Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (27 page)

On the other side of the razor wire barrier was a not-so-small army of heavily armed men—maybe fifty, all told—from both Morse’s and Yraeta’s crews. The men, and a spattering of women too, were arrayed behind fortified sandbags and black iron monstrosities called Czech Hedgehogs,
which looked like a giant set of jacks. The whole scene could’ve been ripped straight out of a World War II beach invasion flick. Only with more leather and tattoos. Kind of the biker meets mobster version of D-Day.

Now, when I say the goons were heavily armed, I feel like that doesn’t quite
do it justice. There were five different Ma-Duce—colossal .50 caliber, Browning machine guns for all you non-initiates—firing positions scattered around the room, including two built on elevated metal platforms in the rear of the room. There were twice as many 240G hidey-holes, plus everybody and their leather-clad brother seemed to be toting an Uzi, M-4, or AK.

To top it all off, the smaller caliber rounds had been treated with Fipronil—the potent pesticide Greg and I used during our last run in with the Rakshasa.

This much firepower was a daunting, terrifying thing even if it wasn’t currently aimed at me. If you’ve never seen the damage a Ma-Duce can do, just imagine demolished buildings, fiery helicopters crashes, or any movie ever directed by Michel Bay.

These are the weapons used to topple friggin’ governments. Even Rakshasa didn’t stand a chance against firepower like this. Unfortunately, that also meant the building walls wouldn’t fare much better. I’d pressured Yraeta into having some eight-inch steel-plate welded to the building’s preexisting interior walls—I didn’t want to see one of those fifty-cal rounds punching through the concrete and into a RTD bus full of retirees.

One of the most important weapon rules is to not only know your target, but also what lies behind your target.

Thankfully, the steel walls would contain most of the destruction. If, on the off chance a round did get loose, this section of town was mostly industrial and Yraeta owned the whole block—storage and shipping for drugs and weapons—including the handful of cops responsible for patrolling the area. Each one in his pocket. We wouldn’t have a lick of trouble from the authorities despite the fact that we were about to kick off the Gunageddon.

I scuttled with Greg all the way to the far wall, hooked right past a small open spot in the razor wire, and headed along a narrow walkway leading to the back. We’d covered about half the distance when the Rakshasa burst in through the front door en masse, the whole lot of them mad as a pack of pit bulls with rabies. The cacophony of gunfire resounding off the steel interior was literally
deafening, at least for a moment. I quickly wove a small construct of super dense air for Greg and I—basically a set of ear buds, though that didn’t do a damn thing for the ringing already in my ears.

I had places to be, but I couldn’t resist the impulse to stop and watch retribution in action, even if only for a minute. I mean seriously, how often do you get an opportunity to see a pack of legendary Indian monsters get all exploded-like by a bunch of Rube goons wielding fifty-cals?

Rounds the size of small Bratwursts collided into flabby gray skin with terrible power—huge pieces of meat soared through the air. The fifty-cal’s and 240s were like Great Whites rending muscle and bone in great ferocious bites. The smaller caliber guns let loose in the staccato rhythm of measured fire, adding their damage like a school of piranhas swimming amongst their sharky brethren.

The first few Rakshasa to enter collapsed to the floor under the sheer weight of the lead poured into their flesh. Blood and gore stained the concrete in shades of inky black and crimson red. One Rakshasa bound high into the air—desperate for escape—leaping the razor wire, only to take a belly full of 240 rounds. It spiraled down onto one of the black Hedgehogs below, crashing like a meteor, impaled through the chest upon one of the protruding metal barbs.

Like watching a giant wood chipper in action: relentless, bloody, with nothing larger than a quarter left intact.

I wanted to celebrate but didn’t—that would be for later, if I survived what was to come.

I got moving again, now only shuffling along toward a small door set in the corner of the back wall, starting to feel the fatigue, even through the buffer of Vis surrounding me.

