Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (27 page)

I vomited a little in my mouth.

To think my physical body was literally lying in a box full of scurrying creepy crawlies. Gross, gross, gross. If I made it out of my current predicament, I was gonna burn every stitch of clothing I had on and take a bath in boiling Listerine for a week straight. Would that hurt? Oh hell yeah. But the only other option was to literally flay my skin off.

I caught a glimmer of the bright lights of Bourbon Street off in the distance and let out a sad sigh.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be in the real Big Easy right now, taking a few long slugs from a beer or throwing back a couple of shots while I gnawed on a plate of barbeque-slathered ribs. My stomach gurgled. Shit, it’d been ages since I’d had a proper meal and right now I’d kill someone outright for something hot, greasy, and slathered in barbeque sauce. Yep, all I wanted was a plate of ribs, a cold beer, some dirty blues music, and a friggin’ cigarette.

Was that really too much to hope for in life?

It’s not like I was asking for the crown jewels or world peace. There were a hundred dives in New Orleans that could serve up my heart’s fondest desire for a crumpled twenty.

But no. Not me. Not Yancy-Stupid-Ass-Lazarus. Nope.

I had to save the friggin’ world because I was a gullible, bleeding-heart mook who couldn’t say no and couldn’t seem to leave well enough alone.
Dammit
. If I
didn’t
save the world that would also mean the end to Southern-style barbeque, and that was a travesty I couldn’t possibly tolerate. An evil too unthinkable to consider. Was a world without tangy ribs, fall-apart brisket, and frosty beer even worth living in? The answer to that was a resounding no, so I had to stay the course and make sure the Big Easy wasn’t blown away in a supernatural holocaust.

With a muttered growl I turned toward the dome, searching for that asshole Cassius. The breath caught in my throat as I got my first good view of Azazel’s prison.

Holy shit-balls.

It’d only been a day since I’d last done my rounds, and things had changed a whole helluva lot around these parts. Not in a good way.

The brass and silver placards dotting the outer fence, protecting the structure with their potent containment wards, were now tarnished, the metal pitted and corroded. The glimmering sigils were still intact for the time being, but even a cursory glance told me they wouldn’t hold for much longer. The guard towers, likewise, still stood, but were in a sad, shabby state of disrepair. Their beaming spotlights were dim and foggy, the glass cracked or broken. The stone, brick, and concrete were also crumbling as the swamp surrounding us encroached, slowly reclaiming the structures.

The prison itself, which had once resembled a steel golf ball protruding from the ground, was in even worse shape. Only a handful of the neon-green containment sigils remained visible—those were faded, dull—and there were now more rocky protrusions than metal siding. The whole thing resembled a giant, ferocious stone porcupine with volcanic quills stabbing up in every direction. The ginormous bank-vault door—the only way in or out—stood, but even it had a huge, jagged fissure running down its front like a fresh scar.

Holy. Shit. Balls.

I cupped one hand around my mouth. “Cassius?!” I called out, voice carrying only a handful of yards before the swamp ate the sound entirely. “Where in the hell are you?” I shouted again. There was no response.

What the hell had happened here?

How had Azazel managed to wreak such havoc in such a short span of time?

That thought died before it’d even gotten its ass in gear. I’d done this. Me.

Maybe I hadn’t done it on purpose, but I’d certainly made it possible. Allowed it to happen. Although I didn’t have to appeal to the Loa for access to the Nox like Pierre-Francois or, presumably, Pa Beauvoir, that power still came from somewhere. It came from friggin’ Azazel, and the more I tapped into it, the more it weakened his prison. And I’d used an aircraft carrier worth of the noxious substance since waking up to find that Gwyllgi preparing to maul my ass.

And I couldn’t possibly forget my colossal battle against the zombie army. I’d drawn far more Nox than ever before, and the wreckage around my brainscape had to be the result. Had to be. Shit. What if that asshole Azazel had managed to break free? What if he’d done something to Cassius?

