The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 7. Chapter 7

“Disappointment?”

Judging from the way his eyes widened, this was not the answer the death magician had been expecting. His brow furrowed in confusion, the pale skin dimpling into a crack. Even in the wake of his outburst, the promise of devastation it would cause, Bazzelthorpe was fascinated by how the death magician’s face worked. It constantly shifted, each movement exaggerated and unrestrained. Bazzelthorpe was beginning to become aware of a sadistic pleasure that took joy in playing with the death magician’s face. Even if it was for vengeances’ sake.

For the first time that day Giel’s voice spoke in his voice, always vying for reason whenever Bazzelthorpe’s not inconsiderable temper got the best temper. Yield to reason, Bazzel. Remember this man is not your enemy. This time there was no reason to be had. He might not ever get another opportunity like this and Bazzelthorpe was nothing if not an opportunist. He thought of all the nights he sat on his squeaky sofa, hugging Giel’s ashes to his chest while he watched Vanus on the screen, those pretty lips making promises they couldn’t keep. Now those lips were pursed in a pouty expression of indignance.

Most would have backed away by now, not wanting to risk a confrontation with the Astorathian they would not survive, but the pretty little magician merely scoffed. He wiggled a bony digit in a forward motion. “You can’t leave it there. I can tell you’ve been hanging onto this for a while. Take your punches, have your fun.”

“I guess I just expected more from the man who caught the Astorathian Butcher,” Bazzelthorpe said before he could stop himself. “Instead all I see is a sniveling coward who couldn’t do his job right. Another cop who let another girl die. Did you try to find her or were you too busy batting your eyelashes at the TV screen?”

The death magician’s expression faltered then. Bazzelthorpe watched it shift from setting to setting, looking for a place to land. The Astorathian was not as ignorant as he was sure his deep-set eyes would suggest. He could see the blow he’d thrown had reached its mark. It was in the lowering of those dark lashes, the deepening of the brackets around his mouth that made him look older than appearance would suggest.

“I see,” the death magician said. He turned and walked away, seeming smaller than ever.

Bazzelthorpe expected to feel a twist of triumph, like he’d achieved a small token of justice for the death of a girl who the city (except for those who lived in the Slums of course), had forgotten. Not to mention the many victims beforehand who’s faces had already faded from the papers. He’d expected for the death magician to puff out his chest as many men would have done. No one likes to be called out for their mistakes. He hadn’t expected Vanus to look sorry. He hadn’t expected himself to feel sorry for seeing it on the death magician’s face…and being the one to put it there.

…

Nights in the Slums were long and lonely. On most nights he was too depressed to go anywhere and do anything, so he sat in his armchair, drank whiskey, and basked in the blue glow of the television screen. By two in the morning he was plastered enough to slip into something like sleep. In truth it was more of a vaporous stupor in which he surfaced in and out of distorted dreams and taunting memories. He didn’t know if any true Astorathian who’d immigrated to the city from the lands of Inferno were capable of true sleep.

In the morning the wailing of the alarm clock jerked him into something resembling consciousness. Habit pulled him out of bed where he nursed his accursed hangover with water from the tap, aspirin, coffee, and sandwiches made of the cheapest ground meat he could find at the butcher slapped between two pieces of bread. If he woke early enough he went to the gym where he swam laps along the pool and a round or two with a sparring partner he knew on a first name basis; if he didn’t wake early enough he simply went for a jog. Once this part of the routine was taken care of he felt something close to sober. A long, hot shower took care of the rest.

Technically he wasn’t required to be clocked in at his cubicle until nine o’clock, but he was always the first one in his cubicle. In his first days as a rookie (I’ve been an agent for a year now; am I still a rookie?), he’d felt cramped in his boxed cubicle that was just big enough to fit his broad shoulders. Now he was used to it. He was only at his desktop long enough so that it appeared he was somewhat present. The rest he handled from his laptop which he could conveniently use from the spacy cabin of his truck.

