The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 11. Chapter 11

"Yes," Vanus said into the phone, letting the person on the other line hear the first stab of impatience in his voice. "I realize the staff at the morgue is overwhelmed…I certainly don't want to add to your list of problems. But I did fax over a priority flag from the Theocracy yesterday morning, signed by my boss along with details of the victim. Now how hard can it be to find a corpse…excuse me, the remains of a corpse…that's been fried to a crisp?"

He paused long enough to let the self-righteous twenty-something give him their whiny speel. He watched life carry on outside his window, undeterred by the torrential downpour that had started an hour ago and wouldn't let up until the Good Mother only knew. Meanwhile there could be a potential killer out there, he had a new partner he didn't particularly like to contend with, and now he was back to paper pushing instead of what really mattered. Stupid, mundane crap like this is why the bad guys keep getting away, he thought.

He went on to remind himself there was a reason he did things by the book; even when his reputation as an agent suffered for it. Policies and procedures were a pain in the ass. They often got in the agent's way, prolonging their case. Everyone agreed on this while they grumbled about it during their coffee breaks. Vanus agreed with them to an extent. Particularly in moments like this when he wanted to go charging into the city morgue with his badge and staff. Then he remembered how many times those policies had saved his job and bit his tongue.

With the words compromise and professionalism and human relations etched firmly in his mind, Vanus forced himself to take a deep breath and release the pressure valve before the whole damn thing went up in a cloud of smoke. "How about my partner and I come down to the morgue ourselves and we can do the examination ourselves. We'll be in and out before you even know we were there."

"I don't know if my supervisor would be down with that," the voice on the phone began. Vanus ended the call before he could finish.

He sighed. Another crappy, rainy day.

"Problems?" a voice said.

For a moment Vanus had been so busy throwing himself a self-congratulatory pity party that he'd completely forgotten the eight foot tall Astorathian presence he now shared his office with. Not going to let me forget about you, though are you? Leaning against his desk, Vanus flashed Bazzelthorpe an exasperated scowl. "Part of the daily grind, y'know? I've been fighting with the city morgue for the past hour. We've got the approval needed to do the reading from the higher ups but there's just one more completely unnecessary, totally avoidable contingency we have to arm wrestle with."

"I like arm wrestling," Bazzelthorpe said.

The death magician grinned in spite of himself. "In this business that might be a good thing. How are things going on your end?"

"Slow. I've been combing the database searching for past cases involving the Sacred Brotherhood of the Blackened Cross; I cross referenced them with Chokmah."

"And?" Vanus asked with a forced patience he didn't feel.

Bazzelthorpe was not so inclined to hide his frustration. His nostrils flared, tail tapping against the floor; it made Vanus think of a large cat who's just had its fur mussed the wrong way. “There hasn't been a verified case since 1983. A suspect in a number of arsons was caught in a town just outside of Roc City called Tootulu.”

“I’m familiar with the town.” The black worm was back, twisting through his lower intestines. He found himself looking out the window to distract himself. Oh look there’s a plane in the sky, he almost said, and then realized the stupidity of this for there was absolutely nothing in the sky except smog. A fresh cup of coffee is the next thing on my to-do list.

Was it just his imagination or was Bazzelthorpe studying him again? Yes, studying was the only word. Scrutinizing. Judging. How ridiculous had Vanus looked strolling before the window as he argued with a first shift desk jockey at the city morgue? He knew it was an Astorathian thing. It was always strange…and fascinating…to see them become so still and watchful So predatory.

The fact that people with such a sizable physiology could be so agile did not surprise Vanus after the time he’d spent in the Slums. It was just as much their lifestyle as their biology. From the beginning of time to the Theocracy’s discovery of their civilization thirty years ago they’d been slaves. Bazzelthorpe’s gaze…whatever made his skin crawl. You’re a disappointment.

Bazzelthorpe cleared his throat.

“What?” Vanus snapped. “1983. I got it. It’s the first sighting of anything to do with Chokmah’s network in twenty years. Good work. Thank you for taking the time to look that information up.” He was blabbering now and he couldn’t make himself stop. “Unless the two cases are connected, which we don’t have evidence to suggest just yet, then unfortunately it doesn’t…” He cut the sentence off. He didn't need to give the Astorathian further cause to dislike him. "I need to stretch my legs."

