Red reckoning, p.1
Red Reckoning, page 1
Table of Contents
Summary
James A. Hunter Mailing List
Ass-Kickery
The Sitrep
The Plan
Tír na nÓg
In the Manner of Dreams
Eaters
Blood of Godlings
The Lonely Mountain
Dragon-Sized Problems
Regroup and Rally
Shakedown
The Eye of Akroid
The Flesh Forge
Belly of the Cult
Thunderdome
Wayland
Modern Architecture, Ancient History
Aftermath
Rock Bottom
Lady Wyrd
Gate Seal
Angelic Mantle
Mirror-Mirror
Moorchester
Car Chase Chaos
Overlord
The Vault
Party Crashers
Déjà Vu
Ritual Rematch
Hell Beast
Red Reckoning
The End is Nigh
Endings and Beginnings
Books, Mailing List, and Reviews
Books by Shadow Alley Press
Books by Black Forge
LitRPG on Facebook
Even More LitRPG on Facebook
GameLit and Cultivation on Facebook
Copyright
About the Author
About the Publisher
Summary
LOOK WHO JUST DRAGGED himself out of Hell...
Yancy Lazarus—mage, bluesman, and Hand of Fate—is back from Hell, and the world of the living ain't what it used to be. The Guild of the Staff is broken, his friends are being hunted down, and the pact between the supernatural nations is on the brink of collapse. Someone needs to shoot some sense into people, and if there's one thing Yancy knows about a job well done, it's that you have to do it yourself.
But the ringmaster at the center of this evil clown circus is the Morrigan, the Irish War Walker of Old, and she's cooked up a nasty new ritual that could be the end of humanity. This isn't like the last time she faced Yancy, however. Fueled by both cleansing magic and demonic fire, Yancy and his crew of supernatural misfits are packing more heat than she can handle. A reckoning of epic proportions is coming.
James A. Hunter Mailing List
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Ass-Kickery
“YOU DIRTY SON OF A bitch,” I growled, hands balling into fists, gaze fixed on the man at the far side of the room. Sharp dressed, with movie-star good looks and a 1920’s hairdo, James Sullivan looked for all the world like he’d just stepped off the set of The Great Gatsby. He wore a grin as wide as the Mississippi in rainy season and sat casually on the edge of a dark wood table, a lowball glass filled with something dark and delicious in one hand.
He wasn’t the only one in the room. No, there was a host of familiar faces.
Arch-Mage Borgstorm perched behind an enormous wooden table covered with a slew of maps and reams of papers. Ferraro stood beside her, leaning against the edge of the desk, surveying a report, brow furrowed in worry, while Darlene Drukiski nattered on in her cheerful, midwestern accent from in front of a mission board. The board was decorated with glossy photos and strands of colored twine, running from everywhere to everywhere in a haphazard maze of tenuous connections. Greg was there, a scowl of disapproval adorning his face. Shit, even Sir Gal—knight of King Arthur’s Court and protector of the Holy Grail—was present and accounted for, examining a manila folder from the seat of a padded leather club chair.
After spending months and months stalking the nightmarish hellscape of Pandæmonium—with only ass-ugly Levi for company—seeing all of those friendly faces should’ve been a balm for my weary, demon-infested soul.
But they weren’t. Nope. Only one face mattered.
And that face stood out like a neon sign in a pitch-black alleyway. A neon sign that strobed Punch-Me, Punch-Me, Punch-Me in electric blue lettering.
My mind flashed back and in an instant I could feel sharp cold steel pressed against my throat while James whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I’m afraid I can’t let you do this, old sport.” A cloud of inky-dark crows fluttered through my mind, swooping down in a whirlwind of sharp beaks and beady black eyes, resolving into a woman with long blonde hair resting on lovely pale shoulders poking out above an elegant dress red as freshly spilled blood. The Morrigan, though occupying the body of Ailia Levchenko.
