by James Hunter
Contents
Summary
ONE: Beginning of the End
TWO: Quiet Morning
THREE: Black Ops
FOUR: Tuatha De Danann
FIVE: Introductions
SIX: Satisfaction
SEVEN: Single Combat
EIGHT: The Lowdown
NINE: Quarters
TEN: Warm-Up
ELEVEN: Here Comes the Boom
TWELVE: Three Boons
THIRTEEN: Death Stroke
FOURTEEN: Verdict
Books, Mailing List, and Reviews
About the Author
Dedication
Special Thanks
Copyright
Summary
The year is 1998.
Yancy Lazarus—bluesman, gambler, mage, and professional fix-it man—has been working for the Guild of the Staff for over twenty-five years. Handling ugly problems no one else wants to touch. Mostly by breaking things, blowing ’em up, or otherwise meting out Guild-sanctioned justice, Rambo-style.
His next assignment will be his last.
A Guild operative, with a headful of dangerous secrets, has gone missing inside the court of the High Tuatha De Danann: ye olde Irish gods of badassery. Yancy—along with fellow wet-works man James Sullivan and Judge Ailia Levchenko—is dispatched to retrieve the missing operative or, barring that, make the perpetrators behind the operative’s disappearance pay a steep, bloody price for crossing the Guild.
But with pissed-off godlings gunning for him on every side, a little kidnapping might be the least of Yancy’s worries.
The Guild investigators are gonna have to navigate the murky waters of court politics, ferret out a traitor, and devise a way to put the kibosh on an inter-dimensional invasion if they want to avoid being murdered horribly. And even if they do get to the bottom of the diabolical mystery, nothing will ever be the same, because one of their number isn’t coming home …
ONE:
Beginning of the End
March, 1998
It’d been two weeks since James hauled our collective asses out of the imploding throne room of the Tuatha De Danann. A lot had happened in those two weeks.
I spent the first week on life support in the ICU—non-responsive, hardly breathing, real touch-and-go. The Guild brought in a specialist to treat me, a spark plug of a man named John Ritter, but no one had been optimistic. Not after the hell my body had endured. A pair of black eyes. Busted-ass ribs. A shoulder closely resembling a shark-attack victim. More lacerations and bruises than a high-speed car-crash casualty.
The doc had put my chances for survival at ten percent and my chances at full recovery—which meant survival without brain damage and my powers intact—at less than five. Not a lot of folks taking that action, believe you me. Brain damage wasn’t really a big deal. Shit, I doubted most folks would even notice. My powers, though? Without my powers, I’d be up shit-creek without a paddle, a boat, or a life vest, while being mauled by shit-crocodiles.
But here I am: more or less intact. Yay for me.
What can I say, I’m one lucky son of a bitch.
Woke up on day five with a headache that felt like one-half migraine and one-half lobotomy—could barely open my eyes without projectile vomiting all over the room. By day six the skull-shattering migraines had passed, but not the nausea. By day seven, I could eat again, just weak broth and crackers, but it was better than being force-fed through a swizzle stick. And by day eight, I took a shot at tapping the Vis—the unseen force holding existence together and keeping the world spinning merrily along.
Some folks think of the Vis as magic. But it’s not. Not really.
I suppose I can understand why some dumb Rube might get that notion stuck in their head, but it’s really more like advanced physics. Magi can manipulate the energy undergirding Creation—change it, shape it, and direct it according to our will. Period. End of story. Nothing fancy or mystical about it, at least not when you get right down to the heart of things.
The doc asked me to conjure a flame, something I’ve always been good at. It took me three hours, and several more bouts of projectile vomiting, to summon a sputtering fire barely capable of lighting a birthday candle.
And even managing that was like digging a hole to China with a plastic Taco Bell spork.
Still, the doctor seemed genuinely impressed, flabbergasted even. Shook his head in disbelief while he explained it could take a year or two for my powers to return fully, but that they would return. A year or two is a long time. Maybe not in the grand scheme of things, and especially not for magi, who live substantially longer than most folks, but two years is still two years.
