Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (22 page)

“Yeah but … but you …” Well shit. He was right. Damn an ass whupping and an ethics lesson from Harold. Man was I off my game. “Fine … I guess you’re right. Stupid, asshole …
tried to eat me …” I let the earthen bonds dissipate. “Sorry, I broke into your house and menaced you, Harold,” I said, tracing my foot through the sand like a five-year-old who’d broken a window after being told not to throw the ball inside. “That was kind of a dick move I guess.”

He ponderously made his way upright, breathing hard the whole while. The guy needed to see a doctor, he was scary-out-of-shape with all that huffing and puffing.

“Well, I did try to eat you last time, so maybe your response was not wholly unwarranted. I accept your apology—we can call it even.” He said, grumpy but mollified. He carefully brushed rock dust from his chest and arms, the movement dainty, considering his girth.

“Yeah okay, even” I responded.

“So what drags you all the way into my neck of the woods,” he said eventually, “so far as I remember, you’ve never been a fan of the Hub.”

“You can say that again—every time I come here something terrible happens. Every. Single. Time. I just got my ass handed to me by Harold the friggin’ Mange.”

He shed a wicked grin. “You know I have surveillance equipment recording around the clock. I think our little tussle will definitely go into the archives.”

I moved my hand toward the butt of my revolver, and frowned. “Don’t push your luck ass-bag.”

“Of course, no need to be hasty. We can be friends—I assume you’re here after some information, or maybe a specialty item?”

“Got it in one. I need to find out about Arjun Dhaliwal. You know him?”

Harold snorted and shuffled over to a series of large silver file cabinets built into the cavern wall. “Do I know Arjun? Of course I know Arjun—I keep rough tabs on every mover and shaker in the game.” He fished a large metal key out from between several rolls of fat and unceremoniously opened one of the cabinets, rifling quickly through a set of folders within. “I’ve had my eye on him lately. Word around here is that he’s brewing up some serious trouble—there’s even talk that Vritra
is stirring.”

Well crap. Vritra was an ancient, demonic, hard case. A Hindu deity, responsible for drought, famine, death, and a whole slew of other craptastic things. Vritra had been in the clink for a long, long time and for very good reasons.

“Yeah,” I said, “well I can’t speak to that, but Arjun and I have a dispute that needs settling—what’s your price for the info?”

“The info I’ll give you for free … let’s call it a peace offering. Plus, Arjun’s a real prick—one of those holier-than-thou types. Always going on about karma and moksha. We’ll call this one a freebie, an act of good karma …” He smiled, the grin downright devilish, “but that’s not all you need.” He pulled out a brown folder, faded around the edges, wrapped about the middle with a piece of twine. He scuttled toward me with the folder extended. “You don’t just need the info, you need a Way.” He thumbed his nose and blinked at me conspiratorially. “The info is free, but the Way will cost you.”

“Hold on now.” I snatched the folder before he could consider taking it back. “Thought we were on good working terms again—you’re going to gouge me here?”

“Its business, nothing personal.” He began dry washing his hands again, a shiesty used car salesman coming in for the kill. He knew I was going to bite, and I knew I was going to get a lemon on this deal.

“First,” he continued, “I want my door fixed. I want new defensive wards—and good ones—installed, both on my exterior and interior door. And I want one unlimited redeemable favor, good at any time, for any situation.”

I laughed, a raspy, wheezy thing I knew would grind his gears. Harold hates being laughed at. Who doesn’t?
But
he had asked me for the equivalent of a blank check, which was
a ludicrous, laugh-out-loud funny demand.

“Now the door isn’t a problem,” I said, pretending to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, “it’ll take some time, but I can get it done. A blank check favor, though? Not gonna happen, amigo. I’ll give you one reasonable favor and I get to decide which job it’ll be.”

“Define reasonable.”