The grin adorning James’s face faltered and faded into a thin line of horror as his eyes landed on me.
“Yancy,” he said. The words sounded strangled in his throat. “I... This”—he stammered, sweeping a hand around the room—“well, I can explain.”
“Good luck doing that without any teeth, you human dumpster fire.”
The sound in the room faded to a dull rumble, words all blending into an odd, incoherent roar as red rage invaded my vision. Without waiting for a response, I surged forward, long legs carrying me across the room in four quick steps as I threw myself at him.
He shot to his feet and darted right, bringing his hands up into a classic boxer’s stance, angling his hips and squaring up his shoulders. Ready for a brawl.
James was a scrapper, no doubt about it, and he’d been a member of the Fist of the Staff before I’d even been alive and kicking. The man knew his shit and was tougher than a Marine Corps drill instructor with a host of combat tours under his belt, a grenade in one hand, and a K-Bar clutched in the other.
I didn’t have two shits to give about any of that.
He was a dick.
He’d sold me out.
And even if he did have a damned good reason, he still had a dump truck’s worth of comeuppance barreling his way. There was a very real part of me that wanted to kill him where he stood, but I didn’t want to do it with magic. Tearing him apart with iron-strong bands of Nox would never bring the satisfaction I needed.
I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.
With an inarticulate roar I dropped low and hooked my closed fist into his ribs, swinging with enough force to snap bones. No pulling punches, that was for damned sure.
He was quick, though, dipping his elbow at the last second, deflecting the blow enough to prevent me from caving his ribs into his treasonous lungs.
James dropped back, striking with a jab that caught me on the cheek, opening a small cut beneath my eye. I had more raw metaphysical power than he did, but pound for pound, he was the better fighter, with a shit-ton more experience to boot. Still, I’d earned some fancy new muscles during my time trudging around the Second Circle of Damnation, and after everything I’d been through, a little nick on the cheek was hardly worth writing home about.
Off to my left, Sir Gal—the guy had a stupid girl name and no one could convince me otherwise—broke into action, drawing an odd weapon, the length and shape of a police baton, though made from an odd-looking mercurial metal that gleamed in the glow from the overhead lights. The weapon shifted as he moved, transforming into a blunt-headed mace, dulling as it hardened.
“Sorry, Gal,” I snarled, throwing out my left hand, palm up, unleashing a blast of raw force. I upended the behemoth conference table, scattering papers everywhere, and slammed it into the knight. Not hard enough to seriously hurt the guy—he was one tough son of a bitch, believe you me—but enough to stop him in his tracks for a minute or two. Enough time to finish my little impromptu chat with James.
Turning, I powered inside Sullivan’s guard, absorbing a punishing body shot to the chest for my troubles, and let loose with a flurry of wrath-fueled punches, working his stomach and sides, though keeping my guard up to prevent any more wild face shots. He took most of the blows on his arms and shoulders, but I managed to land a clean gut shot, which opened him to a nasty uppercut. While he groaned and reeled from the hit, I snaked my hands around the back of his neck. I couldn’t help but notice that my fingertips had turned an alarming shade of crimson, and thin spidery veins of purple and black were already spreading greedily up my wrists.
It was the rage. The burning hate.
Dismissing a flash of worry, I clinched down and drove a knee firmly into his balls. A dirty shot, sure, but in real life there were no low blows—rules were for suckers and amateur fighters. The hit extracted an oof of pain from my former friend followed by a string of muttered curses. With a snarl, I rocketed my leg up again, pulling down at the same instant, this time connecting firmly with his stomach. He wheezed and let out a strangled gulp as he tried to catch his breath, the color draining from his face.
His lips moved, and though I know he was trying to talk, the words made no sense inside my head.
I let go and backpedaled, opening up just enough room for me to lob a hard right directly into his cheek.
Blood flew from his mouth in an arc, bottom lip busted to all hell, and he stumbled, desperately trying to regain his balance.
