Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) Read online

  I’d teach ‘em a thing or two. There was a single tunnel connected to the narrow strip of land curving out from the cliff face—perfect for setting a trap. I pulled in more Vis and wove another small orb of fire outside my shelter, about halfway between me and the tunnel, where it was sure to be seen by any searching eyes. Then I crafted a rough simulacrum, basically an illusionary double of myself, sitting near the fire with its back exposed to the tunnel opening.

  The simulacrum wasn’t a great piece of work, just a crude, unmoving mannequin, which kinda, sorta resembled me from a distance. An average-looking guy, about forty—even though I’m actually in my mid-sixties—with short, dark hair and unremarkable height and build. A pair of blue jeans (though I had long johns on underneath), some sturdy winter boots, and a thick fur-lined coat. Yeah, it resembled me all right, at least if you had bad eyesight.

  Listen, I’m not the best with illusions. Glamours are more my thing.

  Now in a lot of circles, the terms “glamour” and “illusion” are used interchangeably, and understandably so because they achieve nearly the same effect: they deceive. Even though they get similar results, they aren’t the same thing by a far stretch. Illusions, or veils, fool people by actually creating a different image, which is projected over a person, object, or scene. Illusions exist, in a manner of speaking, in real time and space; they work by tricking the optical nerves in the eye. Glamours, on the other hand, deceive not by tricking the eye, but by tricking the mind. A glamour doesn’t create an image that the eyes see and send back to the brain. Instead, a glamour suggests directly to the brain that something appears to be different than it really is.

  But my illusion would work fine as bait. I mean, the thing was sitting out in the open, silhouetted by a fire, with its back exposed. Plus, gnomes aren’t terribly bright.

  Then I hunkered in and waited, letting the sparse warmth in my shelter settle into my bones.

  After another few minutes, I heard the soft and unmistakable sounds of garbled gibberish, which is what passes for the ice gnome language. They were closing in. I mentally patted myself on the back. Well played, Yancy, well played.

  I wanted to pull my pistol and level these jerks, or maybe roast the whole lot of ‘em with a column of fire—sort of my specialty—but both options were out. My gun was mostly dry now, but there was a small chance the bullets were still wet. Normally, that wouldn’t necessarily be a problem since, contrary to popular opinion, most firearms will work even when wet. But potentially wet rounds combined with artic temperatures? Bad idea all around. At arctic temperatures, the action could seize, the ignition powder could cause a hang fire, not to mention the gunmetal itself would be brittle as old china. Better to play it safe.

  And tossing around flame here was as tricky as trimming lawn hedges with a set of plastic scissors. It’d get the job done eventually, but it’d be a helluva slog. I’d manage, though. I’ve always been good winging things on the fly.

  I spotted a pair of the stumpy, blue-skinned creatures emerging from the tunnel, just at the periphery of the firelight’s reach. Squat and broad, like living chunks of ice, with fat legs and arms completely covered with crystalline spikes. Thick craggy beards of white hoarfrost (both the men and women have these, which is strangely disturbing) and the trade-mark conical cap, though razor-tipped. Little shits could head-butt like no one’s business.

  They didn’t advance, however, but rather stood motionless, lingering, waiting. Maybe they could tell something was off.

  The fire crackled lazily while I waited, biding my time, playing it cool.

  With an effort of will, I made the simulacrum twitch, just a slight shift in posture—stretching out, cracking his neck, before settling back into place. The fire continued to dance, kicking up shadows along the walls, and at last the evil little bastards padded forward.

  Not even a whisper of sound as their feet shuffled across the narrow strip of ice bordering the indoor pool. Close now, maybe only twenty feet. The stocky gnome in the lead raised a jagged club of ice nearly as long as its body. Little bastard was going to club me in the head. Sneaky, tricksy sons of guns, these gnomes. No honor in pushing someone off a cliff or clubbing them in the back of the head, which I’m totally cool with—fair fights are for suckers. Basically, I was about to pull the same trick on them. I almost wanted to chuckle in evil joy. Mwaahaha.

