Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (5 page)

I’ve studied damned near every arcane text on the market—the
Liber Juatus
, the
Sefer Raziel Ha-Malakh Liber Razielis Archangeli
, the
Picatrix
, the
Book of Abra-Melin the Mage
, the
Clavis Salomonis
—but none of those glyphs made sense to me. Except for the one glowing on his forehead: A strange diamond, slashed through its center with a jagged line. That one, at least, I knew.

Azazel’s demonic sigil.

These days, when I looked in the mirror, I’d occasionally see the ghostly outline of that mark burning on my own forehead.

Azazel stared at me with purple eyes set into a flat, disfigured face—his mouth a cruel gash filled with ripping teeth. Huge curling horns jutted from his brow, bobbing up and down as he absently nodded his head like he was listening to some unheard song. His feet—black hooves, attached to double-jointed knees—stretched out before him as though he were relaxing at the beach instead of stuck in some dank cell, locked in the back of my mind.

“The curious ones never make it long.” He grunted and casually held up one hand, examining the obsidian talons tipping each finger.

“Aren’t you supposed to seduce me or something?” I asked. “I thought demons were supposed to trick you into giving up control.”

“Some,” he replied with an indifferent shrug, “but not me. Vetis or Asmodeus, maybe. Balban, Mammon, Naamah—all tempters in their own right.” He shook his head, horns
whooshing
through the air. “But not me.” He looked away from me, up toward the ceiling as though there were answers contained in the dark. “You mortals assume demons are the same, but, in our way, we are as different as one human from another. Some idealists. Others greedy. Greedy for power or sex or money. A few noble. Good even.”

A hush fell over the air, profound and heavy. It was a silence that pleaded to be broken, pleaded for me to ask a question.
And you? What kind of demon are you?

I didn’t want to, but that quiet seemed almost alive, and before I could stop myself the question came rolling off my tongue.

Azazel refocused his gaze on me, a harsh and hungry smile breaking across his face as though he had expected nothing else. His wings, previously folded behind his back, shot out to either side. Scaly things of gristle and sinew; reptilian appendages without a feather in sight. “I,” he said, his voice a growl, “am a conqueror. Lord of war, of chaos, of hate and rage. I live inside every heart”—he thrust out a finger toward me—“yours most of all. I need not seduce you, because I am you and you are me.

“This place”—he swept out his arm, gesturing toward the prison—“cannot contain me. Every time the fire of hate kindles in your belly, every time you use your power in rage, I am there. I am Lord of Dark Magicks and already you draw on me without noticing. The
Nox
already burns in you. It is only a matter of time before these walls break and then I will reign. Only a matter of time.” His lips pulled up in a snarl and then he was moving. A blur of wings and legs and claws, flashing across the prison before I could even think about responding.

“Now, though,” he said, “it is time to wake. Danger comes and we can’t have you dying before I’m done with you.” A brilliant blast of purple light filled my eyes as his hand shot through the boxy window in the door. Pain erupted in my head as one of his long talons flicked across my forehead, biting into the skin like a razor blade.

Then I was falling, hand groping at my face while I tumbled through the dark, fingers tracing out the crude symbol on my head.

A diamond, slashed through its center with a jagged line.

“You belong to me …” The words, an echoing quake, chased me into the black.

FOUR:

Shadow Wargs

I blinked bleary eyes open as my hand flew to my forehead, shaky fingers urgently brushing over the skin, now wet and sticky.
Sweat maybe?
I pushed myself up onto my elbows and regarded my fingers, slick and wet. Even in the weak moonlight, shining in through a tiny window on the far wall, I could see the red stain coating the tips. But the skin beneath was unbroken, Azazel’s demonic sigil disappeared back into my imagination. I took a few deep, calming breaths, trying to slow the terrible thudding in my chest, my heart pounding against my rib cage as I stared at the blood.

Definitely more than a dream.

Cassius had been right—talking to that asswad demon had been a mistake. One I wouldn’t make again.

I sighed and flopped back down, my breathing leveling out, the slight tremble in my hands fading away. More than a dream, but over now. Still, the demonic fiend’s final words played over and over in my mind—a track stuck on repeat.
“Danger comes … Danger comes … Danger comes …”

The hell was that supposed to mean?

I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter now. Probably just some friggin’ head game, designed to drag me back to his cell for more answers. Screw that jazz. He could rot in that damn hole until the world imploded or mankind was finally eradicated by an army of tyrannical, laser-wielding monkeys riding cyborg dinosaurs. Or whatever. Though personally, I’ve got my money on the crazy monkey-dinosaur apocalypse thing.

I took a deep breath and rolled onto my side, determined not to let that bastard cost me another wink of sleep. Rest is a precious thing and when the shit hits the fan, being at your best can be the difference between spinning along for another day on this merry mudball we call Earth and having your corpse force-fed into a wood chipper. Never much been a fan of wood chippers, myself. I wriggled my head deeper into the lumpy pillow, trying to get comfortable.

I stopped wiggling when I saw the eyes staring at me from a pocket of deep shadow in the corner of my room.

Electric-blue pinpricks of light, sitting above a compact lupine muzzle.

Well shit. That couldn’t be good.

I wore a pair of boxers and an undershirt, but nothing else. Thankfully, I believe paranoia is a valuable survival skill, so I did have my monster killing pistol tucked under my pillow. With an effort of will I forced my eyes shut—didn’t want to tip my hand prematurely—while slowly inching my palm toward the pistol grip. It only took a few heartbeats, but those heartbeats seemed to stretch and drag on forever.

And having my eyes closed made every terrible moment worse. I could easily imagine the thing from the shadows creeping toward me, jaws widening, claws flexing, preparing to rip my face off and turn my skin into a set of beer cozies.

