Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) (29 page)

And I was praying. For this hurt to end. For Ferraro to be all right. For Fast Hands and his crew to get some payback of epic, world-ending proportions. I yearned toward the grail with my good hand, fumbling at it with numb fingers—the blood loss taking greater effect—the edges too smooth in my blood slick hand. It took a moment of finagling, but eventually I worked the Grail free.

I regarded it for a moment—there was power there, it thrummed and hummed beneath my hand, a mega generator of Vis. This close it felt like a pocket-nuke worth of pent-up energy. I have to admit, though, that if I were going on looks alone, it was kind of unimpressive as holy objects of unimaginable power go: a little larger than a pack of cigarettes, made of worn bronze. A little cap topped one end, and jutting from the other was a two-inch length of metal with an intricately shaped key head. Whatever, I certainly wasn’t about to judge based on appearances.

I worked the cap free with my good hand, and pulled the little bottle to my face, a splash of thick liquid silver, like mercury, trickled onto the seat, but I paid it little mind. I got the bottle to my lips and, with a jerk, splashed some of the Grail’s contents into my mouth. I got less than a mouthful of strangely cool liquid—an itty-bitty sip really—but it was enough. Maybe too much, even. Stuff was pure rocket fuel for the soul.

It tasted like water, but not that shitty water that comes outta the tap—every water I’d ever tasted was like oil-contaminated saltwater compared to this. This … I dunno. This was like gulping down a mouthful of water from some pristine and unspoiled mountain waterfall after being thirsty in a barren desert for a lifetime. Like drinking for the very first time. Power rolled across my tongue—the taste of pure life, free from death or suffering—dribbled down my throat and into my belly. Energy shot out to my limbs like jagged bolts of raw electricity, racing along my nerve endings and speeding through my veins and arteries like miniature NASCAR drivers of awesomeness.

Shattered bones mended with warm bursts of pleasant heat, flesh tingled for a moment with a crackle of energy and then knit itself together again, whole and hale as though I’d never been shot. A sunburst of sensation exploded in my ruined left palm—I held up my hand and watched, my jaw literally dropped open, as silver bubbled and swirled from the stumps of my three missing digits before coalescing into brand-spanking-new fingers. Hot damn, was that a sight. Made me want to dance a jig while flipping Fast Hands the mother of all middle fingers.

And best of all—better even than my repaired kneecap or fancy new fingers—I could touch the Vis again. The empty place that’d been in my chest, the place where the Vis filled me up … it was wide open again. And not just wide open, but more powerful than ever before, like the silver liquid had super charged my abilities well past their normal capacities, at least for now. I had a surplus of energy just waiting to do something with. And, as it turned out, I had a whole group of shitbag mutants that were in serious need of some retribution.

I pushed myself up from the chair, the Grail still in hand. I screwed the cap back in place and slid the flask, err, Grail, into my coat pocket. A wide smile broke across my face, and it was not a nice, friendly, let’s-go-grab-a-beer smile either. It was an ass-smiting-of-doom smile if ever there was one. Probably I looked like shit, tattered clothes and bloodied garments, but damn did I
feel
good. I breathed out all my worries and anxieties, emptying my mind. I breathed in sweet, wonderful, delicious Vis.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Cookout

“Hey shitheads,” I said—not yelling, but loud enough for the room to hear me even over their hooting, catcalls, and swearing. Every eye turned to me—Ferraro still held fast, but momentarily forgotten—Fast Hands twirled last, anger flashing across his ugly grill. “Payback time and all that jazz,” I said.

Fast Hands didn’t speak—his pistol was simply up in a flash, the thunderous roar
of gunfire filling the air. Say what you will about the shifty snake-man, but at least the guy was smart enough not to waste time on stupid villain banter. Unfortunately for him, he’d shown a remarkable streak of stupidity by not finishing me off when he had the chance. Now … now it was too late.

His bullets streaked toward me, but I wasn’t concerned—for stopping those bullets was simply a matter of thought. Now normally I’d have whipped up a quick-and-dirty friction shield—my go to construct for dissolving incoming bullets. But today? Today I was feeling
good
with a capital G.