The room behind was the warehouse proper: tables, ladders and shelving—filled with an assortment of crates and boxes—lined the walls. Harsh fluorescent lighting flooded the space, illuminating ten more men, each decked out in black leather or Kevlar, each carrying sleek, matte-black, weapons. These guys were the last line of defense, meant to protect me should the Rakshasa somehow manage to force their way through.

Morse and H & R Block were among them, as well as McGoon—the thug in the nice suit, who’d first approached me in Nick’s Smoke House back in the Big Easy. Man did that feel like a lifetime ago. I was actually glad I’d decided not to kill him way back when—he looked dangerous as hell, all decked out in black BDU’s with a whole friggin’ armory strapped about his person.

Morse noticed Greg slung over my shoulder and hurried across the room, helping me lower him onto the floor.

“What happened?” He pulled a hanky from his back pocket and carefully pressed it onto the jagged wound across Greg’s scalp.

“Shit-eating things rolled us just past the Manchester exit—I don’t know how they got around us like that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” H & R said in precise clipped tones, “it’s done, and you two got the creatures into the trap. That’s what’s important.”

“Move the pressure dressing,” I said to Morse.

He looked at me askew, like maybe I should qualify for the biggest idiot of the year award. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding,” he said. “The wound looks superficial, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m gonna fix him up before I split,” I said, “not going to let him bleed out here.”

He looked confused but complied, lifting the rag away from Greg’s head. Morse was right, the wound didn’t look too deep, though I could see a small white stretch of bone beneath. I placed my hands on either side of Greg’s head and drew from the Vis. Healing is not my strong suit and it takes a ton of juice for me to patch up even the simplest of wounds.

Since I was about to go metaphorically bitch-slap Arjun in the grill and challenge him to a magi duel, I probably shouldn’t have been wasting the energy to do this working. But I’d never forgive myself if Greg bled out and I could’ve done something.

I wove a delicate lace work of air and water, earth and fire, traces of metal and hints of his spirit, each intertwining with one another, a braided mesh of power. A complex blanket of golden lines—shimmering and shifting through a kaleidoscope of patterns—settled into Greg’s skin, pulsing and glowing faintly from beneath. A full minute passed and nothing happened, but I kept pumping energy into the construct.

Sweat droplets sprouted on my brow and sent wet trails streaking down my face. My eyes stung from perspiration.

Slowly, slowly
Greg’s skin knit itself back together, thin strands of flesh binding one side of the gash to the other, until only a thin pink scar remained.

I let the weave go, though I held onto the Vis raging in my body. The power flowing through me was about the only thing keeping me going, and I was afraid that if I let go I wouldn’t be able to grab hold of the power again.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: hey, you can heal injuries? The hell? Why don’t you patch yourself up and then hop on over to scuffle with Arjun, all good as new like? Trust me, if it were that easy I’d be all over it like flies on stink. Using the Vis isn’t an instant fix to everything that ails you, let me tell you—it is tough, costly, and there are rules. Healing is some serious heavy-duty lifting, which makes sense considering how intensely complicated and intricate the human body is. Your body isn’t some Honda you can swing on down by the auto-shop and get a tune up for.

It’s a real mystery, a miracle really, and it takes a lot of raw energy and talent to fix ‘er up.

First off, I don’t have much talent in the way of healing—what I’d done for Greg was about the extent of my abilities. Second, not everything can be healed, including most major diseases, long-term injuries, and
,
of course, death. In fact, there are more things that
cannot
be healed than the other way around. The only guy I know of that could heal
everything
—including death—was Jesus, and he’s like
Jesus
.

Lastly, and this is a big one, mind you, you cannot heal yourself, unless, again, you’re friggin’ Jesus.

Even if I had a major healing talent, which I don’t, I couldn’t patch up my scrapes, breaks, and bullet holes any more than I could lift myself off the ground using brute strength. If you’re a strong guy or gal maybe you can pick up more than your own body weight. No matter what you do, however, you’ll never be able to pick yourself up. Healing’s like that.

