by James Hunter
“No!” Harold screamed, scuttling over to the fallen objects, as though they were close comrades who’d been injured on the field of battle. “My poor collection.” He rounded on me with a scowl on his face.
“Yes, Harold,” I said, “I am fine, thanks for asking … what’s that? How did I fare against the freaky, indestructible, tentacle blob? Great!”
“You survived,” he said, “more than I can say for some of my poor collection here.” He pointed at a thoroughly shattered blue and white vase which looked dusty and antique. “From the Yung Dynasty—circa 1335—though I suppose it can be replaced,” he conceded. “Maybe I should bill you for it. No, no I suppose getting rid of the Dara-Naric is payment enough.”
“How generous of you. Now, is the critter gone or what?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. Whatever you did was enough. It has departed back from whence it came.”
He flipped me an old coin, a thin brass token, which looked vaguely Romanesque. The figure on each side resembled Mercury, messenger of the gods. Well the Roman gods, at any rate.
“My end of the bargain” he said in explanation. “Hold the coin, channel a little Vis, and give me a ring when you have the details figured out. And please, allow me to show you the way out—wouldn’t want you to break anything else.”
TWENTY-FIVE:
Debrief
My trip back to The Lonely Mountain was uneventful and getting out of the Hub and back to LA proved far easier than the trip in had been. In the alleyway behind Firroth’s bar was a metal door with the words: Santa Paula Exit, Sam’s Meats, spray painted on it in bright red block letters. The door had no lock, no key, and absolutely no need to access the Vis to open it. Figures. Might’ve been Harold’s work—occasionally, he gets contracted out by the Hub’s City Council to do necessary infrastructure building.
The door dumped me by the rollaway dumpster, not far from where the Camino was parked. It took me an hour or so to get back to Greg’s place. It was full dark when I finally pulled up, but Greg’s Ford was still missing from the driveway, which was a little worrisome. There was nothing I could do about it though; Greg would have to put on his big girl pants and take care of himself. He’d be fine—hell, by now, he probably had Morse’s and Yraeta’s boys doing live-fire line drills. Maybe he even had them digging trenches, filling sandbags, and fortifying bunkers somewhere. Guy’s a hard charger. He’d be okay.
I unlocked the front door and made my way into the kitchen, tossed the brown folder from Harold on the table, and decided the fridge needed to be raided. It was eying me like a sorority house filled with open windows. Hey, don’t look at me that way, I did a semester in college after the Marine Corps—I know about sororities. Plus, I’ve seen Animal House like a bajillion times.
My stomach growled its assent, this mission was top priority, people. I found a frosty Coors in the door panel and a tub of Moose Tracks ice cream in the freezer. Beer and ice cream. Maybe not the breakfast of champions, but damn if it didn’t sound exactly like what I needed. I grabbed a spoon from a counter drawer, placed my raided loot on the table, and pulled out a chair.
I took a gobble of vanilla-chocolate paradise and chased it with long drink of Rocky Mountain goodness. I could feel my eyes glaze over: joy, rapture, savory, taste-bud bliss. Beer and ice cream, the food and drink of the gods I tell you—ambrosia heisted and mass-produced for us mere mortal kind. I burrowed my way through another couple mouthfuls before finally dragging the folder on Arjun over for review.
All told, there were maybe two-dozen loose-leaf sheets in the folder. The first page had a glossy color photo of Arjun paper-clipped to The Guild’s equivalent of a rap sheet. Birth date, physical description—5’ 8” and 150 pounds, slight build—known aliases, known locations, political and religious leanings. The guy had been involved with all kinds of risky and active political groups: the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, the Bharatiya Janata Party—these were serious Hindi groups that believed in, and worked toward, Hindutva.
There was also a list of known offenses and crimes. That last was a doozy, practically needed its own zip code. Political assassinations, instigating mass riots, mind-control, consorting with demons, illegal weapons trafficking, mass murder. Arjun was a friggin’ crusader, no doubt about it. He wanted a religiously pure, reunified India, and he was willing to do bad things to get it.