This was how Bazzel’s morning normally went. It wasn’t pretty but it worked.

That was not how this morning worked.

This morning started with the worst hangover he’d had in weeks. The kind that made him feel as if his brains were sloshing around inside his head and the nausea as if the world was upside down. He barely remembered stumbling to the bathroom, squashing crumpled beer cans and empty whiskey bottles in his wake. The entire apartment shook when he fell to his knees to give his offering to the porcelain altar.

He slept for another two hours, slipping from one fevered dream into another. When he woke up there was no time for a shower. That was okay. He could slather on deodorant and brush his teeth. Instead of drinking coffee here he would grab a cup at the HQ.

He didn’t recall what the source of last night’s turmoil was until he paused just outside his cubicle. From his vantage point the Astorathian had a perfect view of the death magician’s door. The door to his office that was. It was closed, the blinds drawn, the lights out. A frown made Bazzelthorpe’s lips droop. His tail, which had been twitching agitatedly on the floor, rested to a limp halt. There were two other people who were here earlier than he was.

The vampire captain and the death magician.

The vampire captain was here. The death magician was not. Before he could stop himself, Bazzelthorpe found himself drifting towards the door with the golden plaque that read VANUS KAUFMAN, DEATH MAGICIAN.

“Mr. Bazzelthorpe, a moment if you please.”

It was the boss lady. She stood expectantly in the doorway of her office. Normally she was all smiles and platitudes but this morning seemed to be the exception. Her eyes were hard, glittering diamonds that fastened onto his with the promise of conflict. He nodded, willing his tail not to flick with annoyance. He should have known it was only a matter of time before he did something to put his reputation under question - as if it didn’t have enough dirt on it as it was.

Once he entered her office she politely asked him to close the door. Her smile and shoulders were stiff. Bazzelthorpe himself felt a bit stiff. His thoughts raced, his tail tensing up. If I lose this job, what will I do? The thought of lowering himself to a factory job was enough to make him perspire.

“You can relax a bit, Bazzelthorpe. I’m not firing you.”

His tail unraveled slightly.

“You and I do need to talk,” she said.

Was it his breath? Could she smell last night’s whiskey on it?

“Vanus put in a request for a reading in yesterday’s report on the church case,” she said.

Ah, there it was, the real reason he was in here. Was he a fool for expecting anything different? Yes you are, Giel’s voice said. Though the rendition belonged to a ghost it was perfect, down to the hint of smugness.

“That’s...good,” he said reluctantly with a cough when she did not continue.

“He also said that afterwards he wants to hand you the reins on the case.” The boss woman enunciated each word slowly as if she were speaking to a child. “He wants to step away from it. ‘Not the man for the job’ were his words.”

“Really?” Bazzelthorpe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Though he was almost a full foot taller than the captain, the full weight of her sharp-edged scrutiny made his skin prickle.

“Though he did not say what the reason was, he didn’t need to. I’ve worked with Agent Kaufman for a long time. He’s usually not one to turn down a case. I could be wrong, but I have a strong hunch this has to do with the little spat you two had in the little boy’s room.”

“If he didn’t tell you anything then how do you know what was said?” the Astorathian demanded.

The boss woman blew a raspberry in exasperation. “Mother, help me, you really are as stubborn as you look. Need I remind you I am a vampire, Mr. Bazzelthorpe. And things got quite heated between the both of you. Believe me, it wasn’t due to nosiness on my part. If everyone knew the things I overhear in this building they would march me straight out into the sunlight…I’m trusting you not to say anything, of course…”

“Does this conversation have a point?”

“Yes,” she said, the tips of her incisors flashing in irritation. “You were not here during the Astorathian Butcher case. It was long, grueling, and political. It dragged out as all things political tend to do.” All at once this conversation was edging towards the drop of a cliff. Were he holding a can of beer in his hand (or something stronger), Bazzelthorpe would have downed it all in one gulp.