  I shaped the energy raging through my body into something useful, intertwining thin strains of radiant heat and water, all wrapped about in flows of compressed air. A small smile split my face. These pointy-hat-wearing chumps were about to get some serious comeuppance. About ten feet out—close enough that I could see the firelight glint off frosted skin—I let loose a barrage of sharpened ice-quills, hurled with the force of a tornado. The foot-long spikes of frozen doom ate up the distance in a heartbeat, ripping into rigid flesh like a barrage of frozen bullets.

  The one with the club issued a yelp before tumbling over into the artic pool, thrashing and flailing, trying to swim free. Though the gnomes looked a little like ice cubes, they didn’t float. Sons of bitches weigh as much as a boulder, and swimming isn’t exactly their strong suit. After a few seconds his desperate splashes grew faint and his head dipped below the surface with a final bubble.

  Several of my missiles protruded from the torso and arms of the second gnome, though they didn’t seem to bother the little fella too terribly. He rushed forward, thick legs swishing back and forth, a slick dagger of glacier-blue raised above his head for a killing blow. He brought the blade down on the head of my illusion, which guttered and disappeared, leaving behind a very bewildered-looking gnome.

  Like I said, not too bright—the guy would never win the Nobel Prize in physics. Shit, he’d be lucky to tie his shoes in the morning on his own.

  I bolted from my hidey-hole. Drawing on air and fae power, I created my own club of ice, which I promptly smashed into the confused gnome’s head. Lots of better ways to take this guy down, but I couldn’t risk killing him outright or losing him to the water—I needed a guide to make it out of this maze, so better to just beat the little shit into submission. My crude weapon knocked the gnome back a few steps, but otherwise seemed to have little effect. In fact, the blow seemed to jar him back into action.

  The creature shuffled forward a step and lashed out with his dagger. My club, too heavy and ungainly to maneuver with anything resembling grace or skill, was practically worthless against the quick blade. I lifted my arm just in time to intercept the slash; white stuffing bled out in tufts from my winter jacket.

  Normally it’s not a terribly bright idea to stick your arm in front of a blade’s edge—unless, of course, you’re wearing ring mail or something else you might find at a Ren Fest. But beneath my bulky winter coat, I was sporting my leather jacket, a custom piece that handled the job, no problem. Imbued with Vis and lined with ultralight Kevlar and slash-resistant fabric, it’s quite a bit more resilient than it looks, though damn if the blunt force trauma from the blow didn’t smart.

  With an awkward twirl, I smashed the club into the gnome’s outstretched wrist—there was a crack, like a tree exploding in winter’s cold, and his knife clattered to the ice. The creature’s arm hung at a strange angle. The energy of the impact reverberated through my arm; my fingers couldn’t control the weight of the icy bludgeon any longer, and it slipped free from my hand. I shot out a quick jab on instinct, connecting solidly with its bulbous nose. Terrible idea, that—blocky creatures made out of ice do not make good punching bags, so throwing down with a good ol’ bout of fisticuffs wasn’t a solid game plan.

  Somehow, though, I’d managed to scare the dumpy Disney movie reject enough to get him to retreat. He was on his heels now, shuffling back toward the tunnel, away from me and well away from the pool. I love it when a plan actually comes together. I called up a gale of wind, which arched out from my hand and sandblasted the pint-sized tyke into the far wall, pinning him in place. Throwing around a column of hurricane f
orce isn’t exactly a surgically precise procedure—had I tried the ploy earlier, I might’ve accidentally sent him right into the drink with his buddy, which was no bueno since I needed him to lead me to the kid.

  I redirected a trickle of my power into the frozen wall behind the gnome. The ice boiled and oozed outward creating thick restraints of hard packed snow that surrounded the gnome’s hands and feet, securing them in place and leaving the little guy hanging on the wall a good three feet from the ground. He struggled fitfully, writhing against the wall, jerking arms and legs in a bid for freedom.

  The whole while, he chattered at me incessantly. Unfortunately, he spoke only Gnomish. Since I don’t speak a lick of gnome, grilling him for intel was going to be as tricky as teaching a tiger to play the piano and drink good booze. Hey, on the plus side, I couldn’t understand all the hateful, four-letter expletives the guy was probably yelling at me.

  I’d have to drop a compulsion glamour on his ass, nothing else to do about it. Compulsions are ugly things. They basically usurp the free will of a living, thinking being. They’re kind of illegalish—at least if you use them on another human—and they also make you feel all dirty and gross on the inside.