“It’s obvious that Mr. Chandler cannot accompany you as back up,” said H & R as I staggered to my feet. “Either Mr. Morse or I should go with, as insurance.”

Greg had been my second, and the only guy in the whole group I trusted to get my back. But he was going to be done for a while. Going in alone wasn’t a good option—even if I didn’t trust Morse or H & R.

Better not to go it alone.

“Alright.” I tapped my chin in thought. Neither of these men were exactly saints and I wanted to pick the guy least likely to shoot me in the back after I finished Arjun off.

“You,” I pointed at H & R, “I wouldn’t trust to feed my cat—if I had a cat. Also, I don’t think you could fight your way free of a wet bag even if you had a personal coach and a machete.”

“Saddle up Morse, you’re riding shotgun on this one.” He nodded in agreement and handed me a compact M-4 and a few nasty little trinkets, which I shoved into my coat pocket. “Hey Meathead,” I said to H & R’s thug, the guy from the Big Easy. “You wanna get in on this and earn your keep?”

He nodded and his face broke into a big ugly grin, which would probably send his mother running away in terror. Hopefully by having both Morse and McGoon in tow, each would keep the other in check.

In the center of the room lay a perfect circle, inscribed with orange spray paint. The inside of the circle was covered with runes and sigils I didn’t recognize, old and ancient things with a power all their own. The circle was Harold’s creation and my one-way ticket to evil-mage-ass-kicking town.

“Let’s do this.” I stepped into the circle with Morse and McGoon right on my heels. I fumbled around in my pocket for a moment, searching for the old Roman coin Harold had given me. I palmed the coin and trickled the tiniest weave of spirit into it.

A doorway, six by four-feet and deepest black, materialized before us as smooth and quick as an eye-blink. Say what you will about Harold—Heaven knows I’ve said plenty, most of it negative—but he does have a talent with Ways.

“Ready?” I asked looking back toward my posse—yeah that’s right, I have a posse—who both nodded solemnly. We stepped into the black, which enclosed itself around us like a fist.

It was time to go punch Arjun’s face in. Let the ass-kickery commence.

THIRTY:

Beat Down

I conjured up a fist-sized globe of soft-glowing blue light, which hung a few inches above my outstretched palm. It did effectively zero to dispel the blackness surrounding us, but I thought it might bring some comfort to Morse and McGoon—the Ether’s creepy as hell. There wasn’t anything to uncover, of course, no walkway or buildings, no cars or people, no scenery of any kind.

“What is this place?” Morse whispered, his voice flat yet too
loud for the space.

“Don’t worry about what this place is. Just keep walking and keep quiet. We don’t want to attract anything that swims in these dark waters.” I suppressed a shudder as I recalled my encounter with the Dara-Naric.

We trudged on for maybe another ten minutes, though it was hard to tell in the blank and unchanging landscape. The longer we lingered in the Way, the more I sensed we were being watched by some unseen observer. Nothing to do, but continue onward.

Eventually, I felt a shift in the atmosphere even though there was no perceptible change in the Way—it looked exactly as it had when we first entered, but it wasn’t.

The coin was heavy in my pocket and too warm against my leg. The air also felt less heavy, less dense, and the blackness surrounding our intrepid party also appeared to be less complete—maybe that last one was my imagination though.

“Alright,” I said, “this is it. Everybody get their shit together—game faces on, no mistakes. Right?” Neither Morse nor McGoon spoke, talking in the Way seemed borderline sacrilegious, but they nodded their understanding. “On three.”

I let the ball of light dissipate, brought my M-16 up into position, counted to three with my fingers, and opened the Way with the coin.

Another door revolved into place before us, unnaturally bright in this forever-night place. The doorway looked out on the interior of a plain warehouse facility: an old dusty forklift lingered in one corner, while rows and rows of empty steel racks ran off in either direction. A large space in the center of the massive room had been fashioned into impromptu living quarters, complete with a twin-sized bed, a simple rug of Indian origin, a footlocker, and a cheap particleboard desk covered in assorted papers.