I shoved away the fear and worry burrowing into my gut as my hand slid around the cool pistol grip—those emotions were luxuries I couldn’t afford. Not now. Now, I needed focus and a clear head. Simultaneously, I fought my way free from the haze of sleep still lingering in my head as I opened myself to the Vis, tapping into the deep and violent ocean of power undergirding Creation. I exhaled weariness and unease through my nose and inhaled life and power and crushing strength.

When I flicked my eyes open a second later I found the creature only a handful of feet away from me, its wolf-like body padding closer one stealthy step at a time. Pitch-black skin the texture of wet tar covered ropy muscle and sinew. Flickering shadow—emitting a faint, spectral blue light—rose from its body like steam, wavering and dancing. A mane of coarse ebony hair bordered its ass-ugly face and it moved with the deliberate pace of a lion stalking some lesser prey.

Now that it had fully emerged from the pool of inky black shadow, I knew exactly what I was dealing with: A Gwyllgi. A demonic, shade-walking doom-warg, native to the British Isles, who had a lot of unfortunate abilities—like walking through walls, for example. A large pack called Moorchester home, constantly roaming the premises. Always watching from within the shadows where they made their dens. Hiding. Stalking. Preying. Invisible until they burst from the murk and ripped your friggin’ throat out.

Except, these things were supposed to be the good guys, the hidden sentries working for team magi. If this shadowy death hound was stalking me, however, something had gone terribly, terribly wrong—like pretty much everything else in my entire life. My best guess was someone within the Guild didn’t like having me back in the fold and had circumvented the good ol’ justice system by, well … you know, releasing the hounds, which is a phrase you never, ever want to hear.

“Bad dog,” I whispered as I cocked my head away from the pillow and squeezed the trigger of my hand cannon a trio of times, the
clack-clack-clack
not much louder than a string of popping
Black Cats
. My pistol was a specialty item: .44 Magnum, dark hammer-forged steel, six-inch barrel, etched with runes and mystic symbols swirling and twisting with artful flourishes. Almost no recoil on that bad boy, and, thankfully, it had the Vis-equivalent of a suppressor, so it didn’t blow out my eardrum, which was a huge bonus.

The pillow exploded in a cloud of white fluff and the encroaching wolf staggered, swaying left, then right, as the rounds pounded into black-tar skin. Huge softball-sized holes of ass-kickery bloomed like flowers in its chest and trunk. Still, though, the hound somehow stayed on its feet. Well, its
paws
, if you want to get technical.

I swallowed, a deep gulp, then sighed as I watched writhing tendrils of shadow crawl over the wounds, leaving unmarred flesh behind. Sometimes life is so incredibly, ridiculously unfair. The beast leaned its head to the side, dark lips pulling back from a monstrous set of ebony fangs, which looked better suited to a friggin’ crocodile than a dog—

Worse, another pair of electric-blue eyes now coldly regarded me from the dark, a deep rumbling growl building in the air.

“Shit,” I said as the first hound threw itself forward, gliding toward me like a linebacker coming in for the sack. Assuming, of course, that linebackers could walk through shadow and take your head off with the cruel efficiency of a buzz saw.

I rolled right, pistol clenched in one fist, and dropped from the bed and onto the floor with a
thud
just as the Gwyllgi smashed into the mattress. I thrust out my left hand, palm up: a silver javelin of force—thin veins of purple staining the construct—burst free, slamming into the hound’s furry underside. The battering ram of Vis drove the beast high into the air, smashing it broadside into a wooden rafter with backbreaking force.

A thunderclap of cracking lumber reverberated through the room as dust and grime swirled and twirled, raining to the floor. Then—because what goes up generally comes down—the bastard dog fell straight toward me. A couple hundred pounds of bulky hound plummeting like a stone.

A polite knock caught my ear. “Mage Lazarus?” came Judge Drukiski’s voice, muffled by the thick wooden door between us. “Hate to be nosey, but it sounds like things are … Well, not okay in there. Can I come in?”

“Not a good time,” I yelled while rolling away from the bed, away from the tumbling Gwyllgi, and right into the meaty paws of the second hound. “Busy. Give me five minutes!” I shouted.

The second shadow-warg—let’s call him Fido—now towering over me, struck like a pit viper, and it was all I could do to get my arm up before the creature ripped my throat out. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sporting my badass slash-resistant jacket, which meant
zero
protection for my vulnerable forearm. Teeth sunk deep into my flesh; an army of jagged knives sliced through tender skin and into the muscle below.

A lightning strike of pain burst from the wound, riding through my body like a rodeo clown impaled on the horns of a rampaging bull, momentarily making thought impossible. Some deep part of me knew I needed to do something,
anything
, but trying to hold onto a thought was like trying to put out a forest fire with my bare hands: impossible and horrendously painful.

“Please stand away from the door, Mage Lazarus, I’m coming in,” came a polite, but firm, reply. The door handle rattled as she wiggled the key into the lock and tried to work the thing open. Lady would only get in the way, maybe even get herself killed, but I was in no position to worry about her untimely intervention. Right now, I needed to worry about surviving the next thirty seconds.

Any thought of the worthless Judge fled as the asshole Fido began shaking its massive head back and forth, jaws crunching down, threatening to break the bone or tear my arm off at the elbow. Adrenaline and survival instinct kicked in; muscle memory, built from a thousand fights, co-opted the controls, pushing the sheer agony to the back of my mind and lending me renewed focus. Muscle memory wasn’t the only thing to rear its head, though. Something else, red and hungry, burbled up like a geyser: anger.

Blood boiling, mind-numbing, skull-shattering rage.