Savage Prophet
The Yancy Lazarus Series#4
James A. Hunter
Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press Inc
Date of Publication: Oct 7, 2016
ASIN: B01LW3ZVGH
Number of pages: 415
Cover Artist: Lou Harper
Legions of murderous undead, Haitian voodoo, and a five-thousand-year old serpent god.
Yeah, ’cause that’s exactly what Yancy Lazarus needs in his life: more complications. As if being the Hand of Fate and the newly appointed guardian over one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse wasn’t headache enough.
All Yancy wants is an easy life on the open road—chock-full of ribs, beer, cigarettes, and smoky bars blaring with gritty blues music—but that just isn’t in the cards. Nope, not anymore. He’s been charged to save the world and now that he’s got a no-shit demon riding shotgun in his head, he’s sorta committed to the cause.
If Yancy can’t sort through this colossal heap of bullshit, he’s coffin bound. But, he’s not dead yet. In fact, he even has a lead.
Turns out one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the pale Rider, Death—is slumming around in one of Yancy’s old haunts. In order to corner this new threat, though, Yancy’s gonna have to face some deadly supernatural nightmares from his distant past. And, to make matters worse, he’s not the only one trailing the Pale Rider. A powerful new mage with some serious magical chops, is also aiming to find the Fourth Seal and he’ll do whatever it takes to win. Even if it means hurting those closest to Yancy … Like F.B.I. Agent Nicole Ferraro.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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