Excerpt
“Will anyone stand for this man? Stand for Yancy
Lazarus?” The voice rang out, echoing off the bleak stone walls, rolling over
me like a frigid ocean wave crashing on a rocky shoreline. “Will anyone dare to
call him friend”—a taut pause—“or brother?” A creeping dread filled my belly,
twisting my guts into serpentine knots. Gooseflesh broke out along my arms,
neck, and back, while slick beads of perspiration dotted my forehead.
If no one stood for me, vouched for me, I was dead. And
I’m not being hyperbolic or metaphorical here.
Someone—probably ol’ Iron Stan, the leader of the Fist
of the Staff and my former boss—would literally slip a Vis-imbued garrote
around my neck and strangle me until I was a lifeless meat sock. Choke the air
from my lungs while crushing my windpipe, leaving me to die a very undignified death:
Kneeling on the concrete floor before a bunch of bathrobe wearing geezers. Back
bent with some douchehole digging an elbow in between my shoulder blades. Hands
cuffed behind my back and a brown leather sack covering my bowed head.
Well, someone would try …
These days, I had some extra kick under the hood in the
form of an honest to goodness End Times Seal—straight outta the book of
Revelation—come to me by way of an Elder Bigfoot, Chief Chankoowashtay, the
leader of the People of the Forest and the last great ruler of the Chiye-tanka.
Yep, riding right next to my ticker was the Seal of War.
A metaphysical prison containing the essence of the second horseman of the
Apocalypse: Azazel the Purros, Grigori
of Old, Scourge of Mankind, Maker of War, and Lord of Dark Magicks. A creature
with a truly intimidating string of titles, though, admittedly, I’d hate to be
him when tax season rolls around and you have to list your full name in
quintuplet.
True, I couldn’t take on the entire Guild even with that
evil dickhead, Azazel, in my corner, but I’d sure as shit go down hookin’ and
jabbin’, and I’d take at least a few of these sons of bitches with me if it
came to it.
“He abandoned this Guild,” the voice said, as insistent
and unyielding as old stones. I swiveled my head toward the speaker, and though
I couldn’t see her—what with a friggin’ sack over my face—I could picture her
in my mind. A striking woman with smooth skin, high cheeks, and bright green
eyes, searching and weighing. Her hair, a mass of silver, hanging all the way
down her back. Arch-Mage Borgstorm, head of the Guild of the Staff. As savvy as
magi came, but cold, calculating, and political to her teeth.
“Throughout the course of this trial,” she continued,
“the prosecutor has shown Mage Lazarus to be a traitor. A danger. A deserter.”
Her words sparked a fire in my chest, my blood rising to a low simmer as I
clenched my teeth and balled my hands into fists.
Traitor.
I’d given more for the damn Guild than anyone had a
right to ask, and they’d been the ones to turn their backs on me and mine, not
the other way around. But, despite the fact that I had the sudden urge to
conjure a gout of molten rock and melt the chamber to blackened slag, I held my
tongue.
My personal feelings aside, I needed these shifty
bastards in my corner because I had nowhere else to turn. No other leads to run
down.
After trying unsuccessfully to
find James and the Morrigan for the past two months—and with no further word
from Lady Luck, my immediate boss as Hand of Fate—I only had one viable clue:
the Fourth Seal. The essence of Death
and Pestilence. And, unfortunately,
the only person who knew the location of the Seal Bearer was sitting on the
raised platform. The arch-mage. Awful luck for me, considering she was the one
leading the charge to have me summarily executed and thrown into an unmarked
grave.
Them’s the breaks sometimes, I
suppose.
“Even if Mr. Lazarus isn’t willfully an enemy of the
Guild,” the arch-mage said, “no one here can deny he is a liability and threat
to anyone who comes near him. Everyone in this room has seen his personnel
file, so we all know exactly how dangerous he is. Moreover, since deserting our
ranks in ’98, he’s committed hundreds of unsanctioned acts of violence and
vigilantism across Inworld and Out.
“Hundreds.
Violating untold treaties. Wantonly killing. Compromising the integrity of this
distinguished organization.” She made that last one sound far worse than wantonly killing, which should tell you
everything you need to know about her. “So,
I ask again. Will anyone stand for him knowing the potential risk he
represents?”
A long, uncomfortable pause filled the room, a palpable
weight settling over everything.
“If you would have him back among our number,” the
arch-mage said at last, breaking the quiet, “stand now, or hold your peace as
the Elders pass judgement on this man. This unrepentant
criminal.”