Arch-Mage Borgstorm was moving off to one side, her gray hair bobbing as she maneuvered, her face an enraged thunderhead. She was yelling, a vein throbbing in her forehead, but as with James, the words came out as garbled nonsense. Though, to be fair, it wasn’t hard to imagine what she was screeching at me like a banshee. Comport yourself with a little dignity, Mage Lazarus, or something equally condescending and dismissive. Really, the words weren’t important. But the complicated construct of force and air she was summoning... Now that got my attention. Silvery bands of power bled from the air, perfect for wrapping up an opponent and restraining them.
But I didn’t feel like being restrained, and although Borgstorm was a big fish in the Guild, I had two—count ’em, two—demonic seals of power revving up my metaphorical engine. Plus, down in Pandæmonium, I’d actually been operating under a handicap. In the Great Below, trying to tap the Vis, the power undergirding all of creation, was like trying to quench your thirst from the plink of a leaky faucet that refused to let out more than the merest trickle of water. It was a nightmare and I’d relied heavily on the dark, demonic energy to pull my ass out of the fire.
Not here, though.
My feet were planted firmly in Inworld and power sang all around me, life-giving and delicious, just waiting to be embraced and shaped. Used to enforce my will. And with Levi’s fancy handiwork tattooing my arm with angelic containment wards, I could also harness the massive amount of Nox in my system without fear of losing total control to Azazel—Demon, Horseman of War, and all-around Asshole.
“I don’t think so,” I growled at the arch-mage while conjuring huge flows of air, braiding them together with raw force and a truckload of will, then tempering the construct with the creeping, toxic power of Anti-life.
Of Nox.
Or Avizo as my voodoo-slinging friends liked to call it.
My own version of the arch-mage’s construct took shape: questing tentacles of silvered mist exploded around me like a swirling cloak, but these were shot through with veins of pulsing violet power. The tentacles moved with a life all their own, directed by my subconscious mind. They sliced through the arch-mage’s weaves and slammed into her like a closed fist, batting her halfway across the room. Admittedly, kind of a dick move, but then, there was no real love lost between me and the arch-mage.
She’d actively tried to sentence me to death not so long ago, and she was currently consorting with a known enemy. An enemy that’d sold me out, screwed me over, and was at least partly responsible for the fact that my soul was now Club Med for demons.
Ferraro scrambled toward me—fear evident in her eyes—trying to position herself between me and James so I couldn’t beat the holy living shit out of him, which was the very least he had coming. A demonic voice whispered somewhere in the back of my head that I should just kill him where he stood, to stop wasting time, but I wasn’t willing to go that far. Not yet. Not without giving him a chance to explain himself. We’d been friends long enough for me to at least hear him out. But no one was going to stand between him and the ass-kicking he had coming in full.
With a thought, I used another of the silver tendrils of Vis-wrought power, this time wrapping it around Ferraro like a boa constrictor, securing her arms to her sides and encircling her legs like immovable shackles. I lifted her with a thought and forced her back against the wall, pinning her in place so she wouldn’t be hurt by the scuffle. Seeing her hanging there, though, left me feeling a little uneasy. Disgusted with myself. This was supposed to be a reunion with my friends, and I’d turned it into an absolute shitshow. The anger faded and dulled around the edges and as it did words started to make sense.
Albeit in fits and starts.
“He’s on our side, Yancy,” Ferraro was screaming, struggling against the mystic bonds wrapped snugly around her.
“She’s right, you know,” James said, righting himself and swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. A streak of bright red coated his pale skin. I had to admit, it was nice to see him bleed. “It’s not what you think.”
Hearing him talk only stoked the anger back up again. His hair was well-coifed as always, his attire barely rumpled from the scuffle. He looked like he’d spent the last year on a vacation abroad while I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been fed into a demonic meat grinder. Beneath my shirt, Haitian tattoos littered my torso, and golden seals and runes covered most of one arm. My face was a crisscross of scars, and my eye was still gone.
