Flashback: The Morrigan: A Yancy Lazarus Novella (Yancy Lazarus Series)

by James Hunter

  “Stop!” I heard Lugh call through the crash of stone and the sizzle of molten rock. “You’re going to kill us all.”

  The ground trembled and bucked beneath me, straining from my power and knocking me to my hands and knees. But I didn’t care and I certainly didn’t stop. Lugh could go fuck himself—this was his doing anyway. His and Dagda’s and the Morrigan’s. Their scheming. Their treachery. Their war. Ailia had told him this could come back to bite him. And now I was a rabid dog off the leash.

  The immense flows of raw power were wriggling from my tenuous grasp, and great weaves of unformed Vis, brilliant white that occasionally sparkled with rainbow light, bled off me like steam. That unformed power wafted away, shaking the foundations of the room and threatening to pull the whole friggin’ throne room down onto our heads. And since this place wasn’t simply a physical place, it was a metaphysical one—a nexus of power with hundreds of ley lines buried deep below—the power seeping from me was undoing the links that held the fabric of existence together.

  I was a hairsbreadth away from burning out, a hairsbreadth away from unmaking this reality and turning Tír na nÓg into a black hole. And I didn’t have two-shits to give. I let the power consume me, kill me and the world around me. The whole while I laughed. A mad, deep roar while tears streamed down my face.

  Something smacked into my back; for a brief moment I thought a rock had fallen on me, but a second later a voice whispered into my ear. “Yancy, you need to stop,” James Sullivan said. “Ailia wouldn’t want this.”

  Something cold slipped around my neck—a slick length of wire. “Don’t fight—I’m doing this for your own good,” James said. Then he yanked back, and a length of wire bit into my skin. I started to heave and gasp. Started to choke. On instinct, I dropped the farmer’s scythe and fought to get my fingers in beneath the choker. Useless.

  That crafty son of a bitch had lifted my garrote from my coat pocket and was using it against me.

  The red, which had invaded my head, faded as the Vis slipped through my fingers, leaving me an empty, used-up husk. James pulled me in tight against him, the thin line of wire cutting into my skin while he wrapped his legs around me, ensuring I couldn’t get away.

  I couldn’t fight anymore, so I lay there waiting for things to end however they were going to end as I searched for Ailia. If I was going to die, she was the last thing I wanted to see. I found her sprawled out on the floor, blood trailing from her mouth and pooling on charred earth, just the faintest spark of life still lingering in her eyes.

  The Morrigan towered over her body.

  The war goddess looked much worse for wear: blood—silver, red, black—decorated her body in great splatters. Her raven-feather cloak was burning merrily like a yuletide log, which made me smile a little. She smiled at me in return, but it was an ugly grimace that made the bottom of my stomach drop out altogether. Then, in a flash, she exploded in a puff of inky smoke and raven feathers. The cloud of black hovered in the air for only a second before descending on Ailia in a tornado of shadow, swirling into Ailia’s open mouth like water circling a bathtub drain.

  My heart fluttered with a sigh of relief as Ailia sat up, but my hope withered and died when I saw the Morrigan’s dead-black eyes staring out at me from behind Ailia’s lovely face.

  “I’ve opened a way!” I heard Lugh scream over the chaotic din of battle and destruction. “Get him out of here.”

  James grunted, unlocked his legs from around my torso, hooked hands beneath my armpits, and slowly dragged me away, presumably toward some portal I couldn’t see. The Morrigan watched me go, a cruel grin splitting her—no, Ailia’s—face.

  “Death is easy,” she whispered, though the words reached my ears with no problem at all, “but living is So. Much. Harder. I am the Chooser of the Fallen, and I have chosen your Ailia to be my vessel until her mind is gone and her body is gray, withered, and old. I curse you with life, Yancy Lazarus: live and watch your love die slowly, forever at my tender mercies.”

  She threw back her head and cawed as I finally slipped away into unconsciousness, into nightmare.

  FOURTEEN:

  Verdict

  Sixteen days after …

  I shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as I finally fell silent, my throat sore and parched from speaking for so long. A nasty feeling boiled deep in my guts as I eyeballed the members of the Elder Council. That story was damn tough for me to tell, and I knew it couldn’t have been easy to hear, but as I surveyed those twelve faces, I saw no more sympathy than when I’d first lumbered into this gloomy room.