“I’m not going to go kill someone and I won’t play your thug,” I said. “Everything else … ” I shrugged. “You make a request and we’ll talk.” I could see the wheels spinning in his head, his eyes had the light of speculation and cunning contemplation, which made me more than a little uncomfortable. Harold isn’t tough in the traditional sense of the word, but he’s crafty as a fox-in-chicken-drag, which is often more dangerous than brute strength alone. This deal would come back to get me sooner or later.

“Redeemable at any time?” he asked again.

“Yeah—but I get to decide whether the job is reasonable.”

“Fine.” He licked his lips, savoring the word. “You need only give me the specifications for the Way and I will build it to order—from one location to another, mind, and I will need a few hours notice. These things do take a little time. I will, of course, make it to specification, but I would like to cash in my favor now.”

“Funny Harold,” I said, “But I’ve got shit to do, so stop joking.”

“Not a joke,” he said again, dry washing his hands some more and giving a slightly apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “You said I could redeem the favor at any time and if you want me to build your Way, you’re going to have to abide by the terms of the deal.”

Ugh. My life. I knew this bargain was going to get me, but I hadn’t thought it would be
this
soon.

“Really Yancy, I literally cannot do what you want if you don’t help me—it’s in your best interest.”

“What’s the favor?” I grumbled.

“Please follow me. I’ll give you a brief on the way down to The Pit.”

“The Pit? Seriously?” I asked. “Not exactly filling me with overwhelming confidence here.”

He smiled and scuttled toward the back of his cavernous stony cave.

TWENTY-THREE:

Down the Rabbit Hole

The back of the cave tapered into a narrow tunnel, which hardly seemed big enough to accommodate Harold’s bulk. The guy was surprisingly agile, however, and he moved through the darken passage without thought, a spider patrolling his web with easy, familiar, movements. The surface of the rock walls were smooth, almost polished, bored out as though by the passing of a river. I knew better though—Harold can secrete a caustic saliva that’ll eat away rock or flesh with equal ease. He’d nearly slathered me with the damn stuff during our last encounter, the one where he had tried to cocoon and eat me.

“Making me nervous, Harold. This feels suspiciously like a trap—my trigger finger’s getting a little itchy. I’d hate to break our fresh new partnership so early on.”

“No worries, good chap,” he said, which did absolutely zero to ease my worries. “Trust me, I have no intention of seeing you harmed. At least not at my hands.” He chuckled as though making a grand joke. “Your break-in was fortuitous for me. Just a little further, now—I’ll show you.”

The path wandered for another five minutes, ambling left and right in a series of gradual and unpredictable switchbacks.

“You made this place right?” I asked, trying to fill up the unbearable quiet, broken only with the clicking metal of his spidery appendages.

“Yes, yes,” he said absently. “It is my home, my creation, my love.”

That wasn’t creepy or anything. After a moment: “Why in the hell didn’t you make it go in a straight line? What’ve you got against an economical floor plan?”

“This place is built in the Ether …”

“Yeah, I know. That’s my point—the Ether’s just like a bunch of empty black space—perfect for straight lines.”

“No, no. The Ether may seem to be empty, but it is not, as you shall soon see. No, the Ether is home to a myriad of things and there are all the other worlds to consider, each one unique, with its own atmospheric imprint upon the Ether.”

“Fascinating, Professor Science,” I said. “How about you get to the part where you answer my question?”

“Right, right,” he sputtered. “Well, you cannot simply traverse through the Ether linearly—there are unseen currents which must be accommodated for: fluctuations, quantum-foam, drifting dark-matter clouds … also, this twisting hallway’s loaded to the gills with traps of all shapes and sizes. A whole mile worth of them, each pulled from the deadliest regions of Outworld—no one will get to my hoard.” He cackled, more than just a little bit mad.

Yikes, a mile worth of booby-traps. I guess Harold might also be a teensy bit more dangerous than I gave him credit for. Check, don’t try to raid Harold’s booty.
Ewww
. Harold’s booty—there was an unfortunate word pairing sure to haunt my dreams for decades.

