Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (3 page)

No, her body was currently being worn around like a Halloween costume by the Morrigan—Irish goddess of war and badassery. In the Guild’s eyes, though, she was long gone. On principle, I’d never visited that damn plot. Felt too much like siding with the Guild highers.

A cool breeze rose up from behind, washing over my neck, rustling tree branches and fluttering leaves. I shivered.

“In some ways, your arrival is fortuitous for us, I suppose,” Jack said as we edged past the tombstone-filled field. “For too long these issues have been buried, hidden from the Guild by the Elder Council for the sake of political expediency, but now it is out in the open. People are talking and this is good, eh? A word of caution, though. If there is a traitor in our midst, they may not like you snooping around, so be on your toes. Ah, what am I saying? Of course you will be on your toes—no matter what sentence that cranky hag passed, you are Yancy Lazarus. Always on your toes.”

A squat building made of the same worn brick as the rest of the town, but with a massive dark sign reading
The Twisted Oak
in huge Old English lettering, loomed on our right. Big picture windows offered a glimpse of the cozy interior filled with a spattering of customers, some nursing drinks by the bar, a few hunched over tables, digging into world-class eats. George—a halfie, the son of a newt-faced
Alp-luachra
—was one helluva cook.

Scotch eggs. Steak and ale pie. Fish and chips. Bangers and mash. My stomach rumbled at the thought. Guess all that
being-put-on-trial-for-your-life
business can really work up an appetite.

“Here we are,” Black Jack said, dropping a broad hand onto my shoulder as we came to a halt. “Your new handler should be waiting for you in there, but this is as far as I go, I’m afraid. I’m not a great admirer of Judge Drukiski, myself, and I have far too much to do without enough hours in the day to do it all. There’s an old Swahili proverb,
‘to run is not necessarily to arrive’—
I wish the rest of the Elder Council could learn the truth in that.” He frowned, eyes once again distant.

“Anyway,” he said after a beat, “have a care, but know there are those who do support you, even if some don’t have the stones to do it openly. Good luck, boy, you’re going to need it.” He sighed, offered me a thin, tightlipped smile, then pulled open the heavy front door, ushering me through with one broad hand and a respectful dip of his head.

I nodded my goodbye in return as I stepped into the pub, the door swinging shut behind me. I loitered for a time, watching Jack through a window set into the door as he ambled back up the path we’d come from. Good guy, Jack. Once his bulky frame disappeared around a bend in the road, I turned my attention to the pub goers. There weren’t many patrons, not unusual considering how small the town was, and my guess was that my new probation officer was the big ol’ son of a bitch nursing a beer in the corner by the bar.

A hulking thug who stood at six and a half feet tall. Guy looked like his father was a silverback gorilla and his mother a cement truck—all broad shoulders, sloped head, and meaty chest. The scowl marring his flat face told me this guy was gonna be a real joy to work with—a joy in the same way a root canal is. Thugzilla threw back his head and killed his drink, something dark and tasty-looking, before slamming the glass down on the hardwood bar and raising a hand for another.

Hmm, any guy who could take a drink like that couldn’t be all bad.

I flexed my hands, took a deep breath, and jerked my head left and right, cracking my neck and stretching tight muscles. Better to just head over there and get the shitty introductions out of the way. With a nod to myself, I sauntered toward him—only to stop short a moment later when a petite hand fell on my forearm.

“Excuse me,” said the owner of the hand.

I turned and found a stout blonde, maybe 5'2" with a breezy bob cut framing a round face, smiling up at me. She wore a short-sleeved purple blouse with stylized flowers running along the bottom, professional black slacks, and practical black flats. She looked like the president of the League of Wisconsin Soccer Moms.

“It’s alright, miss,” I said, pulling my arm from her grasp, “I’m here to meet a friend.” I nodded at Hulk-mania in the corner, who was now working on another drink. “So I don’t need a table. But thanks,” I added, not wanting to seem like a complete asshole.

The woman playfully slapped at my shoulder. She was now staring at me expectantly, her head tilted to one side, her smile wider than ever, dimples blooming in her round cheeks. “Well of course you’re here to meet someone. Me, ya big goof. I’m Judge Drukiski, your new supervisor, and I’m just pleased as punch to meet you, Judge Lazarus.”

My mouth fell open, leaving me momentarily speechless—something I have little experience with. “Wait,” I finally said, “
you’re
Judge Drukiski? But I thought …” I hooked a thumb toward the musclehead at the bar.

She snorted. “Oh heavens no. That’s Roger. He works the grounds—tends to the lawn and the flowers. That kind of thing. A really sweet man, once you get past the gruff outside. I bet that’s the same with you.” She gave me another playful punch.

I immediately understood Black Jack’s dislike of Judge Drukiski. “Think I need to sit,” I muttered, my legs wobbling beneath me.

“Sure, sure,” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m right over here.” She slid her arm through mine and led—maybe
dragged
is the better word—me over to a round, dark wood table on the right. Carefully, she helped me into a seat, before swishing over to the chair adjacent to mine.

I sat there, feeling nine kinds of hungover and sick to my stomach as I eyeballed her from head to toe.

No, this couldn’t be right. Couldn’t.

She looked so, so
un
-Judge like. If I had to put an age on her—which can be tough with magi, since time doesn’t affect us the way it does Rubes—I’d say she looked early thirties, which meant she couldn’t have been more than mid-forties. Compared to me, creeping up on seventy, she was a kid. A kid who looked better suited to towing around a couple of middle schoolers in a minivan.

Dammit. This couldn’t be right.

A joke maybe?

Had to be a joke. A bad one.

“You’re Judge Drukiski. You’re my new probation officer?” I tried to keep the utter disbelief from showing on my face or from stealing into my words, but even in my own ears I could hear the doubt blast through like an obnoxious novelty car horn.