In a single fluid motion, Bazzelthorpe pushed his chair back and rose to his feet with his coat draped over his arm like a scarf. "Let's go. I'm ready for lunch."

The death magician scoffed. "It's ten-thirty in the morning."

"I'm hungry," Bazzelthorpe rumbled as if this was explanation enough.

"Eat a bagel. Oh, that's right of course you don't like human food."

He was surprised when the Astorathian cleared his throat. The way his brow and tail drooped made him look decidedly guilty. "I…uh…I lied. I like chicken."

It took a moment for Vanus to recover from this new, unexpected wrench in the conversation. He was starting to get another migraine; he didn't need another one of those. "What?"

Bazzelthorpe's raised itself halfway off the ground. His lips, which were surprisingly full and semi-human looking, curled in the approximation of a smile. "I love chicken."

Vanus grabbed his coat and briefcase from the desk. "I know the perfect place. Should we walk or take the SUV?"

Bazzelthorpe paused. "SUV?"

                    …

They took a seat at the back corner of the chicken booth where Vanus could disappear back into the miniature laptop he'd brought with him. Disappear. Avoid. The words were interchangeable as far as Bazzelthorpe was concerned. I'm just here for the chicken.

The waitress who took their order was a tiny shrimp of a thing. Young and bubbly in the way that made Bazzelthorpe's headache. When it came to taking his order, she didn't quite look at him, always looking down at the notepad in her shaking hands. Bazzelthorpe pretended not to notice but an odd, creeping loneliness he usually felt on long nights touched his belly in the middle of the chicken place. When he ordered the eight piece family meal deal with a side of mashed potatoes, green beans, and four biscuits she stiffened. "Is this all going to be on the same check?" she asked in a squeaky-mouse voice.

"Separate," he growled through bared teeth.

The waitress let out a tiny mouse-squeak before turning hurriedly to Vanus. The death magician looked up with a tense smile, his hunched shoulders a plea for forgiveness. “I’ll just keep it simple with a two piece meal. Whatever comes with it will be fine.”

The waitress practically sobbed with relief when she walked away. “This is why I don’t go out very often,” Bazzelthorpe said in an attempt at conversation. After all, wasn’t this something you were supposed to do with a partner whom you might be working with for a while? Start a conversation? Get to know one another? Build rapport? These were all phrases the boss woman always used. Not that it mattered. Vanus had already dove face first back into his work, his face closed with an expression of concentration.

"What is the point in taking a lunch break if you're just going to work through it?" It was more of an experiment to see if the death magician was ignoring him or if he was truly absorbed in whatever mundane task he felt the need to complete.

Vanus looked up with that same distracted expression on his narrow features. A million thoughts seem to flicker through his eyes, each one blinking in and out of existence in a microsecond. Red broke out across the smoothness of his cheeks like the start of a rash. "Yes," he said with a tentative smile. "I suppose you're right. Forgive me for my lack of manners, it hasn't been intentional. Too used to operating solo. I tend to work through my lunch."

"I wonder what the boss woman would say if she knew you worked through your lunch." Bazzelthorpe gave a lazy flick of his tail to show he was teasing. It seemed to work because Vanus chuckled.

"I imagine she would tell me to lay my head down on a pillow or take some self-care," the death magician.

Somehow Bazzelthorpe could see Vanus doing just that: sitting at his desk with a small blue pillow (why it was blue in his imagination he could not say) and laying his head down to take a moment of 'self-care'. The thought made him chuckle along with the death magician. The tension in Van's shoulders as well as the swell of tension between the two agents eased.

"I was just looking at our caseload," Vanus explained. "There isn't a lot of bleedover…either you're very productive or you're only getting cleanup duty."

Bazzelthorpe cocked an eyebrow, his tail curling. Was the death magician mocking him? "Is that a problem for you?" His voice came out as a gravelly rumble that reverberated through the chicken place. Several heads turned to cast surprised glances in their direction. With but a few words the tension had risen anew between the two agents.

"Honestly it doesn't," Vanus ventured after a moment. "What I meant is usually the agents in our department carry a load of anywhere between ten to fifteen cases at a time. A few less assuming they're not battling a hangover from the previous night's bender."

Bazzelthorpe's tail gave a guilty twitch; the death magician continued as if he didn't notice.

"You have five," Vanus said. "And they're all quite menial. Between the two of us we can probably knock this out in a week."