  I wasn’t quite so apprehensive with the gnome since he was of the low fae. Monkeying around in a human brain can break a person’s mind, erase their personality, even twist them into something contrary to their nature. Fae of any flavor, on the other hand, tend to have very rigid and unchanging personalities, so compulsions generally don’t have the same negative side effects. The fae just don’t change—they are what they are, always. Even if that weren’t the case though, I’d still drop a compulsion on him; he and his buddies had kidnapped an innocent child and tried to murder me. More than once. The way I reckon things, he had a little payback coming his way.

  I temporarily disarmed the Fort Knox strength mental wards preventing other creatures and mages from messing around inside my head. I reached out with my thoughts while weaving a fragile, pulsing net of spirit which settled in place over the gnome’s noggin, breaking down his will shotgun style, lowering his inhibition, and making him susceptible to my every suggestion.

  His mind, his thoughts, stretched out before me like a sea of glassy sapphire lights, all of differing sizes and hues, some glowing, others blinking on and off. Orbs of consciousness—each tenuously connected to the others through a vast and elegant web of muted purple strings. Each orb was a memory or a dream, a feeling or some deep impulse. They worked together, separate yet one. Each pushing and pulling its own way, yet tied to the whole. Compulsion was simply a matter of navigating those waters, knowing which orbs to invade, which to subvert, and, in turn, co-opting the neural network so you could impose your will over the whole.

  Brutal compulsions simply wiped the network, potentially destroying the person or creature, while more subtle methods could get the job done and leave little mess behind. I was good with subtle, at least where compulsions were concerned. It wasn’t much different from picking a lock really: just a light touch and knowing which buttons to put pressure on. I sifted through the orbs, bypassing the creature’s strange memories and alien emotions. There, a bundle of nerves responsible for motor reflex, navigation, and impulse control. I sent tendrils of thoughts snaking out into the handful of orbs, Vis flooding the system, our minds momentarily connected.

  A dark shadow pressed itself into my awareness, a creature of spirit, a thing devoid of body, and seemingly made up only of voracious hunger and empty hopelessness. I’d been so preoccupied with not dying that I hadn’t even sensed the shifty bastard. Must’ve been following me, biding its time, waiting for an opportune moment to jump into my mental swimming pool.

  Dark, ethereal claws ripped into my brain, the fiend’s awareness pressed into my own. A pulse of energy filled up my senses as the thing invaded my own internal network. A flash of light, and then … I was back at home, or what had once been my home. My wife—well, long time ex-wife—Lauren, standing before me. The scene was familiar; I’d replayed it a thousand times before. The day I’d walked out on her. Maybe the worst day of my life. Certainly in the top ten.

  TWO:

  Dark Night

  “Yancy, please don’t do this.” Tears streamed down her cheeks in rivulets. “Please. We need you.” She wiped a hand across her cheek, smudging the tears on her skin. “The boys need you, Yancy. They need you. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

  I didn’t say anything, couldn’t stand to hear myself talk or to look her in the eye. So instead I turned away, a travel-worn sea bag stuffed with pants, shirts, and some hygiene stuff, slung over my shoulder.

  “Please,” she said again.

  I turned back; she deserved something, anything. “You just don’t get it,” I said, trying not to sound harsh and failing. “You don’t know what it’s like, Lauren. Everything’s different now. Everything. It’s better this way. Right now? Right now I’ve got too much baggage.” And I sure as shit wasn’t talking about the sea bag. “Nothing’ll turn out right if I stay around. I’ve got nothing good to offer you anymore. The kids’ll be better off without me around, dragging you guys down.”

  “Please, Yancy … I know things’ve been rough lately. I know it’s not the same. I do, believe me. But you don’t have to go. We can work through this, work this out. Whatever’s going on with you … I’ll—I’ll support you. I’m here for you.”

  “Look, I just can’t stay. Or explain any of this.” I put a hand to my forehead; the pain was back again, behind my eyes, curling up and around either side of my skull like a set of ram’s horns. I rubbed at the bridge of my nose and then moved on to my left temple. Damn headaches. It was the dreams. Martin, dead, ropy gray guts and pieces of meat hanging from that Tualang tree. Hall, shot to pieces, gaping holes littering his torso, dribbling dark blood. Rat, burnt alive in an explosion and flash of white phosphorus. No one back home gave two shits about them. About the war. Nope, back stateside everything was the same. Except me. I’d moved on, but the world hadn’t taken notice.

