Cold
Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel
The Yancy
Lazarus Series
Episode 2
James A.
Hunter
Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press
Date of Publication: May 22, 2015
ISBN: 978-1514234266
ASIN: B00WDQCY30
Number of pages: 415
Word Count: 111,000
Cover Artist: Dane, EbookLaunch.com
Book Description:
PRAISE FOR COLD HEARTED:
Yancy Lazarus is back and facing off
against his most dangerous foe yet—without the benefit of his magic. A
breakneck thriller that'll keep you turning the pages!
—Sam Witt, Author of Half-Made Girls
(Pitchfork County Novels)
Yancy Lazarus just wants to be left
alone. He wants to play his blues music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise
leave the supernatural world to fend for itself.
He especially wants to be left alone by
the Guild of the Staff—the mage ruling body—where he used to work as a Fix-It
man. But when a little kid gets nabbed by an ancient Fae creature from the
nether regions of Winter and the Guild refuses to set things right, he just
can’t seem to heed good sense and leave things be.
Nothing’s ever easy though. Turns out,
the kidnapping is just the tip of one big ol’ iceberg of pain and trouble. It
seems some nefarious force is working behind the scenes to try and unhinge the
tenuous balance between the supernatural nations and usher in a new world
order. So now, if Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle,
he’s gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent—an agent who’s been hunting him
for years—in order to bring down a nigh-immortal, douchebag mage from a
different era. And to top it off, Yancy’s gonna have to pull it off without his
magical powers … Boy, some days just aren’t worth getting out of bed for.
CHAPTER ONE:
Spelunking
The tunnel stretched out
before me like the throat of some monstrous serpent, icy blue walls radiating
pale witchlight to guide my feet. I shuffled along the winding pathway, trying
for speed and failing miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was
often interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going treacherous
as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so numb I couldn’t feel my
toes, even though I had on heavy boots and thermal socks. Every friggin’ step
felt like a crapshoot and I wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.
I heard a howl from
somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise that echoed and bounced around
the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for a moment, which is precisely when my feet
skidded out from under me and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the
slippery ground below. My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head
landed in a pile of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment,
staring up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.
Why me? Why couldn’t I
ever just keep my head down and mind my own friggin’ business? I felt like
kicking my own ass for being such a gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least
I could do was be a little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors
if the location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy,
not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.
I guess, technically,
Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place,
so long as you’re the kind of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of
Siberia. The buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved
and sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a frozen
waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the image of
Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a serpentine neck,
complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s head. Under the light of
day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond, and at night beautiful slashes of
green and gold drift through the air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis.
But it’s also
piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue is—lifeless, still,
too perfect. And the residents are all the same. Bunch of too-good-for-you,
cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans
night in a dirty bar with a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.
Down in the subterranean
caverns below the city, where I happened to be trudging around, was even worse.
Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot of frigid air. The light of day never
penetrated these depths, so the cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent
and alive, like some frostbite-belching yeti.
More yowls and howls,
followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not nearly as cute or cuddly as they
sound—closing in, and fast. Time to move.
I scrambled onto my
hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy toddler taking his first steps,
and shambled away from the chorus of mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.
If I was going to make
it out of this place in one piece, I needed better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve
got something a little handier than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the
cheap stuff you see in Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing
stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although
magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not in-the-know.
Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning force or energy. Simply
put, there are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact,
all Creation. It just so happens that I can manipulate that energy. Period. End
of story.
I paused for a moment,
and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into me like magma from an active
volcano, heat and life and energy filling me up, sending renewed strength into
my limbs. I was careful only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked,
the Vis can be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.
Weaves of fire and air
flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a soft nimbus of orange light
encircled me, granting both better visibility and a small pocket of comforting
warmth. Sure, it would make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country
club, but there was nothing I could do about that.
I got moving again,
huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied cries floated toward me from
the tunnel twisting away behind. I needed to move faster, but the gloom still
hampered my progress, forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the
combined illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding
from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night place, a dark
place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with tooth and nail.
Even going sloth-speed,
I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were over the edge. I hollered and
threw on the brakes in a panic—digging in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms
as I fell once more onto my back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and
immediately sprawled out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to
slow me down a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing
me onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb fingers, my
thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.
I pulled more power,
more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of fire out through my
fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the ice-covered surface of the floor,
little grooves where my digits could find purchase.
Unfortunately my gloves
began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up curls of gray smoke. I
ignored the heat—survival was my first priority. I dug in, giving it everything
I had, arms and hands straining with the effort.
At last I skidded to a
halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though it was a damn close thing. The
tension in my arms and hands eased up as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips
and legs back from the drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air.
Past the drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight.
Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to diminish the
gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or ten thousand. Better not
to find out by taking a leap.
My heart thudded hard
against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mind you, but anyone would
be apprehensive about the prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially
unending blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of
relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.
I heard a hoot of mirth
just a second before something hard and heavy collided into my back—a wallop
right between my aching shoulder blades.
My fingers tore free of
their meager holds and over the drop-off I went, manic gnome laughter filling
my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and down, flipping through the air like a
fumbled football. I caught just a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering
over the edge, his whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.
I lashed out with
air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to slow my descent. That was a
start, but the construct wouldn’t keep me from getting impaled on a giant
icicle or busting my guts open on a rocky outcropping.
So next, I pulled in
strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and reinforced bands of fae power,
floating through the air like so much dust. A shimmering bubble of
green—shifting from emerald to pine to jade and back again—snapped into place
with an effort of will, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight
pressure on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket
to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.
Splash-thud.
About the
Author:
Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m
a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine
Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a
member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve
also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a
space-ship captain, can’t forget that.
Okay … the last one is only in my
imagination.
Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking
care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that
I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending
time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.
You can visit me to find out more at www.JamesAHunter.wordpress.com
No comments:
Post a Comment