe I’d lost the connection. “Darlene? You still there?”

  “Yes,” she replied after a too-long pause. “I just …” She trailed off.

  “You just what?” I asked. “Did you find something or not?”

  “Well …” She drew the word out, like she wanted to put off getting to that next word as long as humanly possible.

  “I don’t have all friggin’ day here, Darlene. I’ve got places to go and bad guys to blow up, so just spit it out already.”

  “I’ve found out a lot, actually,” she finally said, “but there’s no good news. All really, really bad news, in fact. That tattoo you saw? It belongs to Elder-mage Engelbrecht—it’s a South African military unit patch.”

  All the steam left my sails in an instant.

  Black Jack was Darth-Bathrobe? No. Bullshit.

  Black Jack was awesome, dammit. We weren’t close, exactly, but we’d always had an amicable relationship; the guy considered himself to be somewhat of a mentor to me, I knew. And that wasn’t just lip service either—he’d been the only one on the Elder Council to stand for me when I’d called for war against the Tuatha De Danann, and he’d also advocated for my recent release. Why in the nine hells would he do that if he was the Shot-Caller running this whole clusterfuck? He could’ve left me in chains or he could’ve thrown his support behind the arch-mage and had me executed outright two days ago. So why keep me alive?

  It didn’t make sense.

  “You’re sure?” I asked, voice creaky, dry.

  “Positive,” Darlene said, followed by the soft clack of fingers dancing over a keyboard. “It’s even worse than that, though,” she continued. “That fire we saw when the Gwyllgi attacked? It wasn’t a distraction, or at least not just a distraction. It was a coup, Yancy. I managed to hack into the Moorchester comm relay and there’s tons of chatter. A large group of unidentified magi managed to overrid
e Moorchester’s defenses and they captured the town. From what I’ve been able to gather, there’s still a few small pockets of resistance, but mostly the battle is over and done with.

  “Whoever these people are,” she said, “they struck fast and in all the right spots. An inside job, no doubt. They hit all the major guard posts before anyone knew they were there, and by the time everyone else got word, it was already too late to launch any kind of proper counterassault. The arch-mage is missing and so is Iron Stan, but the rest of the Senior Council has been detained or killed, and so have the remaining members of the Fist.

  “Everything’s chaos right now, though, so it’s hard to get good intel. There are definitely casualties, twenty dead for sure— Raaj Sibia, from the Elder Council, and Ben Altschuler, from the Junior Council, for starters. Plus, others who haven’t been identified with plenty of folks still missing. Maybe dead. Maybe part of the coup. No one really knows anything, Yancy. The only thing we can be sure about is that the Guild is in shambles. It’ll take years to fix the damage, assuming it can be fixed.”

  It was a damn good thing I was sitting, ’cause I would’ve fallen on my ass otherwise. My chest was too tight. My heart labored, thudding against my ribs. A cold sweat broke out across my brow and my hands became instantly clammy. I couldn’t breathe, and stars began to slowly coalesce before me, filling my limited vision. A heart attack maybe, that had to be what it was.

  But, after a spell, it passed.

  Not a heart attack, then. Some sort of panic attack, intermixed with a grief so deep my mind didn’t even know where to start.

  Twenty dead.

  Not a huge number in the grand scheme of things, but the Guild was a tight-knit group. I didn’t have much love for Raaj Sibia, but I knew Benjamin. Liked the guy, even.

  We’d never been more than colleagues, maybe friendly acquaintances, but he’d stood for me in my darkest hour and I’d helped him get his grandkid, Michael, back from Old Man Winter. God, that seemed like a thousand years ago. In my mind, I could see Ben hunched over his grandson, clutching Michael’s too-pale body tight to his chest, tears streaking down his face. I didn’t know Ben very well, not really, but he was an alright guy. An alright guy with a family—one that would miss him.