So instead I wove a delicate sphere of air, interlaced with strands of raw spirit and braided through with magnetic force—a shimmering bubble of shifting, semi-translucent quicksilver sprung to life. The bullets plowed into the shield, their forward momentum ceased, redirected, and suddenly I had five slugs circling lazily about me like little planets. I’d seen another mage do this not so long ago, and I’d worked out how to do it myself, though this was the first live fire test. Surprisingly, even with all the Vis pumping through me, it was harder than I’d anticipated—magnetic force has never been my strongest suit.

But it
did
work and it was a damn cool trick—even better were the looks of terror working on to the monstrous faces still crowded around Ferraro. I flicked out my left hand, healthy again despite Fast Hands’s best efforts, and the circling bullets zipped free, colliding with a strangely rat-like creature on the far right of the monstrous pack. The rounds tore through the son of a bitch, carving great bloody wounds in his torso and face, lifting him into the air for a moment.

“That’s right.” I looked around the room; the creatures, once so confident, slowly shifted back toward the entryway, fear evident in their movements. Except Fast Hands, he didn’t look scared, he looked pissed—like I’d just crashed his birthday party and taken a piss right on his cake. Hopefully, I could rectify that.

“You okay, Ferraro?” I called into the sudden stillness.

“Fine. But this
cagherone
”—she nodded toward Fast Hands—“is really getting on my nerves. So if you could move this along—”

Fast Hands spun, gun raised, aimed right at Ferraro. “Hold yer tongue, whore bait,” he spat. “You,” he looked back at me, “better give up now, or I’ll blow this bitch’s head clear from her shoulders, y’ken it?”

“I’m tired of hearing you run your mouth,” I said. “So how ‘bout you
shut yer cock holster
”—throwing his words from the saloon back at him made me feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy on the inside—“and let her go.
Maybe
if you and your roaches scuttle back to your dark holes I’ll let you live … though the one you should really worry about is her.” I motioned to Ferraro with my newly restored hand.

Fast Hands didn’t move, not an inch, but the rest of his posse was not quite so steadfast in conviction.

“Ferraro,” I called out, slicing the tension in the room like a knife. “Don’t move.” I sent her a wink and then slammed a foot down on the ground. A lot of things happened: first, a blue dome—an energy shield that’d prevent bullets, knives, or claws from getting anywhere near Ferraro—snapped to life around her with a nearly inaudible buzz.

Second, the floor shook from my stomp and I channeled the Vis down through my foot and into the ground, an unseen ripple of power snaking beneath the straw and carpet—jagged spikes of underlying concrete jutted up, impaling the four creatures toward the back, nearest the door leading to the hallway. Green-black blood spilled down grotesque and malformed bodies, pooling as the creatures thrashed and howled. Good.

The spikes also served another function: a blockade of doom, preventing anyone from leaving the room. Despite my promise that they might live, none of those clowns were leaving here. Not a chance.

With my right hand, I summoned a beam of fire and force as thick as my wrist, which smashed into Fast Hands’s outstretched gun and sent it whipping through the air—it collided with the window and fell to the floor eight or nine feet away.

Things got a little hazy then—the surviving meatbags realized they weren’t leaving alive, so they all broke in different directions, every man, err, creature for itself. A couple tore ass toward a connecting bathroom. One dove over the bar, just as I had attempted to do earlier. A trio bolted toward the spike barricade—trying desperately to climb over the bodies of their dead and dying buddies.

Fast Hands just stood there seething, casting glances between the dome-shielded Ferraro and me, struggling to figure out who he should try to kill. “Ringo,” he barked to a small mountain of thick muscle with wings poking out the back, loitering near the rear. The creature nodded, opened a maw, which cracked and unhinged, revealing a dark gullet and a pair of yellowed hippo teeth. He charged me like a bull elephant—I almost wanted to laugh.

With a flick of my right wrist and a snarl on my lips, I sent out a rolling wave of silvered mist which flooded the room, wrapping serpentine limbs around Ringo and all the other fleeing minions—even the one behind the bar—lifting them all into the air, save Fast Hands. Him, I left to watch. I threw both hands forward, a conductor before his orchestra, and purple flame hit the mist like a match to gasoline.

Boiling fire engulfed the ensnared creatures, melting flesh and bone in flame so hot it singed my eyebrows a little bit. Color me impressed. Only Ringo, the winged hippo man, seemed to be at all resistant to the terrible construct. So, with a jerk of my hand, I smashed him through the window
,
chunks of glass shredding his delicate wings. Then I let the son of a bitch fall.

