Read Online Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) by James Hunter - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hunter
Tags: dark fantasy, mage, warlock, 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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shepherd’s crook, stolen kingdom.
His tale wasn’t much more than a shadow of a legend; told, retold, and practically forgotten hundreds of years before I was even a glimmer in my pop’s eye.
Once upon a time, long, long ago—or so the story went—Winter had a nasty king, a merciless creature more brutal and dastardly than all of his kin and kith combined. He was a tyrant with a terribly heavy hand. Basically, the king of pricks. One cold day the King of Winter ventured out of his icy lands to visit the Black Lodge, home to Arwan the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae.
While en route, he ran across a gentle and noble spirited hippalectryon —part horse, part rooster, all genetics-experiment-gone-wrong—and slew the beast because he was a colossal dick. But in doing so, he pissed off the wrong fairy, Gyre-Carlin, Mistress of the Unfettered, and a violently protective wildlife activist. She didn’t take kindly to the Winter King offing ol’ Horsy McRooster-face, so she swore revenge, orchestrated a massive uprising, and eventually drove the evil king into exile, end of story.
Except, maybe it wasn’t the end of the story. I had a feeling that said ousted king was the old fogey sitting before me.
“You’re Old Man Winter,” I said.
“Give the meat monkey a cracker,” he cackled, still unmoving. “Aye, and Jack Frost too. Used to be I ruled all of Winter. Sadly, my power has somewhat diminished. But with this new vessel …” he tilted his crook toward the boy in the cage, “I shall be young again. Powerful enough to redress old grievances.” He smiled, his teeth sharp points of black ice.
“Look Mr., err, Winter, I guess. This doesn’t have to get messy,” I said. “Give us the kid and we’ll up and ditty-bop our asses right outta here, no problem. Leave you to hang out in the fae retirement home, watching your shows all afternoon. Whatever. Bygones be bygones and all that.”
He laughed again, the sound as raspy and dry as old leaves, his body quivering. “Such a petulant child. So disrespectful. Let me tell you about bygones, young man. In bygone years, I’d have frozen off your fingers and toes, blackened your arms and legs with frostbite, and left you nothing more than a useless lump of flesh. A torso, forever suffering, never dying.” He laughed again.
“Wow,” I said, “sounds like you were a real people person back in the day.”
“Look here,” Ben interrupted, “I don’t care who you are. We aren’t interested in playing any kind of game with you. I’m here for my grandson, and you’ll return him now, or face the full weight and wrath of the Guild of Staff.”
Another choking round of laughs. “Nonsense, Benjamin Altschuler, we all know it is just you and this … this …” he waved his feeble hand in my direction, “washout down here. The Guild did not approve of your incursion.” He thumbed his nose. “No, you are down here because you are desperate.”
“Hey there, Golden Oldies,” I said, “I’ve been desperate plenty of times, and it usually turns out poorly for the other guy.” I pulled out my revolver—big ol’ mean-looking son of a bitch—and pointed it at him. I knew it probably wouldn’t fire, but maybe he didn’t.
“Now I know you supernatural folks don’t give a shit about mortal weaponry. Understandable, since most mortal weaponry doesn’t even function out here in the fae boonies. But this? This is a special peashooter, amigo . Bullets are cold iron, Jack, and last time I checked, you fairies don’t much care for cold iron.”
I thumbed the hammer back. A revolver doesn’t have a safety, only a double action trigger mechanism. With the hammer back, it meant the trigger was only a hairsbreadth away from sending lead down range … well, in this case the gun probably wouldn’t actually fire—might explode in my face. But in principle, hot lead was only a hairsbreadth away.
“Posturing, young man. We both know your aptly named
His tale wasn’t much more than a shadow of a legend; told, retold, and practically forgotten hundreds of years before I was even a glimmer in my pop’s eye.
Once upon a time, long, long ago—or so the story went—Winter had a nasty king, a merciless creature more brutal and dastardly than all of his kin and kith combined. He was a tyrant with a terribly heavy hand. Basically, the king of pricks. One cold day the King of Winter ventured out of his icy lands to visit the Black Lodge, home to Arwan the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae.
While en route, he ran across a gentle and noble spirited hippalectryon —part horse, part rooster, all genetics-experiment-gone-wrong—and slew the beast because he was a colossal dick. But in doing so, he pissed off the wrong fairy, Gyre-Carlin, Mistress of the Unfettered, and a violently protective wildlife activist. She didn’t take kindly to the Winter King offing ol’ Horsy McRooster-face, so she swore revenge, orchestrated a massive uprising, and eventually drove the evil king into exile, end of story.
Except, maybe it wasn’t the end of the story. I had a feeling that said ousted king was the old fogey sitting before me.
“You’re Old Man Winter,” I said.
“Give the meat monkey a cracker,” he cackled, still unmoving. “Aye, and Jack Frost too. Used to be I ruled all of Winter. Sadly, my power has somewhat diminished. But with this new vessel …” he tilted his crook toward the boy in the cage, “I shall be young again. Powerful enough to redress old grievances.” He smiled, his teeth sharp points of black ice.
“Look Mr., err, Winter, I guess. This doesn’t have to get messy,” I said. “Give us the kid and we’ll up and ditty-bop our asses right outta here, no problem. Leave you to hang out in the fae retirement home, watching your shows all afternoon. Whatever. Bygones be bygones and all that.”
He laughed again, the sound as raspy and dry as old leaves, his body quivering. “Such a petulant child. So disrespectful. Let me tell you about bygones, young man. In bygone years, I’d have frozen off your fingers and toes, blackened your arms and legs with frostbite, and left you nothing more than a useless lump of flesh. A torso, forever suffering, never dying.” He laughed again.
“Wow,” I said, “sounds like you were a real people person back in the day.”
“Look here,” Ben interrupted, “I don’t care who you are. We aren’t interested in playing any kind of game with you. I’m here for my grandson, and you’ll return him now, or face the full weight and wrath of the Guild of Staff.”
Another choking round of laughs. “Nonsense, Benjamin Altschuler, we all know it is just you and this … this …” he waved his feeble hand in my direction, “washout down here. The Guild did not approve of your incursion.” He thumbed his nose. “No, you are down here because you are desperate.”
“Hey there, Golden Oldies,” I said, “I’ve been desperate plenty of times, and it usually turns out poorly for the other guy.” I pulled out my revolver—big ol’ mean-looking son of a bitch—and pointed it at him. I knew it probably wouldn’t fire, but maybe he didn’t.
“Now I know you supernatural folks don’t give a shit about mortal weaponry. Understandable, since most mortal weaponry doesn’t even function out here in the fae boonies. But this? This is a special peashooter, amigo . Bullets are cold iron, Jack, and last time I checked, you fairies don’t much care for cold iron.”
I thumbed the hammer back. A revolver doesn’t have a safety, only a double action trigger mechanism. With the hammer back, it meant the trigger was only a hairsbreadth away from sending lead down range … well, in this case the gun probably wouldn’t actually fire—might explode in my face. But in principle, hot lead was only a hairsbreadth away.
“Posturing, young man. We both know your aptly named
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