“So if you’re all bunkered down for eventual Armageddon, what could you need from me?” I asked.

“Here we are,” he said as we turned a final corner which let out into a cavern, about the size of a large warehouse, housing rows and rows of metal shelving. The shelving units, in turn, housed clear plastic Rubbermaid tubs of artifacts. Strange and ancient stone carvings next to turn of the century brass antiques. There were also weapons of every shape and size—maces and swords, AT-4 rocket launchers and apace-age looking laser guns and doodads. Damn, his collection was more expansive than I ever would’ve wagered. I didn’t know what it all did, but a bunch of the stuff was probably dangerous as hell.

Cool. Harold went up a notch in my book.

We walked down the central walk for a moment or two, me staring around like a slack-jawed country-bumpkin. I have to admit, I’ve seen a lot in my days, so it’s hard to offer me something completely new, but Harold’s massive treasury—or maybe armory—had done the trick.

In the center of the room sat what could only be The Pit: a giant hole, thirty-feet across, recessed into the floor a good five feet, and covered with a massive steel door which looked like it belonged on a friggin’ space shuttle. A guardrail encircled the thing, interrupted only by a single set of wide metal stairs, leading down to the gargantuan, space-age, manhole cover.

I had no idea what it was or what it did, but I was immediately certain I was going to hate it when I found out.

“This,” Harold said as he gestured grandly at The Pit with both flabby arms, “is The Pit.”

“Gee,” I said, “and here I was thinking it was your indoor swimming pool.”

“Barbarian,” he said. “This is the machine which allows me to manufacture Ways—it is a permanent and malleable rift, which someone with the right ability can manipulate to create ripples in the Ether. Ways.”

“Amazing,” I said, voice as flat as the Nebraska plans. “Can we get to the part where you ask me to do something wildly reckless and insanely dangerous? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Dammit, man! I so rarely have visitors down this way—can’t you indulge me in a bit of the theatric? I mean really, is it so much to ask for you to play your part here?”

“
Jeez
.” I rolled my eyes. “Fine … wow, Harold,” I said in mock wonderment, “The Pit you say? Amazingggggg. Please tell me more … I’m
soooo
interested—oh, oh, when are we going to get to the part where you ask me to do something wildly reckless and insanely dangerous? Can we get to that part? Please, please?”

“Fine. If you’re going to be such a poor sport about it. I have inadvertently attracted the attention of a Dara-Naric—it’s lurking on the other side of the door. After I pop the safety hatch, I’m going to need you to go into the rift and scare it off.”

“Dara-what-ic?” I asked. “And hey, I already told you I wasn’t going to play hit man for you.”

He laughed at me, a great long heaving thing which did nothing to improve my general mood. Getting laughed at really does hurt. Stupid karma.

“Good God!” He said in between gales of mirth. “You can’t kill a Dara-Naric! They’re eldritch beings that dwell in the depths of the Ether. They’re a terrible rarity, really. I, who travel the Ways daily, have seen their ilk only a handful of times. Each is completely unique and, to my expansive knowledge, indestructible … honestly, I was rather unfortunate in attracting this one on my last outing.”

“And I can’t kill it?”

More laughter.

“No, no you can’t kill it. Perish the thought! You’ll be lucky to survive it.”

“Come again?”

“You be lucky to survive it,” he said, speaking slowly, enunciating each word carefully—a grown up speaking down to a child.

“Well than why would I go in there? This seems like a terrible idea.”

“Oh, it is a terrible idea,” he agreed, bobbing his enormous head energetically. “But if you want me to make you a Way to Arjun, I need access to my Pit.”

Well shit.

“So how do I get rid of it—err, scare it off I guess.”

“
Well
…” he said, drawing out the word in a way that told me he didn’t have a clue. “There’s not a lot to go off, mind—Dara-Narics are rare and few people who encounter them live to tell the tale. But I have gleaned that they detest fire or maybe light—being creatures of the darkest depths—and that they also hate music.”