I compared the list of horrific offenses with the picture clipped to the page. He didn’t look like a mad, rogue mage bent on unleashing demons or worse on mankind. He looked like an okay dude. Brown skin, square jaw—covered with a five-o’clock shadow—and hazel-eyes that looked bright and content. He was smiling. If I’d seen him at a bar, I would’ve bought him a beer.
Behind the cover sheet were a few more glossy photos: Arjun attired in a traditional Indian dhoti, swathed in white and sporting an AK as an accessory piece. Arjun wearing a pair of khakis and a black polo, talking with a man that looked suspiciously like Detective Al. Another photo of a large warehouse—single level, red brick, with boards fastened over the windows and a large tan warehouse attached to the rear. The place looked a little distressed, but would’ve fit nicely in any of the industrial parks in South LA. Lucky for me, there was an honest to goodness blueprint attached to the photo, complete with an address.
The building was on Alma Ave in Gardena, separated from Compton by the wide snaking concrete river which is the 110. The time stamp on the photo was only a couple of weeks old. I had Arjun—had him dead to rights. I had a blueprint of his friggin’ villain lair and I had a way in. Finally, in control.
I heard the front door rattle open, I dropped my hand to my piece.
“Just me,” Greg called from the living room. He appeared in the kitchen a moment later, minus shoes, and took the seat across from me. “You can take your hand off your revolver. You’re getting twitchy in your old age.” He eyed the tub of ice cream and beer for a moment. “What, your junior high sweetheart dump you?”
I stoically took another bite of Moose-y track goodness—I was choosing the high road, not willing to validate his remark with a response. Sliding the folder across the table to him, I pointed at the picture of Arjun with my ice cream streaked spoon.
“Harold came through for us—he got the goods and consented to make the Way. Also, he informed me that your mom left her underwear at his place last night.” Who am I kidding? I don’t take the high road, not where lewd and wildly inappropriate jokes were possible. I took another slurp of ice cream.
“Mom’s ninety-four, Yancy. Not okay,” he said, eyes glued to the dossier.
“How did things go with Morse and Yraeta?” I asked.
“Morse is in for sure.” He pulled out a cheap, black, disposable cell phone and set it on the table between us. “I’m thinkin’ Yraeta’s in too—the guy is a killer and he wants his comeuppance. But his goon gave me this. There’s one contact in the phone, its direct to Yraeta. He wants to talk with you personally.”
I found the pre-programed number and hit the call button. The phone rang twice.
“Mr. Lazarus.” The voice was smooth as cream and tinged with the sounds of central Mexico.
“Yeah,” I said, “this Yraeta?” I didn’t use any title. I wasn’t going to play the part of diplomat and I wasn’t going to kowtow to him even if I needed his help. He’d tried to kill me. I took another spoonful of ice cream. “So, you gonna to play ball or what?” I asked.
“How very disrespectful of you, Mr. Lazarus. Why don’t we start over and set some ground rules. No one talks to me that way, not ever.” He sounded positively pleasant. “If you talk to me like that again, I will hack you to pieces with a machete, drink your blood, and post your head on a spike. Comprende Singao?”
“Talks cheap, clown,” I said. “So here’s the deal: I don’t have time for your bullshit threats. I get that you think you’re the meanest thing on the block. But reality check … you’re not. Shit, compared to some of the things I’ve seen today—just today—am
igo, you’d be lucky to get a seat at the kiddy table.”
I almost wanted to call the words back. There are some things you don’t say to a guy who has hacked a body to pieces with a machete. It needed to be said, though, because guys like Yraeta—regardless of how many languages they speak—only understand one: violence. If I let him push me around with his threats and posturing, he’d use me up and discard me without a look back.
I needed to let him know I was a threat.
“So here’s my counter offer ass-wipe, if you come at me again it’s going to take a lot more than a machete to stop me. I’ll come for you, comprende? And the shit I’ll do to you will make those Saw movies look PG.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. I hadn’t heard the call drop, but I was afraid I had pushed him too far.
“Early this morning,” Yraeta finally said, breaking the silence, “a pack of monsters broke into my home, maimed three of my staff, and kidnapped my daughter. She is eleven, her name is Samantha—she goes by Sammy. The creatures left a note … I am to remain uninvolved. If I do, my daughter will eventually be returned to me.”