Honestly, I hardly cared, because day eight was also the day an emissary from the Tuatha De Danann showed up in my hospital room. A fresh-faced boy in a tunic—couldn’t have been older than sixteen, this kid—popped by with an invitation for me. An invitation direct from the king himself. A wedding invitation. King Dagda was to marry the Morrigan in the ceremony of the millennia. The emissary dropped off the letter and skedaddled in a wink, which was damned smart on his part, since I would’ve pitched his ass out the window if not for the fact that I was mostly bedridden.
I read that letter ten times if I read it once:
All ye Lords, Ladies, Knights, and Honored Acquaintances of the Court:
Be it known, by royal decree of the King, that all folk of the Court shall stand in attendance to the noble marriage of King Dagda the Good and Wise and Morrigan the Phantom Queen on the tenth day of April when the clock strikes the sixth hour of the eve.
In light of recent events, it has been decided that a cessation of all hostilities should ensue for the greater good of all; to this end, this royal marriage shall serve as an accord of truce, thusly uniting previously differing factions and ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity for the Tuatha De Danann. Following the nuptials, ten days of feasting and celebration shall be observed. In honor of this auspicious occasion and in keeping with tradition and court custom, all debts are absolved, all grievances forgiven, and all wrongdoing pardoned by decree of the King and future Queen.
We stand as one,
King Dagda the Good and Wise
Beneath that, in a postscript, was a private message just for me:
I won. But, please feel free to visit whenever you like, I will enjoy watching you suffer under the weight of my victory. If your health permits, I would enjoy your presence at my wedding and inauguration. Plá ar do theach. A curse on your house.
—The Morrigan
It’d been seven days since the invitation. Fifteen since my dicey escape from Tír na nÓg, the Land of the Young and home of the High Tuatha De Danann.
Currently, I was sitting on an antique wooden chair—thing felt like it was made from an ol’ timey washing board—in a waiting room. I traced my fingers over the embossed lettering of that damned invitation as I bided my time, nervous as all hell for what came next. Facing down an army of Irish nightmares had been one of the worst experiences of my life, but now I was about to face down a group nearly as intimidating: the Elder Council of the Guild of the Staff.
Once the doc had discharged me, I’d spent every waking moment preparing for this meeting. Filing reports, calling in favors, coordinating with battle strategists, paying house calls to anyone in the Guild I could find. Sure, the Morrigan was currently wearing Ailia’s body like a Halloween costume, but Ailia was still technically alive. A Guild agent, a top Judge, was alive and for all practical purposes being held as a prisoner of war by a foreign
supernatural nation.
Would it be costly to get her back and bring the Morrigan to justice for her crimes? Without question. Every strategist I’d talked to painted a grim picture of the prospects, especially since the Tuatha De Danann had, apparently, solved their spat and unified, but this is what the Guild was about. This was everything. Why the Fist of the Staff existed. To ensure that supernatural asshats couldn’t take shots at Guild members free of repercussions.
Now I just needed to convince the Elder Council.
An old wooden door creaked open to my left, admitting a petite woman with splashes of gray in her hair wearing thick robes of dark navy. Mage Wycliffe, the council secretary. She regarded me through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched high up on her nose. Her face was cool, professional, devoid of pity or emotion of any kind. A real cold fish, that one. Looking at her sent a wave of goose flesh running across my arms and up my spine; sweat broke out on my brow. I slipped the invitation into my coat pocket and absently scrubbed my hands on my jeans.
“They will see you now, Mage Lazarus.”
I cleared my throat, nodded, and stood on wobbly legs. Holy shit—I felt like some angsty teen getting called in to the principal’s office. I couldn’t help the nerves, though. This was just too big. Everything was riding on what happened in that room. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to shove down the claustrophobic panic mounting in my chest. After a moment I opened my eyes and nodded again, then followed Mage Wycliffe into the Council Chamber.
