Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel by James Hunter

Author:James Hunter [Hunter, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, Paranormal & Urban, Metaphysical & Visionary, s Adventure Fiction, Fantasy Action and Adventure, Dark Fantasy, Paranormal and Urban Fantasy, Thrillers and Suspense Supernatural Witches and Wizards, Mystery Supernatural Witches and Wizards, mage, Warlock, Men&apos
Amazon: B00R7QEFN8
Published: 2015-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN:

Shoot Out in Burbank

I sprinted around the outside of the house, dropping to a crouch as I neared the front side of the building. The heroic thing would have been to jump headlong into this snake pit full of trouble, but as a general rule I try not to be a hero. Ever. Heroes don’t live long. Let’s be real here, it wouldn’t serve anyone for me to run out guns-a-blazin’ only to find myself pumped full of holes because I hadn’t taken the time to figure out the lay of the land. Remember, pragmatism before heroism is always the best policy in a gunfight.

I cautiously rounded the corner, keeping my back against the house. Greg was pinned down behind the far side of his vehicle, directly across the street from my position. He kept a low profile, rising just long enough to send a handful of well-placed shots toward the three assailants advancing on him from the neatly trimmed front lawn. The three looked mostly human, except for the fact that a multitude of bullet wounds littered their arms, torsos, and faces. No human could survive that. The 5.56 caliber, M-4, NATO rounds weren’t going to put these guys down for keeps—that much was clear—but they were giving them pause and putting a little hitch in their giddyup.

Fortunately, Greg and I had come prepared, Semper Paratus. Greg also adheres to the policy that pragmatism beats heroism any day of the week. Vis constructs are virtually worthless against Rakshasa—like ducks and water, my friends—but there are still things that pack a major wallop for their kind. There are few things in this world, and that includes the preternatural world, which are truly invulnerable. In my experience, every Superman has their kryptonite.

Rakshasa have their own version: either lots and lots of large-caliber bullets, or industrial grade insecticide. There’s not a pesticide I know of that will kill Rakshasa outright, but most serious pesticides will impair their cognitive functions, reaction time, and ability to heal rapidly—all the things that make them so irritatingly difficult to kill. Greg and I had coated our bullets in Fipronil, which is one of the active ingredients in most cockroach sprays and baits.

Firpronil is some foul stuff and is poisonous to just about everything under the sun, including people and, more importantly, Rakshasa. It disrupts their central nervous system, but it doesn’t work instantaneously. It has a delayed toxicity which—in the amounts we’d used—would kick in after a few minutes. These poor sons a bitches probably didn’t even realize anything was wrong yet. Maybe they were feeling an incy wincy bit slower than usual, but not anything to write home about. That would change in a hurry.

I brought up my revolver and lined up my shot on the baddy closest to Greg’s car. Just an average looking guy—maybe 5’10” with a slight paunch and wearing a pair of glasses, khaki pants, and a neat button up which had been scattered with bullet holes. He looked like your typical dad, maybe a sales manager or a high school English teacher, sans the bullet holes.

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