“So you’re going to sit out?”
“No,” he said. “No one takes what is mine. No one … I also know men like this kidnapper—he is treacherous. He will kill her, I believe this in my heart … I want my daughter back. And I want the man who took her buried,” the last was a whisper more frightening than all his posturing. “You can do this?”
“Yeah, I can do it.”
“Then I will … play ball. I will give you anything you require. In regards to what has passed between us, it will remain in the past, yes? Get my daughter. Bury the man who took her.”
“Groovy. Greg will be in touch with your guys shortly.” I hung up, feeling petty yet satisfied that I’d gotten the last word in.
“Excellent,” I said turning to Greg, my fingers steepled, making me feel vaguely like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. “Time Arjun got a lick of his own medicine.”
TWENTY-SIX:
Let’s Boogie
Greg and I pulled up to Detective Al’s place at ten after six. Ten after six in the morning, which naturally meant I was guzzling my way through a 24oz jug of gas station coffee. I was tired as hell, but also amped up like a fighter heading into the ring. I felt a steady throb of nerve wrenching anticipation mixed with shaky-muscle adrenaline, each vying for superiority: like a hyperactive, ADHD, monkey all jacked on shots of Red Bull and speed. Things were about to get intense and I was on the verge of flinging some serious metaphorical monkey poo around.
“Ready?” Greg asked, one hand clutched to the steering wheel, the other cradling a cup of coffee.
“Be ready to boogie.” I popped the door and got out into the crisp morning air.
I jogged across the street, trying to look like a normal morning jogger and failing miserably. Who goes out for a run in ratty jeans and a leather coat, not to mention a military-grade flak jacket? Yeah, that’s right—I’d gotten a few upgrades, courtesy of Morse. But hey, that’s what the glamour’s for, right? I cleared my mind and breathed in the Vis, conjuring up the same little probe construct I’d used at Harold’s—all wispy parts spirit and air—and sent it forth to feel out the garage, to test for any potential dangers, and search for the presence of Rakshasa.
I suspected most of the Rakshasa would be bunkered down in the nest. Al’s Charger sat in the driveway, accompanied by two other vehicles: a white, soft topped Jeep Wrangler, and a sporty, blue, Mazda hatchback. A good tell that someone, or several someone’s, had come home to roost. Plus, the sun had risen not long ago and Rakshasa tend to sleep during the day. Now, this isn’t like a “vampire” sunlight thing—it’s not a hard and fast rule. Rakshasa are nocturnal predators, and nocturnal predators go back to the den when the sun rises. Common sense. Even supernatural animals have habits and routines they usually abide by.
I was also sure the Rakshasa would still be nesting here despite the fact that I’d discovered their hidey-hole. Again, Rakshasa are predatory creatures. Like most predators, they’re highly protective of their territory—think a pack of junkyard dogs guarding their bounty of old cars and abandoned couches—when they make a home, even temporarily, they like to hold onto it. Rakshasa may be hard-hitting, human-eating, shape changing badasses, but they’re also predictable in their own way.
At least, I was hoping so.
The only way to know for sure, though, was with the wispy construct I was manipulating toward the detached garage. Well, I guess I could’ve gone and knocked on the garage door disguised as a pizza man or something, but that probably wouldn’t have turned out so well.
My spirit construct brushed up against the outside of the garage and I could feel the presence of warm bodies in there. I also sensed several Vis wards, set in place since my last visit. The wards were weak things not meant to pack much of a punch; they were small-scale deterrents meant to warn away any Rube mortals who wandered by, or give warning to the Rakshasa if some dastardly mage type showed up again.
Excellent. Time to kick the anthill.
I let my probe construct dissipate while simultaneously bringing a wrecking ball of force into play. I was going to crash their slumber party—I was gonna go all big bad wolf on those slumbering, human-eating, piggies. Dastardly indeed.