“That’s right,” she replied, folding her hands patiently, “Judge Darlene Drukiski. And let me just say what an honor it is to be working with you. The stories they still tell about you in the academy.” She smiled bashfully, face scrunching up as she shook her head. “Well, let’s just say I’m
so
excited to be assigned to your case.
So, so
excited.” She was damn near bouncing in her seat with enthusiasm.

I placed one hand on the tabletop, fingers drumming on the wood as I thought. “And you’re a field operative?” I finally asked, this time not bothering to mask my concern or outright skepticism. “Like an operative who goes into the field. Not a desk worker.”

“Well ...,” she said, a hint of red creeping into her cheeks as she trailed off. “
Technically,
yes. I’ve passed all the basic training classes—per the operational manual, section seventeen, subsection three, paragraph B through G—so I am qualified for this assignment.”

I ceased my restless tapping and carefully spread my hands out on the tabletop. “Right, so you’re qualified, but, just so we’re totally clear, you’ve never been on an
actual
assignment. Like in the field and not as part of some training project.”

She hesitated. “No, not yet,” she conceded. “But everyone has to have their first mission at some point, silly. Even you were new once. And I’m ready for this. I’ve been begging for a field assignment for ages.” She beamed with even more manic, bubbly enthusiasm. A truly sickening sight. She was like a kid preparing to go on a field trip to the zoo for the first time. But what she didn’t realize was the zoo was actually more like a jungle, one filled with wild, bloodthirsty animals juggling machine guns and chainsaws.

I offered her what I hoped was a reassuring smile—she was, after all, my new boss. A boss with the power to file a report and have me summarily executed. Inside, though, I wanted to flip the table and burn the pub to the ground. “So,” I said, “if you’ve never gone on a field assignment before, what
exactly
do you do with the Judges Office? And try to be specific here.”

“Why, I’m the assistant chief clerical supervisory agent in the Judges Office.” She swelled with pride as the title fell from her lips, then playfully slapped at my arm. “Moved to the top of my division after only six years in service.”

I groaned, slumped back in my seat, and shot an arm up into the air, signaling the bartender. “A bourbon, neat,” I called, before dropping my hand back to the table.

This was way worse than getting paired with some muscle-head enforcer with bad BO, constantly breathing down my neck while he cracked his knuckles.

A gajillion times worse.

Though most Judges in the Judges Office were
actual
operatives—investigating crimes, ferreting out bad guys, occasionally meting out Guild-sanctioned justice—there were a handful responsible for nothing but
supervising
. Glorified desk jockeys who knew the standard operations manuals inside and out, but absolutely nothing else. Judges, only in the most generous sense of the word, responsible for filing reports, organizing bar graphs, and reporting mission details to the brass above. Rule Nazis.

They’d paired me with a bureaucrat.

One so wet behind the ears, she might as well have just climbed out of the shower.

As the
assistant chief
clerk in the Judges Office, there could be no doubt that she was queen of the Rule Nazis. Well, Assistant Queen, I guess.

Obviously, the arch-mage had no choice but to let me off the hook, but this move was as obvious as a neon sign: the arch-mage was setting me up to fail. Sweet as this Judge Drukiski seemed—and she
seemed
sweet as a vanilla latte with gobs of whipped cream on top—having her in the field was a death sentence. There was no way I could possibly succeed, especially not if this lady was constantly quoting the operations manual at me every time I made a move.

“Alright,” she said cheerfully, rubbing her hands together, ignorant to my total despair, “let’s get started on these case details.” She pulled a manila envelope from an oversized purple purse and set it on the table. “So exciting,” she offered with an eye-narrowing grin. “The arch-mage fully briefed me on our mission. I have all the details you asked for right here.” She patted the folder like it was a newborn kitten. “For some reason, the arch-mage wants to limit her contact with you, so I’ll be the go-between from here on out.”

She shrugged as though to say
how strange
.

Wasn’t strange to me. I knew exactly why the arch-mage wanted to limit her contact with me: I was liable to blast her into the sun with a conjured javelin of force for being a scheming, conniving, backstabbing assbasket.

The waitress—an older gal with drooping cheeks and black hair tied back in a ponytail—dropped off my bourbon a second later. Her name was Julie, I think, and if I remembered correctly, she was a no-shit scion of Freyr the Green Man. Poor gal was in what basically amounted to witness protection after rolling over on some shiesty movers and shakers in the upper echelons of the Spring Court.

“Would you like to order anything to eat before we jump in?” Drukiski asked me as she opened the folder.

I frowned and shook my head. “Lost my appetite,” I said before taking a huge pull of my drink, which burned its way down my esophagus and landed in my belly like napalm. I grunted. At least the whiskey was good. “This shit-show isn’t gonna fix itself,” I muttered. “Let’s see what you’ve got for us.” I nodded toward the case dossier.

THREE:

Nightmares

I lay on a narrow twin bed, the mattress hard and squeaky beneath me, as I stared up at the ceiling overhead. Not exactly the Ritz, and I knew the Guild had nicer digs than this available, but apparently the arch-mage had hand-selected my temporary
accommodations.
Honest to God, the prison cell I’d been held in before my trial was only a step below this claustrophobic broom closet they called a guest room. Cold stone floors. Leaky ceiling. A roll away cot, made circa 1912, with a scratchy wool blanket.

Worse, I didn’t even have privacy.

The Guild had kindly offered me a rustic storage cupboard, and outside my door was an
actual
guestroom. Naturally, my new pal, Judge Darlene Drukiski, was snoozing there. Making sure I didn’t sneak away in the night like some gangly teenager determined to meet his equally awkward girlfriend.