Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (3 page)

In my book, when people try to kill me, it’s my policy to kill them first and to do a damn thorough job of it. I don’t go around shooting people all willy-nilly, now, but if someone intends to harm me or mine … I hope their life insurance is paid in full.

THREE:

Answers

Now, someone might ask why I carry a gun at all, especially when creating constructs from the Vis can be so much more efficient. There are a couple of things to remember. First, those flashy constructs—badass as they may be—take a veritable truck-load of work and energy. It’s like lifting weights, every rep takes a little bit out, and over time those reps add up. A good bit of that energy comes from the environment itself. In fact, most constructs are a combination of elemental forces derived from whatever is near at hand—water, air, heat, magnetic force.

But a healthy chunk of that power also comes from inside the practitioner. Tapping into the Vis is kind of like trying to light a candle with a friggin’ volcano—one misstep, one lax moment, and your ass will be up a fiery-stream of doom. An irresponsible mage can easily draw in too much Vis, become overtaxed in the process, and permanently lose the ability to touch the source at all. Burn out happens all the time.

Shooting, on the other hand, takes almost no effort whatsoever. It’s fast, ugly, and brutal, sure—but as long as you have enough rounds, and the stomach for it, you can go all day. Precisely why I carry the gun in the first place, it offers me portfolio diversity. Flipping over cars isn’t easy lifting, let me tell you, so whenever I can rely on my good ole fashion bang-bang machine, I do. Waste not, want not, my granddad use to say—though I doubt he was talking about shooting people.

I let the reddish mist disperse, though I kept myself open to the Vis, ready to recall the shield in an instant. I felt fairly certain that the thug and the driver were the only muscle, but it was possible
that the unassuming accountant was packing too. I made my way to the wreckage and found the little man slumped on the other side of the vehicle, wounded. A bleeding gash marred his right arm; his right foot was pinned under the roof of the Benz. He was passed out but breathing steadily.

Average police response time for a neighborhood like this was about eight minutes, which meant I had maybe six minutes to pump the guy for information. Drawing upon the source, I gathered microscopic particles of humid water vapor from the air, condensing those bits and pieces until a basketball-size glob of water floated above my palm. Then I dumped that water right into H & R’s face.

He awakened with a satisfying sputter and a gasp.

“Alright, you need to tell me what in the hell you’re talking about. I want to know who your employer is and I want to know what contract I am supposed to walk away from. Easy peasy, bud.”

“The cops will be here soon,” the little man said, a groggy slur to his speech, “and I assume there are a couple of dead men here—this could get messy for you. You are a wanted man, Mr. Lazarus, and I shouldn’t think the justice system will afford you another chance at escape—not after you slipped away from those FBI agents in Memphis. I’m sure they will take ample care to ensure you are well restrained, perhaps sedation …” He smiled, smug and full of himself.

Err right, I also travel around because I’m sort of a wanted fugitive. The FBI has a longstanding
BOLO
out on me—I’m wanted for murder, aiding and abetting, acts of domestic terrorism and sedition, tax-evasion … blah, blah, blah. You get the drift, though I really feel like my record has been blown hugely out of proportion. I’m not a terrorist that’s for sure as shit. And sedition? I fought for this country, lost friends for this country. Tax evasion? Well, maybe I’m behind on a few taxes. And technically, I guess they were right about the murder wrap, but the vast majority of the things I’ve killed over the years weren’t human, contrary to appearances.

“Precisely why we don’t have time for this shit,” I replied. “Who’s your boss and what contract are you talking about?”

“Like you don’t know,” he said, which pissed me off because I
really
didn’t know. My friend out west had asked me to come and take a look—said he would count it as a personal favor. I didn’t know anything though; I didn’t know who this guy’s boss was, nor had I been contracted out for any kind of job. This was pro bono work I tell you. I was only being a Good Samaritan!

I could hear the distant warble of a police siren. My first inclination was to drop a compulsion glamour on his ass to elicit the information I needed, but that’s some gray area shit. The mage ruling body, The Guild of the Staff, looks down on that sort of thing. I couldn’t afford another misstep with them.

So instead, I settled for good ol’ physical torture, which—believe it or not—was the more merciful option. I focused my will and energy on the moisture in his eyes.

“You feel that?” I whispered.

He groaned in response.

“That’s the intraocular fluid in your pupils freezing. Hurts like a real son of a bitch, I know from experience. Pretty soon—I’d say maybe thirty seconds—ice crystals will form. It’s gonna hurt worse than a bad divorce and leave you with irreversible blindness. All I want to know is who your boss is, and what contract you think I’ve taken. This is information you already assume I have, so please cooperate—you’re not betraying anyone with that info.”

He let out another soft moan as miniscule ice-chips occluded his vision. The guy made it thirteen seconds before he caved. Impressive.

“Yraeta. Cesar Yraeta …” he said through clenched lips. “Reliable sources have informed us that you have been contracted to make a series of retaliation hits on our organization.”

Well flaming-dog-poo-in-a-bag. That was a curveball I hadn’t seen coming, a real kick in the groin. I released my effort of will, the ice crystals immediately dissipated.

“I
am
going out to California,” I said, “but I have no contract and I intend to preform no retaliation hits—clear? I may be a lot of things, but hit man is not one of them. Not anymore.” I turned and walked away as a black and white tore ass around the street end, its sirens issuing loud squawks, while its flashers tattooed the surrounding buildings with splashes of red and blue. More marked cruisers followed, but I wasn’t worried. Now, there would be more cops flooding in, and those cops would undoubtedly be on the lookout for suspicious characters fleeing the scene.

