Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) by James A. Hunter Page B
Authors: James A. Hunter
Tags: dark fantasy, mage, warlock, bigfoot, paranormal and urban fantasy, s Adventure Fiction, Fantasy Action and Adventure, Thrillers and Suspense Supernatural Witches and Wizards, Mystery Supernatural Witches and Wizards, Men&apos
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better omen, considering we were headed to Washington, DC? Door six, then.
I slid the quarter back into my pocket and made for our exit—
I came to a herky-jerky halt after only a few steps. Scrawled across the surface of the door in soft glowing purple was a single word: No.
Suddenly, my mouth was dry—the moisture seemed to have migrated to my palms, which were slick with perspiration. I glanced toward Darlene, searching for any sign that she saw the ghostly lettering. But no. She was staring at door six, hands still intertwined behind her neck, and it was clear she noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
That way lies death, disciple. The words floated up from my subconscious like a faint echo.
This is bullshit, I thought. I never gave you permission, Azazel .
I need no permission. You are my host—and, for my purposes a good host—so I will not see you lost. Not yet …
The voice faded, died, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
“So which way?” Darlene asked, sounding utterly defeated and forlorn.
I hesitated a moment more.
I hated to trust the advice of a friggin’ demon, but Kong—a Sasquatch and the former Guardian of the Seal—had told me in no uncertain terms that the demonic essence was bound to protect the host from mortal danger. Some kind of divine mandate that ensured the Seal’s safety. I cleared my throat and jabbed at the other door, sixteen . “Let’s try that one,” I said, banishing the uncertainty from my voice.
She nodded and followed after me as I stepped through the ominous black slab of stone …
I stumbled onto the grassy shore of a wide river. Off to the right a hulking bridge of arched stone, studded with lamp posts, stretched across the wide, meandering river. The Arlington Memorial Bridge. In the distance was a spike of white stone, thrusting toward the purple sky, which was quickly dwindling to black as sunset gave way to true night. The George Washington Monument.
Holy shit, we’d made it. Somehow, impossibly, we’d made it.
The golden tether trailed away from me, tracing its way across the Potomac, though stopping midway. The next door hung suspended over the surface of the water, waiting for us. I dismissed the door, though. We were here. In a few minutes the trail would dissipate and vanish, taking the door—which only Darlene and I could see—with it. Gone.
Thank God. I let out a deep sigh of relief, then flopped down onto my ass, the green grass soft beneath me.
For now, at least, we were safe. Away from the Guild, away from the assassin, away from the Cubiculi ex Ostia with its shadow worlds. Still, I felt a pang of unease in my gut as Azazel’s words rang in my head, I need no permission. Yeah, we’d escaped, but would I ever really be safe with that dickhead demon hanging out in my head? For that, I had no answer.
NINE:
Safe Haven
I hammered at the mahogany door marked with a brass 7C, the number placard polished to a low gleam; the thud, thud, thud reverberated down the wide hallway. The place was devoid of life. Not that I expected to see anyone, not past 10:00 PM in a nice, respectable place like this. And it was a respectable place, that much you could tell even at a glance: Clean beige carpet, trimmed in muted green. White columns spaced at ten-foot intervals, holding fashionable wall lamps shedding warm caramel light. Boring corporate artwork dotted the hallway, illuminated by recessed lighting buried in the wall panels.
The third floor of an upscale condominium complex in Dumfries—just a few minutes outside Quantico.
I looked as out of place here as a dirt-caked hobo marching through the fancy-pants door of Saks on Fifth Ave. I mean, these condos had to run three hundred thousand dollars each, and were home to mostly white collar types. Professionals. Business folk. The upwardly mobile. I, by contrast, was a delinquent gambler, blues-hound, and former wet-works man who basically lived in the back of an
I slid the quarter back into my pocket and made for our exit—
I came to a herky-jerky halt after only a few steps. Scrawled across the surface of the door in soft glowing purple was a single word: No.
Suddenly, my mouth was dry—the moisture seemed to have migrated to my palms, which were slick with perspiration. I glanced toward Darlene, searching for any sign that she saw the ghostly lettering. But no. She was staring at door six, hands still intertwined behind her neck, and it was clear she noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
That way lies death, disciple. The words floated up from my subconscious like a faint echo.
This is bullshit, I thought. I never gave you permission, Azazel .
I need no permission. You are my host—and, for my purposes a good host—so I will not see you lost. Not yet …
The voice faded, died, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
“So which way?” Darlene asked, sounding utterly defeated and forlorn.
I hesitated a moment more.
I hated to trust the advice of a friggin’ demon, but Kong—a Sasquatch and the former Guardian of the Seal—had told me in no uncertain terms that the demonic essence was bound to protect the host from mortal danger. Some kind of divine mandate that ensured the Seal’s safety. I cleared my throat and jabbed at the other door, sixteen . “Let’s try that one,” I said, banishing the uncertainty from my voice.
She nodded and followed after me as I stepped through the ominous black slab of stone …
I stumbled onto the grassy shore of a wide river. Off to the right a hulking bridge of arched stone, studded with lamp posts, stretched across the wide, meandering river. The Arlington Memorial Bridge. In the distance was a spike of white stone, thrusting toward the purple sky, which was quickly dwindling to black as sunset gave way to true night. The George Washington Monument.
Holy shit, we’d made it. Somehow, impossibly, we’d made it.
The golden tether trailed away from me, tracing its way across the Potomac, though stopping midway. The next door hung suspended over the surface of the water, waiting for us. I dismissed the door, though. We were here. In a few minutes the trail would dissipate and vanish, taking the door—which only Darlene and I could see—with it. Gone.
Thank God. I let out a deep sigh of relief, then flopped down onto my ass, the green grass soft beneath me.
For now, at least, we were safe. Away from the Guild, away from the assassin, away from the Cubiculi ex Ostia with its shadow worlds. Still, I felt a pang of unease in my gut as Azazel’s words rang in my head, I need no permission. Yeah, we’d escaped, but would I ever really be safe with that dickhead demon hanging out in my head? For that, I had no answer.
NINE:
Safe Haven
I hammered at the mahogany door marked with a brass 7C, the number placard polished to a low gleam; the thud, thud, thud reverberated down the wide hallway. The place was devoid of life. Not that I expected to see anyone, not past 10:00 PM in a nice, respectable place like this. And it was a respectable place, that much you could tell even at a glance: Clean beige carpet, trimmed in muted green. White columns spaced at ten-foot intervals, holding fashionable wall lamps shedding warm caramel light. Boring corporate artwork dotted the hallway, illuminated by recessed lighting buried in the wall panels.
The third floor of an upscale condominium complex in Dumfries—just a few minutes outside Quantico.
I looked as out of place here as a dirt-caked hobo marching through the fancy-pants door of Saks on Fifth Ave. I mean, these condos had to run three hundred thousand dollars each, and were home to mostly white collar types. Professionals. Business folk. The upwardly mobile. I, by contrast, was a delinquent gambler, blues-hound, and former wet-works man who basically lived in the back of an
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