And that was his fault.
“Somehow, that doesn’t seem like much of a consolation,” I said, hunching my shoulders and charging him like an enraged bull. I drove my shoulder into his middle and wrapped my arms low, beneath his knees. He grunted and tried to resist, dropping a sharp elbow squarely into my back, but I fought through the slight discomfort. He was bigger than me—taller, heavier, and more thickly muscled—but I didn’t even break a sweat as I lifted him from the ground with a heave, pulled his legs out from under him, and slammed him into the creaky wooden floorboards running underfoot.
He landed with a groan and another wheeze.
Instead of relenting, I straddled him at the hips, a snarl forming on my lips as I delivered a rapid barrage of pummeling strikes. He tucked his chin and curled his arms in against his head, protecting his face. Didn’t matter. I beat relentlessly at his forearms and lobbed wild haymakers into the sides of his head, hammering at his ears and cheeks. Not doing a ton of damage, though relieving a phenomenal amount of pent-up stress.
Was I being the bigger man? No, obviously not.
Was there probably a good explanation for the shit he’d pulled? Yeah, maybe.
But I’d been on the receiving end of a lot of bullshit lately, so it was nice to be the one dishing it out for a change.
His breathing came in labored gulps and his arms faltered, flagged, and dropped away to reveal a face that was now swollen. One eye, black and puffy. I reared back, ready to drive a fist squarely into his nose, but before I could, an enormous gray arm slipped around my throat and dragged me up and away from the bloodied Battle Mage sprawled on the floor. Another heavy arm slipped across my chest and lifted me straight up with raw strength. I struggled and fought, feet dangling above the floor, beating at the implacable clay limb. It was like trying to dig through solid rock with my fingernails. That flabby arm could only belong to Levi Adams.
There was a blur of motion and suddenly Winona was there in all her Sasquatch glory, seven feet of lean muscle and red-brown fur, a pink ribbon holding back hair from her face. She positioned herself between me and James, dropping into a low squat, her jaw clenched in determination.
“That’s enough, Yancy,” Levi grumbled, his voice like boulders grinding in a cement mixer.
I knew I could try to swat him away with a Vis-wrought construct, but it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
Besides, I didn’t want to hurt the great gray shitkicker.
We weren’t friends exactly—he was wayyyyyy too screwy for that—but we were damn close to being friends, and the thing was, Levi was a good guy. A straight shooter. Even when it didn’t benefit him, the guy was honest. Almost to a fault. He’d also gone through a lot of hell lately, pun intended, and I owed him for everything he’d done for me. Over the past few weeks he’d liberated me from the demons tooling around in my soul and he’d saved my life more times than I could count.
I took a deep breath, allowing some of the anger to drain out of me—the red on the edges of my vision receding—and let the MudMan drag me away from Winona and James. Levi cinched down more tightly, easily wrapping his arms around me, holding me firmly in check. Reluctantly, I let go of the power flooding through my body, burning me up with life and sweet purpose. After spending so much time in the Great Below, mostly sequestered from the power of the Vis, it felt good to be connected to my power again. Like a junkie taking a hit after a bout in rehab. The silvery tendrils of power filling the room faded, evaporating like mist in the light of the sun’s rays.
Ferraro sagged and glowered at me, her expression sharp enough to cut glass.
“You done?” Greg said from his seat, cocking an eyebrow at me. He had a sheaf of papers in one hand and a beer bottle in the other, condensation beading on the outside of the brown glass. He hadn’t even tried to get up.
“Thanks for your help, Greg,” James mumbled from the floor, arms and legs sprawled out.
“I’m smart enough to know that I can’t go toe to toe with a daggon mage. Wouldn’t have done any good anyway. ’Sides, you had it coming, Sullivan. But...” He paused, turned his muddy eyes on me, and scratched his chin. “But now I think you’re probably square. You hear that, Yancy?”