  “Do you have anything else to add?” the arch-mage asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Very well. The council has already discussed this matter in great length, and after reviewing your reports and the reports of Lieutenant Commander Sullivan and Ambassador Hoehner, the council has decided to recommend not pursuing hostilities against the Tuatha De Danann or the Morrigan. Perhaps, had the Morrigan been a rogue element, things would be different.

  “But,” she said after a time, “since she is to be queen in a months’ time, we believe hostilities are not prudent. However, you call for war, so the Elder Council may only offer guidance on the issue. Ultimately, the senior mages assembled here must vote. All those in favor of abstaining from open conflict, as per the guidance of the Elder Council, please affirm with an aye.”

  A round of “ayes” circulated through the room, including eleven of the twelve Elders on the platform before me. My heart fluttered; my stomach clenched into a knot as though someone had just sucker punched me in the gut.

  “All those opposed?” the arch-mage asked.

  I watched, dumbfounded as a handful of souls stood, faces solemn, eyes downcast, and mouthed nay. James Sullivan was among their number, of course, along with Benjamin Altschuler—a mousy guy from the Junior Council—and a few others. Notable among the dissenters was Black Jack, the twelfth member of the Elder Council. A beefy white guy who hailed from Pretoria, South Africa, he’d been the leader of the Fist before Iron Stan and had worked more black ops than anyone else in the Guild.

  “We are sorry for your loss,” the arch-mage said once the dissenters had all sat. Her tone was as cold and professional as ever and she sounded like she was consoling me on the loss of a beloved cat. “Alright, if that is all,” the arch-mage said, “then Secretary Wycliffe, please escort Mage Lazarus from the meeting so we can finish voting on tonight’s other agenda issues.”

  The gray-haired woman who’d ushered me into the room placed a small hand on my shoulder, this way if you please.

  I batted her mitt away.

  “Now you listen here, it’s not right, dammit,” I said to the whole room, my voice rising, the words hard. “The Morrigan can’t just take her without retribution. Ailia is one of us, she’s a member of this Guild, and we protect our own, right?” I looked around at the assembled men and women in the pews, not sparing any of them my wrathful gaze or the heat in my voice. “That’s why we have the Fist of the Staff. That’s why you recruited me to do all the shit I’ve done.”

  “That will be quite enough, Mage Lazarus,” the arch-mage said. “We are fully aware of your contributions to the Guild. You are, however, a junior member without the experience to make these kinds of decisions. There is a very good reason you are not allowed to pick your own assignments.” Her voice was all no-nonsense business, her tone one that commanded immediate compliance. “You simply lack the requisite familiarity which is so necessary to understanding the complicated and often delicate nature of the supernatural nations. We’ve heard your case—there’s no need to hold up this assembly with your drama. Now, moving on.”

  “Don’t feed me that line of shit.” Gasps of shock filled the room. Lots of these folks had a bone to pick with the arch-mage, but there are some things that just aren’t done. Just aren’t said.

  Her gaze froze me for a moment, and energy built in the air around her. “Considering your current em
otional state,” she said coolly, “I will overlook your gross breach of protocol and uncouth demeanor. But I expect you to be civil or you will be removed and penalized. Harshly.”

  “I’m about to go uncouth all over everyone in this friggin’ chamber, you hear me!” I yelled, my face flaring with heat. “I’ve put my ass on the line for this organization. I’ve fought nightmares and monsters, saved members of this Guild, rescued family members. And now when it’s one of our own? When it’s my Ailia, you’re gonna turn your backs? Bunch of cowardly, self-serving, sniveling ostriches. Sticking your friggin’ heads in the sand. It’s no wonder the Morrigan felt ballsy enough to snatch up a full-fledged member—”

  “Enough!” The word was a whip crack in the air. “The Morrigan is a powerful being and waging war with her could incite a large-scale conflict with the greater Tuatha Dé Danann and their considerable allies in the Endless Wood. Not prudent. Better to let the slight go.”