“We had to be very careful with how we handled the investigation,” the boss said. She’d slipped back into the gentle tone she used when in the briefing room. “The activists and left-ring liberalists were marketing the situation against the Theocracy: We didn’t care enough. In truth, as a political power we don’t. We’re still too new. We still haven’t gotten over the old Christian values. They may be outlawed but they are still very much with us. It’s only been three-quarters a century after all…”

Bazzelthorpe felt his tail relax completely. Normally the mention of such a topic would have had him storming out of the room in a fury, but in this instance he found himself strangely fascinated. Enough to let the boss continue uninterrupted.

“By the time Vanus took the case, half a dozen victims had already been found. Hate crimes were spreading in other areas but the cameras were mostly focused on the Slums…Of course they were, that’s where the murders were happening. But the robberies and protests and riots were happening everywhere else. While I focused on policing the wide-spread afflictions of the conflict, Vanus became the face of the investigation.”

Bazzel’s arms curled in on themselves as if to pull Giel’s ashes closer to himself; it was only when he realized his arms were empty that he remembered he was in the boss woman’s office not his tiny apartment. The boss woman’s emerald eyes remained fixed on his; not once had they flicked away or blinked during this interaction.

“Every agent here at the Theocracy has ‘the case’,” the captain continued. She punctuated this point with a boneless twitch of her index fingers. “The one that defines their career. If you haven’t discovered this, you will soon enough. The Astorathian Butcher was his. And it broke him.”

“Broke him?” Bazzel asked. Time seemed to freeze.

“Yes. When it came out that the Butcher had managed to laugh in the Theocracy’s face with one last victim, Vanus worked night and day to find Hellen. Stopped eating, stopped sleeping. He drove himself to the brink of insanity. I’ve seen it happen to many agents. It’s never pretty. To tell you more would betray Van’s trust, so I will end this little soiree by giving you a little task. It’s really quite simple, but I wouldn’t treat it as something to be dismissed.” Her eyes narrowed, and her tone turned into a warning. “Because as of right now this is the defining moment of your career. Are you listening?”

Bazzel could only nod.

This time when the boss woman smiled there was nothing sweet about it. “I am giving you until nine o’clock tomorrow morning to convince Agent Vanus to rejoin the case. If you do not, I will fire you on the spot.”

Bazzel sat up. A growl escaped his throat. “You...you can’t do that. That would be…”

“Extortion? Discrimination?” The captain arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “That’s how you would see it. I’m just doing what’s in the best interest of the Theocracy. I need Vanus on this case. Because I need him on this case I need you on this case…”

The Astorathian opened his mouth to object. The captain waved the words away with her hands. “Do not interrupt me,” she said sternly.

His jaw clamped shut with an audible creak.

“Go to him, apologize. Do whatever you have to do to get him here by morning, ready to get back to the desk with a clear head tomorrow. If you cannot do that…” The boss woman’s eyes glittered with finality, and Bazzelthorpe knew her school-teacher-marm routine was a costume; of course it was, this woman was a chameleon. Who knew what her origin truly was. Did she know it herself or had that too been taken by the creature who walked in her stead?

She didn’t need to finish her threat. Bazzel knew what was at stake and even more so, he knew who he was. Where he came from. What he was. He was an Astorathian. This city, this world, was not his home. Sure he paid his taxes here, tossed coal into the furnace that kept the machine going, but he would never be able to plant a flag in this land. Each moment was the fear of mis stepping, of being sent back to those dark labyrinthian streets, and let’s face it folks the living conditions are a thousand times worse than anything the Slums lacked. To be real with himself, she was not threatening with deteleportation, but she was threatening his pride and she was threatening him that there was no justice to be had. Words like rights and constitution meant fuck-all in the end. They were just flashy and looked nice on paper.

So he would do what needed to be done and kiss the ass of whoever needed kissing. And if he was being honest, no one was really twisting his arm.

“I’ll get it done,” he said.