Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James A. Hunter: Character Interview

Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

The Yancy Lazarus Series, Episode 2

James A. Hunter

Genre: Adult Urban Fantasy

Publisher: Shadow Alley Press

Date of Publication: May 22, 2015

ISBN: 978-1514234266

ASIN: B00WDQCY30

Number of pages: 415

Word Count: 111,000

Cover Artist: Dane, EbookLaunch.com

Book Description:

PRAISE FOR COLD HEARTED:

Yancy Lazarus is back and facing off against his most dangerous foe yet—without the benefit of his magic. A breakneck thriller that'll keep you turning the pages!

—Sam Witt, Author of Half-Made Girls (Pitchfork County Novels)

Yancy Lazarus just wants to be left alone. He wants to play his blues music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise leave the supernatural world to fend for itself.

He especially wants to be left alone by the Guild of the Staff—the mage ruling body—where he used to work as a Fix-It man. But when a little kid gets nabbed by an ancient Fae creature from the nether regions of Winter and the Guild refuses to set things right, he just can’t seem to heed good sense and leave things be.

Nothing’s ever easy though. Turns out, the kidnapping is just the tip of one big ol’ iceberg of pain and trouble. It seems some nefarious force is working behind the scenes to try and unhinge the tenuous balance between the supernatural nations and usher in a new world order. So now, if Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle, he’s gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent—an agent who’s been hunting him for years—in order to bring down a nigh-immortal, douchebag mage from a different era. And to top it off, Yancy’s gonna have to pull it off without his magical powers … Boy, some days just aren’t worth getting out of bed for.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE:

Spelunking

The tunnel stretched out before me like the throat of some monstrous serpent, icy blue walls radiating pale witchlight to guide my feet. I shuffled along the winding pathway, trying for speed and failing miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was often interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going treacherous as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so numb I couldn’t feel my toes, even though I had on heavy boots and thermal socks. Every friggin’ step felt like a crapshoot and I wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.

I heard a howl from somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise that echoed and bounced around the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for a moment, which is precisely when my feet skidded out from under me and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the slippery ground below. My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head landed in a pile of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment, staring up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.

Why me? Why couldn’t I ever just keep my head down and mind my own friggin’ business? I felt like kicking my own ass for being such a gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least I could do was be a little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors if the location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy, not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.

I guess, technically, Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place, so long as you’re the kind of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of Siberia. The buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved and sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a frozen waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the image of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a serpentine neck, complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s head. Under the light of day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond, and at night beautiful slashes of green and gold drift through the air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis. 

But it’s also piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue is—lifeless, still, too perfect. And the residents are all the same. Bunch of too-good-for-you, cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans night in a dirty bar with a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.

Down in the subterranean caverns below the city, where I happened to be trudging around, was even worse. Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot of frigid air. The light of day never penetrated these depths, so the cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent and alive, like some frostbite-belching yeti.

More yowls and howls, followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not nearly as cute or cuddly as they sound—closing in, and fast. Time to move.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy toddler taking his first steps, and shambled away from the chorus of mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.

If I was going to make it out of this place in one piece, I needed better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve got something a little handier than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the cheap stuff you see in Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not in-the-know. Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning force or energy. Simply put, there are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. It just so happens that I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

I paused for a moment, and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into me like magma from an active volcano, heat and life and energy filling me up, sending renewed strength into my limbs. I was careful only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked, the Vis can be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.

Weaves of fire and air flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a soft nimbus of orange light encircled me, granting both better visibility and a small pocket of comforting warmth. Sure, it would make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country club, but there was nothing I could do about that.     

I got moving again, huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied cries floated toward me from the tunnel twisting away behind. I needed to move faster, but the gloom still hampered my progress, forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the combined illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night place, a dark place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with tooth and nail.

Even going sloth-speed, I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were over the edge. I hollered and threw on the brakes in a panic—digging in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms as I fell once more onto my back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and immediately sprawled out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to slow me down a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing me onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb fingers, my thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.

I pulled more power, more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of fire out through my fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the ice-covered surface of the floor, little grooves where my digits could find purchase.

Unfortunately my gloves began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up curls of gray smoke. I ignored the heat—survival was my first priority. I dug in, giving it everything I had, arms and hands straining with the effort.

At last I skidded to a halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though it was a damn close thing. The tension in my arms and hands eased up as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips and legs back from the drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air. Past the drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight. Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to diminish the gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or ten thousand. Better not to find out by taking a leap.

My heart thudded hard against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mind you, but anyone would be apprehensive about the prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially unending blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.  

I heard a hoot of mirth just a second before something hard and heavy collided into my back—a wallop right between my aching shoulder blades.

My fingers tore free of their meager holds and over the drop-off I went, manic gnome laughter filling my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and down, flipping through the air like a fumbled football. I caught just a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering over the edge, his whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.

I lashed out with air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to slow my descent. That was a start, but the construct wouldn’t keep me from getting impaled on a giant icicle or busting my guts open on a rocky outcropping.

