Free Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) by James A. Hunter Page A

Operations Defensive Protocol Reference Manual, Second Edition , chapter two. But there are exceptions.” She bobbed her head.
    “Like us.” She smiled, nose crinkling, then swept one hand toward me.
    “Like you,” the guard repeated skeptically. “And who exactly is your friend, Judge Drukiski? He looks …” She paused, brow furrowed. “Unwell.”
    “Oh, don’t worry about him,” she said, folding her hands. “He’s fine. And his identity isn’t important. We’re on special assignment from the arch-mage, and as an O4 grade officer with the Judges Office, the containment order doesn’t pertain to me anyway. Not at this location. You can check the reference manual if you’d like—you’ll find all the pertinent information listed in the chain of command section. Appendix B. You do have a copy of the reference manual with you, dontcha?”
    The thickset female guard with the Beretta wilted a tad, glancing uncertainly toward the other guards. “Well, ma’am”—she cleared her throat—“no, actually.”
    A gangly male guard with spidery fingers shrugged, his lips turning down, eyebrows raised. “It’s Judge Drukiski.” His words were clipped, precise, British. “If she says it’s in the regulations, it’s in the regulations.”
    “Maybe we should call it in?” the fräulein offered to her fellow guards.
    “Oh sure, of course,” Drukiski replied, issuing them all a hard smile. “Please, by all means feel free to call it in. Though gosh”—she paused, crossing her arms, tapping a foot restlessly—“I imagine the Command Staff probably has quite a bit on their hands already. I sure know I wouldn’t want to be the one bothering Arch-Mage Borgstorm or Fist Leader Quinn right now. Especially for a redundant, unnecessary request. But”—she shrugged apologetically—“you just do what you think is right. I completely understand.”
    “Come on, Annaliese, just let them through,” said the last guard, a petite woman with braided black hair. “Annual reviews are next week—I don’t want to have a write up in my folder. Especially not from her.” That last was a mumble, but I still caught it.
    “Yeah, okay,” the fräulein officer—Annaliese, apparently—finally replied, sliding her pistol back into the holster at her waist. “You and your guest can go, Judge Drukiski.” She paused, worrying at her bottom lip. “Just one more thing?” she asked, a sheepish grin skittering across her round face.
    “Hmm, what’s that?”
    “Well, annual reviews are next week, and a recommendation from you could go a long way with the board.”
    “I’ll consider it,” she said with another warm motherly smile. The thickset fräulein edged aside while the other two unbarred the entry door, motioning us through with broad, fake smiles.
    Huh, how about that shit?
    Maybe I could learn a thing or two from her, after all. Who knew all those bullshit rules, which drove me batshit-crazy, were actually good for something? Like lawyering your way around all the bullshit rules, apparently.
    The irony was not lost on me.
    I glanced back at the Gwyllgi—there were five of those sons of bitches now—still lingering on the edge of the mist, staring hate and death and pain at me. A low growl built in the air as Drukiski and I headed into the Cubiculi ex Ostia , but the hounds made no move to follow. I grinned in spite of the terrible situation, feeling like this was a small victory, and flipped those asshole dogs the bird just as the door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the sound from outside, encasing us in silence.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
    SEVEN:
     
    Cubiculi ex Ostia
     
     
     
    My good mood was fleeting as the sudden quiet of the Chamber—interrupted only by my breathing and the scuff of Drukiski’s shoes over the granite floor—descended on us. Despite the fact that this place hadn’t been a crypt in a thousand years or more, it still held the feel of a tomb. Cold. Dank. Dark. Dead. There was a