  “A slight?” The word tasted flat and sour in my mouth. “This is a person we’re talking about. And you’re just going to move for appeasement?” I turned to the assembled crowd. “It could be any one of you next time. Now that the Morrigan has shown that we won’t even protect our own, other monsters will come. You hear me? They’ll pick us off one at a time until we’re too weak to stop them.” I turned back to face the council. “You just ask Hitler how well appeasement works.”

  Arch-Mage Borgstorm was of Swiss and Polish descent and from the Old World, no less, so my remark had to have hit home.

  “Remove him from the proceedings,” she said, her words calm, clipped, precise. “It is clear that Mage Lazarus is not currently of sound mind.”

  Two men approached from my left, and a man and a woman closed from the right. I knew them all well, like family even. The other four members of the Fist of the Staff.

  “Let’s go, Yancy, no need to make more of a scene here,” said the Fist Leader, Iron Stan, a stocky, powerfully built German man with a blunt face and muddy hazel eyes. Nearly as old as the arch-mage and hands down the best battle-mage the Guild had. I couldn’t take him in a fight if he was blindfolded, gagged, and had both arms and both legs tied behind his back. Scary good.

  “How?” I asked. “How can you do this to me? You knew Ailia, how can you betray her like this?”

  “Duty,” he said, creeping closer. “Our duty is to the wellbeing of the Guild first, and the Elder Council determines what is best for the whole Guild, not just a select few. Come now. We can finish this outside.”

  I spun to the two approaching figures on the left, James Sullivan and Trisha Galindo. “You too?” I asked.

  Trisha just nodded.

  James smiled an apology. How could he go along with this heaping pile of political bullshit?

  “It’s okay,” James said after a moment. “Let’s just get outta here, huh? Grab a drink, some excellent Scotch maybe, work through this. Look, I know this is bushwa too, Yancy, but now is not the time or the place. Let’s go. Blow off a little steam, maybe light up a cigarette and get zozzeled.” Trisha nodded in encouragement.

  The betrayal worked its way into my gut, a sharp pang that kicked at my kidneys, a knife burning hot in my back.

  “I’m done with all you cowardly sons of bitches. Done with you!” I screamed. “If you ever come to me again, I’ll nuke the whole fucking bunch of you!” Tears streamed down my face. These people were supposed to be my comrades, my family. I’d bled for them, left my real family for them. Given everything they’d asked and more. But now, when I needed them most?

  Finally, I saw the Guild for what it was: a load of shit. And it hurt. Deep, deep down.

  I pulled the garrote from my jacket pocket—James had been kind enough to return it to me after damn near choking me to death with it—balled it up, and hurled it at the arch-mage. A brief burst of blue light stopped the garrote from smacking her in the face, but I didn’t care. Not really. “From now on, you can do your own fucking dirty work, you coldhearted bitch. I hope all of you choke to death on your fucking hypocrisy. I hope the monsters come for you so I can watch and laugh while you choke. While the people you love choke.”

  James’s hand landed on my shoulder, fingers biting down, his gaze equal parts concern and fear. “Let me help you out, buddy.”

  I smacked his hand away too, a sneer contorting my face. “I think I can find my own way out just fine, buddy-fucker.” With that I turned on a heel and strode down the carpet, offering the Guild my back while I flipped the whole lot of ’em the bird.

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

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  Or you can check out the first episode in my other Urban Fantasy series, MudMan—starring a dysfunctional, socially awkward, vigilante, shapeshifting golem—which takes place in the same Lazarus universe. Though Yancy Lazarus isn’t the main character, it’s still an awesome book, so pick it up here: www.Amazon.com/dp/B01BX7PT7M

  About the Author

  Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thiland. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

  Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

  Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

  Dedication

  For my beautiful wife, Jeanette. You’re my Ailia—without you, I’d probably wind up as a homeless reprobate, living out of the back of a car, and writing silly stories for gas money. Don’t laugh, we both know it’s true. With all my love.

  Special Thanks

  I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and daughter, Lucy. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Lazarus, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good: Dan Goodale, Nell Justice, Jen “Ivana” Wadsworth, eden Hudson, and Scott Hoehner. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/ ).

  —James A. Hunter, May 2016

  Copyright

  Flashback: The Morrigan is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any mean
s, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  JamesAHunter@outlook.com