Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) Read Free

TV dinner. It was high time I made preparations to get sweet, sweet revenge on the sadistic gnomes skulking around these tunnels, hunting me, and otherwise causing mayhem.
    I’d teach ‘em a thing or two. There was a single tunnel connected to the narrow strip of land curving out from the cliff face—perfect for setting a trap. I pulled in more Vis and wove another small orb of fire outside my shelter, about halfway between me and the tunnel, where it was sure to be seen by any searching eyes. Then I crafted a rough simulacrum, basically an illusionary double of myself, sitting near the fire with its back exposed to the tunnel opening.
    The simulacrum wasn’t a great piece of work, just a crude, unmoving mannequin, which kinda, sorta resembled me from a distance. An average-looking guy, about forty—even though I’m actually in my mid-sixties—with short, dark hair and unremarkable height and build. A pair of blue jeans (though I had long johns on underneath), some sturdy winter boots, and a thick fur-lined coat. Yeah, it resembled me all right, at least if you had bad eyesight.
    Listen, I’m not the best with illusions. Glamours are more my thing.
    Now in a lot of circles, the terms “glamour” and “illusion” are used interchangeably, and understandably so because they achieve nearly the same effect: they deceive. Even though they get similar results, they aren’t the same thing by a far stretch. Illusions, or veils, fool people by actually creating a different image, which is projected over a person, object, or scene. Illusions exist, in a manner of speaking, in real time and space; they work by tricking the optical nerves in the eye. Glamours, on the other hand, deceive not by tricking the eye, but by tricking the mind. A glamour doesn’t create an image that the eyes see and send back to the brain. Instead, a glamour suggests directly to the brain that something appears to be different than it really is.
    But my illusion would work fine as bait. I mean, the thing was sitting out in the open, silhouetted by a fire, with its back exposed. Plus, gnomes aren’t terribly bright.
    Then I hunkered in and waited, letting the sparse warmth in my shelter settle into my bones.
    After another few minutes, I heard the soft and unmistakable sounds of garbled gibberish, which is what passes for the ice gnome language. They were closing in. I mentally patted myself on the back. Well played, Yancy, well played .
    I wanted to pull my pistol and level these jerks, or maybe roast the whole lot of ‘em with a column of fire—sort of my specialty—but both options were out. My gun was mostly dry now, but there was a small chance the bullets were still wet. Normally, that wouldn’t necessarily be a problem since, contrary to popular opinion, most firearms will work even when wet. But potentially wet rounds combined with artic temperatures? Bad idea all around. At arctic temperatures, the action could seize, the ignition powder could cause a hang fire, not to mention the gunmetal itself would be brittle as old china. Better to play it safe.
    And tossing around flame here was as tricky as trimming lawn hedges with a set of plastic scissors. It’d get the job done eventually, but it’d be a helluva slog. I’d manage, though. I’ve always been good winging things on the fly.
    I spotted a pair of the stumpy, blue-skinned creatures emerging from the tunnel, just at the periphery of the firelight’s reach. Squat and broad, like living chunks of ice, with fat legs and arms completely covered with crystalline spikes. Thick craggy beards of white hoarfrost (both the men and women have these, which is strangely disturbing) and the trade-mark conical cap, though razor-tipped. Little shits could head-butt like no one’s business.
    They didn’t advance, however, but rather stood motionless, lingering, waiting. Maybe they could tell something was off.
    The fire crackled lazily while I waited, biding my time, playing it cool.
    With