No. I shook my head. If he was free, I wouldn’t be the one in the driver’s seat—that demon dickfart would’ve staged a coup in the time it took to order a cup of joe at Starbucks. No doubt about it.

“Cassius Aquinas, Undine of
Glimmer-Tir
,” I intoned, using the full weight of his name as a summoning. “I call you forth, I call you forth, I call you forth—thrice have I called you so, and so bound you are to come.”

I waited, a nervous tremor running down my back. An unnatural wind moaned around me, rustling the stagnant swamp water, whipping through my hair. A few insects chirped contentedly, but there was no sound from Cassius. No wisecracking smart-assery. No smiling blue-tinged bro-hole bearing me a glass of excellent and endless bourbon—

A creaky
squeak
broke through the quiet, the sound of a rusted metal door swiveling open on equally rusted hinges—

It was the metal viewing window, the one inset into the huge door guarding Azazel’s cozy abode. It was slowly, steadily swinging outward, propelled by some invisible hand. The window came to an abrupt stop, revealing a black hole that reminded me of a giant eye. An empty demon eye, accusing me.
You did this. Behold your handiwork.
In the same moment, the wind died and the insects ceased their incessant buzzing and chirping, leaving the swamp as motionless and silent as a graveyard at midnight.

No maniacal cackling followed, no noise of any kind, but that open window was as good as an invitation, beckoning me.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. Then, because I couldn’t afford to waste any time, I moved. I waved my hand, and the retractable portion of the outer fence began to retreat, the motor grinding and whining in an unhealthy way, a small plume of black smoke trickling up from the gearbox on the left. With a sharp
bang
the motor gave up the ghost for good, the fence dying in its tracks, only a quarter of the way open. Whatever. A blown engine was the least of my problems right now, and the gate had retracted enough to admit me. If barely.

I turned sideways and shimmied through, careful to avoid getting tangled in a string of rusted C-wire, then deliberately ambled up to the viewing window. After a few deep calming breaths, I peeked in, but was met by deepest black, completely unbroken.

“Cassius,” I called into the hole, my voice ringing and echoing off the stone and metal within the dome. “You in there, buddy?”

Nothing.

“Azazel?” I asked, hesitant, nervous.

Nothing.

“Come on, you great big bag of cat turds, I know you’re in there. What the hell have you done to Cassius?”

More nothing.

I lingered a moment longer, absently drumming my fingers against the steel door,
tat-tat-tat-tat
. “Look, asswipe, I’m in a pretty bad spot right now, so if you’re in there and you’re looking to negotiate, now’s your chance. But you’d better speak up now, or I’m gonna let you rot in there until I’m old, gray, and zipping around town on a friggin’ Rascal. You hear me?” That last question rang out like a struck gong.

“And why would I want to negotiate?” the demon’s voice came, harsh and guttural. “I have subdued your guardian, the one you call Cassius, and soon this shoddy prison will crack and break like an egg, birthing me into your brain. Then, I will have only you to oppose me—you who, knowing the risks of tapping into my power, do not possess the self-control to stop yourself. So, I ask again, why would I gamble when I already have all the chips? When my victory is all but secure?”

He fell silent, his words, his accusations—truer than I’d care to admit—weighing on me.

I cleared my throat, then shifted my weight from foot to foot.

“You’re wrong about your imminent victory,” I finally said. “Given, you might have the upper hand at the moment, but you haven’t won the pot, bub. I’m not sure how much of the action you’ve been paying attention to, what with all your effort to redecorate the place, but right now I’m neck deep in a pile of horse shit. A pile of horse shit located on a riverbank next to a pack of crocodiles. Man-eating, saltwater crocs with shotguns and human sentience. Which is about as bad as it gets,
comprende
? And, as much as you might not like it, your fate is tied to mine.”

“If you perish,” the demon replied evenly, “I will move on.”

“Yeah, but who knows what your next host is gonna be like. And besides, I know you’re obligated in some way to preserve my life, since I’m the Seal Bearer.”