So next, I pulled in strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and reinforced bands of fae power, floating through the air like so much dust. A shimmering bubble of green—shifting from emerald to pine to jade and back again—snapped into place with an effort of will, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight pressure on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.

Splash-thud. 

Author Bio

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

You can visit me to find out more at 

Facebook    Twitter     Website 

Author Message

Hey folks, my name is James A. Hunter and I’m an Urban Fantasy writer, not that you’ll catch me making that confession in public. I’m the author of the Golem Chronicles—starring a dysfunctional, socially awkward, vigilante, shapeshifting golem—and the Yancy Lazarus series, which revolves around the adventures and various shenanigans of Yancy Lazarus, a magical, wet-works man turned rambling blues hound. I’d like to thank Diane for inviting me on to her wonderful blog.

Character Interview  

Please welcome Yancy from James A. Hunter's Cold Hearted to Diane’s Book Blog. 

What is your name? Do you have a nickname?

Name’s Yancy Lazarus—bluesman, rambler, magical wet-works man for the Guild of the Staff. Well, former wet-works man, I suppose, since I’ve technically been outta the game for fifteen-years or so, though, you’d never guess it by all the douche-holes constantly trying to fit me for a toe-tag.

How old are you?

It’s rude to ask how old someone is, you know that, right? Not that I really care, understand, I’m just laying it out there. Anywho, I’m sixty-seven, old-enough to collect retirement benefits, but for a mage, that’s still pretty spry. Not a young-buck, not anymore, but not golden-oldies territory. We live a long time—three, four-hundred years sometimes—so late sixties put’s me firmly in my prime and into the realm of unruly mage teenager. And I sure-as-shit don’t look sixty-seven, I can pass for early-forties, if you don’t look too closely.

Where were you born? Where have you lived since then? Where do you currently call home?

Plentywood, Montana, little dirt-speck of a place, but mostly I grew up poor on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. My Pop was a gambler—like his pa before him—though he wasn’t a particularly successful one, a big part of the reason we were so poor. When my old man wasn’t betting the ponies or playing poker over at the VFW hall, he and Mom, along with the family, ran a little barbeque joint. Made some mean ol’ ribs. We’d called those bad-boys Last Meal Ribs, ’cause if you were about to hang or fry, those were the last thing you’d want to taste.

I’ve lived a lot of places since then. Did time over in Okinawa, Japan, back in ’68 that was, stationed at Camp Butler with the 3^rd Battalion 3^rd Marines. That was before Nam. Since then I’ve been all over the place, though my heart belongs to the Big Easy—nothing I love better than, blues, booze, artery-clogging BBQ, and smoky bars. And that? That’s the heart and soul of New Orleans. These days, though, I don’t have a permeant home per say, since I’m basically an itinerant hobo, living out of the back of my car, gambling for beer money.

What is your most treasured possession?

Puff, easy-peasy. Seriously, complete no-brainer.

My single most treasured possession is my car, which conveniently doubles as my place of residence: a midnight blue ’86 El Camino with a high-gloss, black camper shell attached to the back of the truck bed. Yeah, you heard that right—an El Camino with a camper shell. At first it might sound a little funky, but believe you me, it’s one sweet ride and it’s about a gajillion times cooler than having a stupid apartment.

I mean, the camper shell doesn’t have a shower or toilet, so it doesn’t make a proper home, but it does give me a nice little nook to keep my gear and catch a long blink once in a while.

And it’s a beast—a 355 Chevy small block, turbo 350 transmission, posi-track rear differential. Absolute beast. Fast, mobile, badass-squared and she can take me pretty much anywhere I please. I’d also bet dollars to donuts that my home can beat your home in a car race any day of the week.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

Hoo-boy, now this question is a bit of a sore spot for me. Used to be, I had a lady in my life, Ailia. A real sweetheart. Back before I left the Guild, she and I had been working an op in the court of the High Tuatha De Danann: ye olde Irish gods of badassery. A fairly straight forward recovery mission—supposed to get back an MIA Guild ambassador—but things … let’s just say they went south. Real south. Like all the way to hell, south. Long story short, the Morrigan, war goddess and all around hardass, ended up possessing Ailia. Now she wears her body around like a bad Halloween costume.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

I’m sorta well known for my colorful vocabulary, so the phrases I must overuse are variations on ass, douche, dick, shit, turd. The basics really. For example, ass-hat, douche-nozzle, dick-cheese, shit-stick, turd-bag, and endless creative variations thereof. What can I say, I am what I am, alright?

What is your motto?

Mottos. Man do I love mottos. Matter of fact, choosing just one is a tricky bit of business. Let’s see—“improvise, adapt, and overcome,” is always a favorite of mine; it’s an oldie but a goodie, straight out of the Marine Corps playbook. I’m also a big fan of the motto, “pragmatism over heroism.” Heroism, isn’t really my bag, since idiot heroes die all the time doing idiotic, asinine hero things, and I like not being murdered horribly. And, as a rule of thumb, ruthless pragmatists have much better odds at survival, so for me it’s pragmatism over heroism all the way down.