Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James Hunter Read Free Book Online

tired of having people take shots at me without at least knowing why.”
    “Fair ‘nough.” He rubbed at his chin for a moment, lightly scratching at his beard. “Fair ‘nough.”
    “This whole thing started ‘bout a month ago,” he said, “there were some gangland hits that looked like they might’ve belonged in our end of the pool. I always keep my ear out for that kind of thing, and when I saw these hits on the police blotter, I knew it was worth pursuing. Plus, the lead agent is a buddy of mine, Alan Harley, so I thought it would be safe to take a look. Al’s a detective with the Criminal Gang and Homicide Division—he’s been on the job a long time, seen some strange shit. Usually, he comes to me when he thinks it’s something the LAPD won’t be able to handle.”
    “Okay, so he came to you with it?” I asked.
    “No. I went to him.”
    “Well, why didn’t he come to you? Are you sure you can trust the guy?”
    “We’re not exactly regular drinkin’ buddies, but we’ve worked together a handful of times and he seems like an all right fella. I’ve taken a look at him, and he seems clean. Internal Affairs investigated him once upon a time—some suspicion that he might be an on-again-off-again informant for a few gangs, but IA cleared him. Hell, even if he is a little dirty, that’s none of my business anyways. Other than that—pretty vanilla. Has a wife named Judy. Lives in Burbank.”
    “All right.” I tried laying it all out in my mind. “So you approach Detective Al with your hunch and you guys have been working the case, but why drag me into it—gang violence isn’t up my alley.”
    “Good grief, Yancy, I’m gettin’ to it—hold your horses—you’d think you’d have learned some patience by now.”
    I took my last drag and snubbed my cigarette in the ashtray—the one Greg only ever uses when I visit—and gave him my most patient and winning smile. He didn’t look all that impressed, but hey, it’s all I’ve got to work with.
    “Now, like I was saying,” he continued, “I went to Al and we took a hard look together. There were a bunch of gang-related murders, mostly aimed at street level lieutenants in Gavin Morse’s organization. Morse is a relative small-timer who presides over a motor cycle club called the Saints of Chaos—runs some drugs and guns, has a hand in a few protection rackets. Still a small fry. His name is also the one in that cell phone you found.”
    “What about the hits, Greg? Why’d you call me in?”
    “Right, the hits. They were bad and they were excessive. Wives, children, family pets—scorched earth, no survivors excessive . Bodies ripped apart, charred, tortured. Enough blood to paint a house red.”
    “These attacks were literally inhuman,” he continued. “My guess is some kinda conjured demon or greater dark spirit. I wasn’t so worried about whatever was doin’ the killin’, but I was sure as hell worried about whoever was conjuring the thing. I can handle some small time hoodoo, maybe even a lesser familiar. Whoever conjured this thing, though, has serious chops—big-timer for sure. I don’t do big-timers. That’s for you and The Guild to take care of.”
    Greg was right, conjuring up a major demonic being or minor dark godling takes real power—even if you have a serious old-timey ritual construct to work with. In order to smuggle something into our reality, the mage, or practitioner, needs to create a bridge between our world and another disconnected dimension, then punch a friggin’ hole into the fabric of material existence. It’s not easy to do and if you do it wrong, there’s a good chance you’ll kill yourself in the process. Whoever was doing this had some serious chops all right.
    “So any ideas on the identity of the asshole calling up the demon?” I asked.
    “No. But I hear that whoever the Conjurer is, they were contracted to perform the hits by another outfit—Cesar Yraeta’s guys. Yraeta runs a powerful