Bazzelthorpe felt his eyes widen. It hadn't occurred to him that the death magician might be trying to offer him a compliment, not insult his intelligence with meaningless platitudes and sarcasm. He scratched around the edge of his horns, hating the way his cheeks cooled. “I try not to stay chained to my desk.”

“I know,” Vanus said with a commiserating sigh. “The amount of protocol and red tape we have to do is atrocious. Every night I leave my office feeling like my eyes have been burnt out of my skull.”

Bazzelthorpe’s tail tapped lightly against the torn vinyl that crackled beneath his weight when he shifted. For the first time since waking up this morning his head didn’t ache.

“Unfortunately the arson case has been flagged as the priority. The rest have been shadowed out.” Vanus frowned inquisitively.

“You don’t have a lot of cases either,” the Astorathian offered cautiously.

It must have been the wrong thing to say because the death magician grimaced with distaste. “At the moment I am…ugm…rebuilding my caseload. After I was put on leave all the previous cases I had were transferred to everyone else.”

“I know. I had a few of them.”

Vanus looked around with an expression that said he wanted to be anywhere else than at the chicken place. “Oh look,” he said. “Here comes the food.”

Sure enough the waitress came into view, balancing a large tray.

“It’s about time,” Bazzethorpe rumbled under his breath.

Vanus began pulling napkins out from the dispenser on the table. He wore a bemused expression. “Well you did order the family deal that feeds four people. It takes a bit longer to prepare.”

They did not speak again until they were on their way to the morgue. Vanus seemed perfectly content with letting Bazzelthorpe sit in the passenger's seat. He was also quite the little climber, maneuvering into the truck on his spindly legs. There had been a moment when his pert little rump stuck straight out in the air as he grabbed the handheld and pulled himself up the step. Bazzelthorpe found himself stopping to watch with an interest that had followed him since his visit to the death magician's apartment the day before.

Now that his belly was full (for the moment), and he was in a vehicle more suited to his needs, Bazzelthorpe felt content. He reminded himself that things were good: he still had his job, the only thing that had given him a sense of purpose since coming to Roc City. If not for Vanus being willing to give him a second chance he could be combing through the ads of the newspaper rather than parking in the lot of the city morgue.

Bazzelthorpe opened his mouth to thank Vanus, his heart suddenly swelling with gratitude, but Vanus was already hopping out of the truck. The Astorathian couldn't stop a growl of frustration escaping from escaping through clenched teeth. Does he ever stop moving?

By the time he came around to meet the death magician at the back of the SUV, Vanus was already crossing the parking lot towards the building. He's avoiding me, Bazzelthorpe thought. Was he really that difficult to be around? The boss woman is right. I must really need…What was it the boss woman called it? Refinement.

His shoulder knocked into something. Out of the corner of his eye the death was toppling over, his rump about to hit the ground. Bazzelthorpe reached for him without thinking, his fingers looping completely around Vanus's arm. He remembered not to squeeze the death magician's arm. It wasn't until he released Vanus that he realized he was startled. Irritated all over again. "Watch where you're going!" he snapped.

"I don't want to go in," Vanus said in a small voice.

"What?" Bazzelthorpe said.

"I hate morgues," the death magician said. He kept shooting nervous glances at the building in a way that meant he was talking more to himself than the Astorathian.

Bazzelthorpe realized the little man was sweating. Nervous. Maybe even afraid. The Astorathian closed his eyes, resisting the urge to take a fist and hammer himself in the face with it. You always did have a thick skull, Giel said in his mind. He remembered how Vanus had acted at the church. There had been something there, something he could see that Bazzelthorpe could not. Whatever had been there, it had frightened him.

“What did you see at the church?” he asked. “You acted as if there was someone else there, standing behind you.”

“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t concern this case,” Vanus said in that snippy tone Bazzelthorpe was beginning to recognize as a dismissal. “Don’t mind me, I’m just being a big baby.” He flashed the Astorathian a sheepish grin. “Just…you know…whatever they say about me at the office, it isn’t true.”

Bazzelthorpe blinked. “What isn’t true?”

“That I like to hang around with dead people. Dance with them, sleep with them, kinky stuff like that.”

Bazzelthorpe felt his own chest vibrate with a chuckle. The death magician was quickly starting to grow on him. “I didn’t think you did. Shall we get this over with?”

“Let’s,” Van said with a nod and together they stepped through the double doors.