I attacked, left hand out, palm open, a tight grin cutting my face. A silvered hammer of air and spirit coalesced into shape, rocketing forward like a friggin’ scud missile of Vis. A second later, the garage door exploded with a crack, a shower of white-painted wood chunks and rusty metal flew inward exposing the garage interior to the soft light of the new day.
Cockroaches—the disgusting little bastards—swarmed out in agitation, a living river of black and brown pouring out into the back yard and driveway. Cockroaches are also creatures of the dark. Night is when the little chitinous buggers venture fourth to dig through trashcans and otherwise be creepy and gross; they don’t like being exposed to daylight any more than Rakshasa. The Rakshasa were a little slower in their response, fine by me. That first Rakshasa—outside the motel in Las Cruces—had caught me on the john with my pants around my ankles. It was nice to return the favor.
Turnabout is fair play, they say, and damned if I wasn’t going to dish out some hardcore turnabout.
The Rakshasa were laying in a literal dog pile, all their rancid, flabby flesh intertwined in a heap of limbs and claws, gray-flesh and fangs. They started to stir, to wither and twist in distress, but I wasn’t about to give them time to wake up and splash some water in their eyes before we started our game. I conjured up a bit of flame and doused the interior of the garage and the fleeing bugs. Not enough flame to actually set the garage on fire—I didn’t want to accidentally burn some poor schlub’s house down—but enough to get their attention and befuddle night-adjusted eyes. There’s virtually nothing more disorienting than having someone throw on the light and make a bunch of ruckus when you’re sound asleep.
I have to imagine it’s even worse if you suddenly find yourself on fire.
Some days, being a mage is a very rewarding occupation.
Before the nest could even think about getting their shit together, I drew my pistol and fired into the mass. I was careful to aim only at protruding arms or hands, legs or feet. I wanted to inflict painful and annoying wounds that would seriously piss them off, but which wouldn’t be crippling. I wasn’t prepared to kill all these baddies here. And I sure as hell didn’t want to start a full-fledged war in a residential neighborhood. Some misplaced bullet could easily careen into some innocent kid the next block over.
I wanted to get them sufficiently angry enough to pursue me. Essentially, I was kicking over their sandcastle and then throwing some beach sand in their collective eyes. Now typically, I don’t condone bullying—heaven knows I’m usually on the wrong end of that equation—but sometimes being the bully does feel good. Like Scrooge McDuck backstroking through an obscene pile of gold, good.
They were charging toward me, unthinking, full of hate and anger, a herd of red-eyed bulls hot on the trail of some audacious matador. Perfect. In bullfighting, the matador taunts the bull, twirling his cape, and lashing out with sharp, painful javelins, always in reach yet just out of grasp. The bull, understandably, becomes incensed, seeking to gore that damned matador whatever the cost, all the while becoming both wearier and more careless.
It’s a dangerous gamble for the matador and there have been many who get the pointy, business end of the bull in the process. But, if the matador plays the game right, they can finish the job with a helluva flourish: a dead bull at the end of a single, meticulously placed sword thrust, the estocada.
I had a flourish of my own for these evil, fang-toothed, ass-cows. My own version of the estocada—assuming I didn’t get gored in the process.
On a completely unrelated note, it’s better not to ask why I know so much about bullfighting. I’ve lived a long and … well, let’s say complicated life. Some things are just best left alone.
The Rakshasa were closer now, their long legs eating up the distance between us in a mad dash to take vengeance on me, presumably in a variety of horrible and unsavory ways. Though they were moving at a good clip, it was a disorganized rush. I’d wounded many of their number and not a one of them had thought to grab a gun. I back peddled for the car, pumping a few more rounds into their bodies with a nice compact Walter PPK—a sporty little German-made pistol—which Morse had graciously loaned to me. It barked in my hand, and though I knew it wouldn’t do much to hurt the Rakshasa, it did slow them down a little.
I ejected the mag when it ran dry, letting it drop to the ground, while I speed reloaded, pulling a fresh clip from a mag-pouch attached to my flak jacket. What can I say, sometimes it’s nice to have friends in low places—you never know when you’ll need a favor from a gunrunner. I’m sure my mom would be proud of me, making friends like a real life grown up.