As it happens I
am a suspicious character, and, as it happens, I was also leaving the scene. But, I was still certain I would pass by unnoticed and untroubled. I’m a wanted man, but I’m also as tricky as a chameleon to find. I was not fleeing, for one, I was walking quickly
—
not nearly as suspicious. More to the point though, my black leather jacket is also a specialty item, which offers a wide array of impressive survival features. My jacket is flame retardant—not the same thing as flame
proof
, believe you me—and lined with ultralight Kevlar and slash-resistant fabric, which means it’ll stop small caliber bullets and knives. Covert, modern day, body armor. An absolute essential in this uncertain day and age.

It also maintains a subtle glamour, making the wearer, me, more innocuous. It doesn’t make me invisible, which is possible but tremendously more difficult, but rather makes me boring—Alan Greenspan giving a lecture on market fluctuations, boring. Unless someone is looking for me specifically, their eyes will slip around me as though I am nothing more than an extra on a movie set. The Vis does have its perks: you can
literally
make yourself duller than drying paint, which is awesome I guess … unless you’re trying to pick up women.

I strolled around the corner as another patrol car sped by. They didn’t even slow down.

I probably could have loitered around a little longer, but I figured it was time to get out of town, time to get west and find some answers.

FOUR:

Going West

The drive from New Orleans to Los Angeles is not
a short one, though there are longer trips. The journey is about 2,000 miles of open roadway and rolling strips of empty desert wilderness. You have to drive across the entire state of Texas, which ought to tell you something since Texas is larger than many modern nations. The drive takes a little under thirty hours to make and that’s if you’re one of those ultra-committed, no-nonsense types who only stop for fill-ups. Oh, and if you don’t mind having your ass glued to a seat for thirty-friggin’-hours
straight.

I am not on ones those types of people.

I love being on the open road. For all intents and purposes, I basically live on the open road. I am technically
homeless, as in I have no house, apartment, or condo to call my own (glamorous, I know). Please understand that I choose to exist this way. I am not a bum or a panhandler. I don’t beg to make a living. I am gainfully employed … admittedly, my line of work consists mostly of playing blues for beer and gambling for groceries.

Say what you will, employment is still employment.

Now, I may not have a home, but I do have a car: a midnight blue ‘86 El Camino with a high-gloss, black camper shell attached to the back of the truck bed. Yeah, you heard that right—an El Camino with a camper shell. That’s what’s up. At first it might sound a little funky, but it’s one sweet ride and it’s about a gajillion times cooler than having a stupid apartment. The camper shell doesn’t have a shower or toilet, so it doesn’t make a proper home, but it does give me a nice little nook to keep my gear and catch a long blink once in a while.

And the Camino is also one souped-up mutha—I’m talking a 355 Chevy small block, turbo 350 transmission, posi-track rear differential. In short, my home is fast, mobile, badass-squared and can take me pretty much anywhere I please, which is not a bad way to live even if it’s not exactly the way most people live. I’d also bet dollars to donuts that my home can beat your home in a car-race any day of the week.

With all of that said, thirty hours of straight driving through southern desert still sucks—you need to be damn near inhuman to drive for thirty hours. We magi are human and only slightly less physically fragile than most regular, Joe-blow, mortals. Tapping into the Vis does grant us a certain edge: we move faster, can lift a little more, heal injuries quicker and live
much
longer. But aside from longevity, the Vis only grants slight improvements in most areas.

I could have pushed myself to make the trip in a single go, but then I would show up with a terrible caffeine headache, nearly zombified from exhaustion, and there would probably be a goon convention in town, expecting me as the keynote speaker. So instead, I settled down in Las Cruces, New Mexico after a grueling fifteen hour slog filled with lots of Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Little Sammy Davis, and Muddy Waters. Oh, and also about a cooler full of energy drinks and a bathtub worth of gas station coffee.

Plus, giving myself a little extra space and time was good and necessary for my soul. I’d killed a man back in New Orleans. It had been the right decision and I would take the same shot again. But still. I killed a man.

In action flicks, the hero can murder a football stadium full of bad guys and never even blink. That’s not the way it is in real life though, or at least it shouldn’t be. When the firefight is on, it’s important to push your emotions into the background. Feeling all soft-hearted and conflicted instead of pulling the trigger
will
get you killed. Eventually, the firefight ends. Eventually, those emotions come roaring back like a crazy ex, and that crazy metaphorical ex will toss all of your emotional furniture right off the balcony and into the pool.

Killing someone is not glorious. I’ve killed a good number of people and each one has taken a toll and left a mark. The guy I shot back in the alley would never go to another movie. He would never eat out at a nice restaurant with his significant other. He would never pray or laugh or cry again. Whatever bad or good he might have gone on to do—he wouldn’t. A life, full of possibility, snuffed out. It hurt.

He shouldn’t have tried to kill me.

Still, I would carry his memory.

I was glad for the ride, it gave me the space I needed to vent and grieve, to decompress and deal with all the shit.

I could have camped out in the Camino, but I wanted a shower, and having four walls around me also seemed like a good idea.

The motel I pulled into was called the Ranger, a cheap and dirty off brand place, which proudly displayed a gaudy red-neon sign boasting both
vacancies
and—I kid you not—‘
Color TV
.’ Seriously, what century do we live in? There were two other cars loitering in the pothole-filled lot, but it looked like everyone was in for the night, not surprising since it was well past eleven. The building was small and made of cheap motel stucco—typical for the southwest—and sat in an L-shape. The renting office was at the front of the L with fifteen or so rooms jutting off and to the right on both floors.

I made my way into the renting office, a small bell above the door gave out a little tinkle. The room was devoid of life, the only occupant was a small flyer rack against the far wall, littered with pamphlets which proclaimed all the wonderful attractions Las Cruces had to offer. The room smelled of stale coffee and stale air, a harsh piney odor hung in the room like a haze trying to cover the scent of poor maintenance—you can only polish a turd so much.