More silence met my ears, but this quiet seemed to be a confirmation of sorts.

“Looking around,” I said after a beat, “I can see you’re not far from breaching my defenses, but I don’t think you’re gonna get free before that douchebag Beauvoir lays into me. If he’s anything like I remember, he’s gonna torture me for a while, then he’s gonna kill me. Or he might turn me into a living zombie. I can’t imagine either of those options are going to make things easy for you. So let’s talk. Compromise. That way we both kinda get what we want, instead of neither of us getting jack-shit.”

“You would let yourself die to spite me?” Azazel asked, more of a cold, calculating statement of fact than a question.

“Damn straight,” I replied. “I’m a real pain in the ass that way. If you need references you can ask anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. But it’s not like I have a death wish, so it doesn’t have to go down that way. Not if you’re willing to deal.”

More silence, yawning and telling. He was thinking. Scheming.

I waited, tapping a foot impatiently, and just as I was preparing to turn and leave, a light blossomed in the depths of the cell, a pulse of purple which quickly gave way to a soft caramel glow. I’d been expecting Azazel to be lounging against the far wall like the last time I’d seen him, but instead his ass-ugly face—blistered skin, deep violet eyes, cruel mouth—loomed a few feet away from the window.

“With your guardian gone, who do you think summoned you to this place?” he asked with a hungry, uneven smile revealing far too many razor-sharp teeth. Guy needed to get to an orthodontist, stat. “You are a valuable asset to me, and I wouldn’t see you dead when I am so close to victory. I summoned you here to lend you a small measure of aid”—he paused—“but I wanted to see you beg first.”

I had an involuntary urge, deep and visceral, to scoot back a few steps—okay, more like a few
hundred
steps—but instead I held my ground, meeting his hard, inhuman gaze, refusing to flinch. Unwilling to show fear. I crossed my arms and sniffed. “First, I’m not begging, dickcheese, I’m compromising, and second, I want to know what in the hell you did with Cassius before we go any further. I swear to God”—the demon recoiled a hair at the word—“if you hurt him, I’m gonna make it my purpose in life to repay you in kind. Doesn’t even matter what it’ll cost me. You don’t screw around with my family, and Cassius is family.”

“Calm yourself, mortal fool. First, there is no need to involve Him.” The demon pointed heavenward with one black-clawed finger, a scowl of distaste on his hideous face. “This business is between us. No room for the White King. Second, as to your water-spirit, Cassius, he lives. For now.” He repositioned himself, then swept one arm toward the rear of the room.

With Azazel out of the way, I saw my blue-skinned counterpart: he was still wearing his riot gear, but he’d been bound in thick chains, wrapped snuggly around his arms, chest, and legs. His hands appeared to be secured behind him and a steel plate, inscribed with some kind of demonic rune, had been screwed on over his mouth, rendering him mute.

Cassius didn’t look scared, so much as he looked supremely pissed.

I let out an involuntary sigh of relief. Most days, that guy was a world-class asshole, but I’d been hauling him around in my head for damn near as long as I could remember, and it would kill me if anything happened to him, and not just in some abstract, sentimental sense. It might
literally
kill me if something happened to the Undine, since he was an actual part of me—the living incarnation of my subconscious mind.

“I discovered him making emergency repairs,” the demon said by way of explanation. He moved his bulk forward, once more blocking Cassius from view.

“Let him go,” I demanded, brow furrowed, eyes narrowing, mouth turning into an angry scowl.

The beast considered this for a time, then frowned and shook his head, great horns
swishing
through the air. “No. But you have my word, for what little it’s worth, that I won’t harm him. He is an inferior being, but one who represents power and leverage. So, for now, he survives.”

I curled my fist, drawing in the strange power of this place—the power of thought and imagination—getting ready to lash out in retaliation, to show this abomination who the friggin’ boss around these parts was. Then I was doubled over, my body flickering and fading as pain, a terrible agony bleeding through from my waking body, threatened to yank me away.