The room was filled with old-fashioned, red-cushioned church pews housing men and women dressed in flowing robes in a multitude of hues, all looking at me with stern faces unmarred by compassion or care. Walls of gray stone, smooth from the grinding passage of age, surrounded me on all sides like a prison and reminded me of the gray archways from the Tuatha De Danann throne room.
The thought made me shiver.
Slender candles resting in silver, wall-mounted candelabras shed dim yellow light. Stained-glass windows in greens, blues, purples, and reds all stared down on the unfolding scene. In one glass panel, some saint lifted a hand in benediction while birds and other forest critters surrounded him. In another, Daniel—long beard and wispy white robes—stood unperturbed in the midst of a pride of hungry lions, gazing around, unworried.
Right now, I kinda felt like Daniel. All the mages around me seemed like a bunch of bloodthirsty lions, just waiting to take a bite. Unlike Daniel, I wasn’t under God’s protection, and I wasn’t sure I would leave the room without at least a few scratches.
I walked forward like a man headed to the gallows and deposited myself in front of twelve robed figures arrayed in a semicircle on a platform at the front of the room, which was actually a repurposed chapel.
The Elder Council of the Guild of the Staff.
I locked eyes with the arch-mage standing center stage. She was a striking woman with smooth skin, high cheeks, and bright green eyes, searching and calculating. Her hair was a mass of silver, hanging all the way down her back. Though she looked to be in her late fifties, Arch-Mage Borgstorm had to have a couple hundred years under her belt and was about as savvy as magi came. She was also cold, calculating, and political to her teeth. Had she been in the lions’ den, I would’ve felt bad for the lions.
“Mage Lazarus,” she said, “the council will now hear your petition.”
I shuffled about on nervous feet, then shoved my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t fidget. “There’s not much to say that hasn’t already been said,” I replied, a ghost of a quiver in my voice. Friggin’ nerves. “Pretty sure everyone in this room’s heard my story. Everyone here knows what happened. Everyone here knows what needs to be done. The Tuatha De Danann manipulated us, and the Morrigan committed a heinous crime against the Guild. The only appropriate response is a declaration of war.”
The silence around me was deafening. No one seemed to be breathing; not even the crickets had the kindness to humor us with a little awkward-silence filler.
“These are serious charges, Mage Lazarus, with sweeping and severe consequences for every member of this Guild. Truly the gravest of matters. Our decision must be based in wisdom and logic, not in retribution or the heat of passion. Though the council has already deliberated on the issue, it will ultimately be for the broader council to rule in this matter. So before we render our verdict, and for the sake of thoroughness, I would like you to offer your accounting of events once more. On the off chance that some member of this esteemed body is not familiar with the details you have already provided to the council. Please begin …”
TWO:
Quiet Morning
Sixteen days before …
Warm sunlight trickled in around the closed curtains, spilling its light into the room as a handful of overly cheery birds chirped away, breaking the morning quiet with their sing-song voices. I stretched out with a groan, flexing muscles still sore from my last assignment. A friggin’ minotaur—bull-headed freak from the far-flung regions of Outworld—had worked me over like some surly butcher laying into a slab of beef with a sledgehammer. Brain-dead, muscle-clad prick.
I glanced down at my ribs, a blotchy patch of blacks and blues now fading to yellow, then lazily turned my gaze to the digital clock sitting on the nightstand beside me. 8:12 in the A.M.
Damn bit earlier than I liked to get up. Stupid birds. Where’s a friggin’ worm when you need one?
I pressed my eyes closed and shot out an arm, lazily questing for Ailia’s sleeping body. My hand passed over a depression in the mattress, now covered by the sheets and blanket. Already up and about, then. I rolled onto my side with another groan, snagging her pillow and pulling it into my face, taking a deep whiff: sweet lilac from that fancy salon shampoo she used, mixed with something else. Something earthy and indescribably Ailia. Like good Scotch dancing with fragrant cigar smoke.