  The headache worsened, the dull throb moved down into my sinuses, pushing behind my eyes, urging me to see the energy. My hands grew warm, the stink of burning canvas wafted to my nose. Not this shit again. The fire. Fire coming right outta my friggin’ hands. Those freaks—called themselves mages or wizards or whatever the hell—said that was the reason for the headaches.

  No, I couldn’t stay. Just too much wrong.

  “Mommy,” a soft voice, a child’s voice, drifted from the doorway. “Is everything okay? Daddy, where you going?” My oldest son—a slight, tow-headed kid wearing a pair of rumpled green jammies. Good kid. But I wasn’t any good for him. I wasn’t cut out to be a dad, or a husband. All the responsibilities. Giving baths, reading stories, cleaning dishes. It wasn’t me. I couldn’t handle it, not on top of everything else.

  “I’m leaving for a little while, champ. But I’ll be back. And I love you. It’s important you remember that. Whatever happens … remember, this is the best thing.”

  “Please don’t go,” he said, his breathing too heavy, his eyes already red-rimmed. Must’ve sensed this coming for a while; he was sharp like that, perceptive. “Please, Daddy. I’ll be better, I’ll clean my room more, and do my chores on time. I’ll, I’ll help watch Jake, I’ll …”

  “It’s not about any of that,” I said, my voice soft. “It’s not you, it’s not your brother or your mom. You guys didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. I’m broken.” I couldn’t say anything else, not another word, or my traitorous tongue would betray me, would choke me up while I blubbered.

  “Yancy,” Lauren said, voice flat. “If you do this, it’ll ruin us. It’ll kill them.”

  I turned and marched toward the beat-to-shit ’66 Toyota Stout—paint peeling, shocks shot, window cracked—before I could change my mind. I’d be around, check in once a month, make sure everything was taken care of. Those freaks said they could set my family up if I left. It was better thi
s way. Pick up the boys for the holidays maybe. I dunno. Shit. My heart beat too hard against my ribs, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. The seabag slid down my shoulder, so I grabbed the strap and shrugged it back into place. My hands were too friggin’ hot. The sea bag started to smolder from my touch.

  “Stop right there, Yancy,” came Lauren’s voice, but it wasn’t really her voice, and this wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. This scene was nothing new to me; I’d seen it countless times. I walked to the Toyota, threw my bag in the truck bed, hopped into the cab, and cruised away. That was how it happened, end of story. She didn’t say anything else, not that day.

  “Turn around you no good, deadbeat piece of shit,” she said. The words stung, but they rang true—they were my own and I’d said as much to myself many a time. So I did turn. It was a compulsion, outside my control; my body didn’t feel like my own. Before, Lauren stood by the door, arms curled around her chest, like she was trying to keep her heart from breaking free. Now, she was only a few feet away, arms open, lips drawn back in a rictus. She looked different. Sick. Bruises, nearly purple, encircled her eyes. Her skin was corpse white, pasty-pale, with cracks and fissures cutting into her flesh.

  “I said it would kill them,” she whispered, “but it killed me. You killed me, Yancy.” She held out her wrists as an offering. Dark brown slashes ran vertically down the inside of each arm. “Self-murderers have no rest, no peace, y’know? It’s the Forest of Suicides for us.”

  What the hell was this? No! I dropped the sea bag and backed away. This wasn’t right. Lauren was dead, but it sure as shit hadn’t been suicide. Cancer—it’d eaten her lungs right up.

  “No,” I said, “this isn’t right, this isn’t how it happened.”

  She snarled and lunged forward, dead hands distorting into elongated, hollowed out spikes, a little like the sucking, straw-like mouth of a mosquito. The claws were like straight razors, slicing through my skin and into the muscle below, pulsing as she kneaded the claws like a cat, drawing energy, life, Vis, from my body. I stumbled back and batted the hands away with a sweep of my arm. She vanished, and a moment later, reappeared behind me, hungry fingers slashing at my back. I could fight her, obliterate her with my power—a burst of flame or a lance of ice. My hands were so hot, burning up, I could do it.