Now, as a quick side note, I’ve never done so many over-the-top, badass constructs on the fly in my life. Or really ever, on the fly or not. I wouldn’t have tried that mist-flame combo on my best day—it was uber-knock-your-socks-off cool, but I could’ve juggled a quartet of slug bugs with the amount of energy it took. Today, however, was better than my best day. Today was the day I held the Holy Grail in my pocket and had a belly full of power—power more potent than anything I’d ever dreamed to touch.

I cut the flow of my constructs off, mist and flame died away, leaving only charred corpses smoldering on the floor. Of his crew, only Fast Hands remained.

“Do it already,” he hissed at me. “You’ve won. Finish it like a man.”

I wanted to walk forward, maybe pin him to the ground, cut him up a little bit while I gloated and performed a long, drawn-out monologue about how nothing could possibly stop me now. Maybe I’d even do the banter thing with ol’ Fast Hands—he could ask me how I managed to show up and stop him. But I’ve been on the receiving end of that monologue too many times to count, and it almost invariably turns out poorly. So instead of checking that one off the evil overlord list, I decided to do the practical thing.

“Like I said, Fast Hands—go fuck yourself.” Then I called up another javelin of flame and lit him up like a bonfire. He burned for a few moments, let out one last holler, and crumpled, unable to hold himself up, now just a smoldering pile of snake-meat that smelled vaguely like burnt chicken.

“Is he dead?” Ferraro asked, her words muffled by the dome still around her.

“I’m gonna make sure,” I replied, stalking forward, stopping just outside of Fast Hands’s potential strike range. “
Gladium potestatis
,” I muttered with a whisper of will—my Vis sword, a single-edged blade of blue popped into my hand. With a quick slice, my blade parted through tough scales and bone—his charred left arm fell away, then his right, just above the metal gauntlet, which served as his hand. With a heave, I cut his head away at the shoulders, revealing raw, pink meat underneath. I sure as shit wasn’t gonna make the same mistake Fast Hands had. “Yeah,” I said standing over the corpse, “definitely dead.”

Like I said, if you have an enemy who just
needs
killing, like yesterday, make sure you do it proper.

I let the sword and the shield, still guarding Ferraro, dissipate.

She looked at me with uncertain eyes, then glanced at the bodies impaled on spikes and the spattering of burned creatures around the room. “Guess you really can do magic.”

I bent over and picked up Fast Hands’s metal fist, the only part of him not burnt—not even warm to the touch. “Not magic. Magic’s a Rube word. You aren’t a Rube, not anymore. The Vis is just energy, the energy that holds the world together—holds all the worlds together—and keeps everything spinning. I can touch it, manipulate it. More like physics than magic … Hey, I know this is kinda sudden—but you wanna grab dinner with me after we sort all this shit out?”

“Are you sure this is how you’d like to ask me out?” She glanced around again and frowned.

“Yeah, well … I almost died. Figured I should ask before someone else punches my ticket. One of those things I’d regret not doing.”

She shoved me hard, though there was a little smile on her lips. “Business first. Then we can talk, Mr. Romance.”

“Yeah. Right.” I looked down, feeling a little embarrassed, which was new. I hadn’t felt embarrassed around a woman in a long, long time. But then, I hadn’t really cared about a woman in a good long while either. Not since I lost Ailia to the Morrigan.

With the key in hand, we walked back over to Sir Galahad—guy was still passed out cold beneath the weight of the chain. I placed Fast Hands’s metal fist over a fancy lock of gold, it clicked open without a hitch. I grabbed hold of the chain and my arm fell asleep almost at once, pins and needles racing up and down through my nerve endings.

The hell was this chain made out of? I let go and feeling returned to my limb.

“Ferraro.” I looked back over my shoulder at her. “You’re gonna have to unwrap our hero here.” I nudged the guy with my boot.

“Why?” she asked.

“I can’t,” I shrugged. “This chain is some kinda freaky strong hoodoo.”

She walked forward and wriggled at the chain, pulling coil after coil off the knight without any sign of difficulty. It took a couple of minutes to unwind the guy, but only a few seconds for him to come to his senses after the chain was free.