I pulled the pillow away and took another deep breath—my nose caught a second scent, one almost as delicious: the meaty aroma of sizzling bacon.
God bless that woman.
I pushed myself upright, flinging the sheets aside, then clumsily gained my feet. I tottered for a moment as I prodded my right thigh; a bastard of a nasty bruise enveloped a big chunk of my leg. Pretty much everything above the kneecap and below the groin. That douchebag minotaur had a kick that could rival any Muay Thai fighter in the world. Luckily he hadn’t busted my femur—the terrible discoloration was the result of a glancing blow if you can believe it. I eased onto the limb, letting my muscle adjust to the weight.
Better. A little.
I bent over and fished my underwear off the floor, then, after an awkward tap dance, managed to shimmy into my drawers before limping over to the door and pulling on a ratty flannel bathrobe.
My stomach growled, rumbling and burbling in angry, impatient agitation as I made my way into the living room, following my nose toward the cozy dining room. The lights were all off, but Ailia had tied the curtains back, letting natural light fill the space with the soft morning glow. Through the window, I spotted a dark line of clouds lingering on the horizon, marring an otherwise beautiful morning. Could be a storm coming. Not unusual for mid-March in the Big Easy.
Any thought of future storms slipped from mind completely as my gaze landed on Ailia, rooting my attention firmly in the present, where it belonged. She was in the kitchen, back to me, as she turned delicious slices of porky-goodness with a pair of tongs. She wore plaid boxer shorts—mine—and a white undershirt. Also mine. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, which swayed and bobbed as she worked.
An amused smile played across my lips as I watched her.
She hated cooking.
She was a lot of things—smart, sexy as a bona fide pinup girl, a generally great human being—but chef extraordinaire was not one of ’em. Sometimes, though, especially after a tough mission, she would do this for me. She’d wake up early and throw on some bacon and eggs. Usually, the eggs would be overcooked and the baco
n too seared, but it was a sweet thing to do. I took another shuffling step forward, and the hardwood floorboards creaked beneath my feet.
She glanced over her shoulder at me—one eyebrow cocked, the ghost of a lopsided grin on her lips, a silky strand of hair hanging across her forehead.
It was a look that said, you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna do something?
She’d given me that same look the first time we’d crossed paths, and though I’d seen it tattooed on her face a thousand times since, I still always thought of the first. Despite our overlapping social circles—we both were full members with the Guild of the Staff—we’d never formally met during any Guild function. Ever. Not even in passing. We were both sorta outcasts in our way, though for different reasons.
No, the first time we’d met had been in a beat-to-shit greasy-spoon dive, over Hub-side. A nasty little place that served passable southern-style food and live music after 8:00. Though I’m a lot of other things, deep down I’m a bluesman, and that night I happened to be standing in on rhythm guitar and mouth-harp for The Uprightmen: a mostly good-natured blues crew of halfies, run by a buddy of mine. Lumpy, ugly son of a bitch—the offspring of an African Popobawa and a prostitute from Mobile, Alabama—named Hadley Okafor. Helluva horn player was Hadley, decent vocalist, too.
Ailia had been sittin’ in the back, by the bar, nursing a White Russian, listening to us belt out tune after tune, dipping her foot and nodding her head as couples moved on the dance floor, bumpin’, grindin’, grooving’, while tobacco smoke twirled and glasses clinked. Eventually she moseyed onto the floor, this was midway through our set, right as we fell into the Blues Brothers’ rendition of “Riot in Cell Block Nine.” A slow, gritty number with attitude through the roof. Bass drum pumping—thud, thud, thud—Hadley, red-faced and damn near bent double as he worked his alto sax. Lester Creedy—slick-talking son of a fir darrig—did an okay job on the black and whites, his knobby red fingers dancing along the keys.
