The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 16. Chapter 16

Vanus stood amidst the rubble and ruin that had once been the Wishwood Suites, breathing in the smell of ash. Is this what lung cancer smells like? he wondered. It was a dark thought from a man who found himself in an equally dark mood.

The entire parking lot had been barricaded off to keep curious onlookers at bay. Cops waved at them in a lazy attempt to get them to move on. Tendrils of black smoke hung around the ruins like a wreath. The sky was grim, an overcast gray that only added to the horror of what had occurred here. Sharp gusts of wind blew flecks of ash in his face. Nausea corkscrewed through him; his stomach felt tight. This was not going to be pleasant. So far nothing about this case has been pleasant, he thought.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to sleep. His eyes burned with exhaustion.\

The misery must have shown on his face because Bazzelthorpe, who had been surveying the scene with an equal measure of unease, looked at him, his eyes simmering with concern. “You should hang back here,” he said, “if it’s bad.”

It was bad. Worse than the church had been. Far worse. Death and pain surrounded the place like a black veil, tainting the air. Firefighters and volunteers dressed in neon orange and yellow vests stood on stand by. He could sense their disquiet. Did they sense the evil that had visited this place, snuffing out lives like a candle?

“I’ll be fine,” he said impatiently. “Let’s get this over with.”

He felt the Astorathian watch him as he dug his staff out of the back seat of the truck; he had the feeling he would be needing it. When Vanus looked up at him, Bazzelthorpe looked away, blushing. What’s his deal? the death magician wondered. He pushed the thought from his head. He waved his badge at one of the guards who passed the Theocracy agents through with a single nod. He was surprised when he spotted a familiar face amongst firefighters and volunteers.

“Damn.” he said under his breath.

Bazzelthorpe turned his head; of course he’d heard him. “Problem?”

Vanus didn’t answer him. “Carlos?” he said.

The moment Carlos looked up from his conversation, Vanus regretted saying anything at all. The leftover humiliation from their conversation on Carlos’ porch rose up in him. Carlos’ words flashed through his mind, scalding and angry: You don’t have an open invitation here anymore.

“Vanus.” Carlos’ expression matched his own before shifting into embarrassment. He muttered something to the woman in front of him then turned to the death magician. “I should have known they would send you.”

“What are you doing here?” the death magician demanded and pondered at the anger he heard ringing in his own voice. He already knew the answer, he was simply being petty; Carlos was a first responder.

A voice cleared their throat. Both men looked around. Since seeing Carlos Vanus had completely forgotten about Bazzelthorpe. The Astorathian towered over them, draping both men in his shadow.

“Who’s this?” Carlos asked; his voice faltered.

“This is Agent Bazzelthorpe. He’s my new partner.”

Carlos raised a dark eyebrow. “Partner?”

“We’re working the case together. Bazzelthorpe, this is Carlos. We’ve worked together on a few minor cases.” A muscle twitched in Carlos’ cheek. Apparently the fact that Vanus hadn’t said We used to date stung. It was time to get to work. For the sake of his head, which felt like it was about to explode, the death magician didn’t want to be here any longer than he had to. “So what do you have for me? We only just got the call, so we don’t know anything.”

“It’s not pretty,” Carlos warned him. “They’re still pulling bodies out of the wreckage…what’s left of them. I suggest you talk to one of the firefighters. They saw some things that spooked them.” He waved a hand for both agents to follow him. Vanus thought he heard Bazzelthorpe growl something under his breath, his tail flicking in annoyance. Was there anything that didn’t get on his nerves?

The trio walked several yards away from the burned wreckage. Vanus could still feel the shadow of the place at his back like a hand sneaking up to grab him from the dark; he was glad to get some distance from it. Carlos pointed at a middle-aged man in a firefighter’s uniform. “That’s Charlie Vickers. I suggest you talk to him.”

“Is he a witness?” Van’s heart sped up with something like hope. Carlos didn’t hear the question. Someone else had flagged his attention. To his partner he asked, “How should we do this? Do you want to question Vickers or should I?”

The Astorathian did that weird smile of his that was equal parts grimace and smirk; the only way Vanus could tell it was an actual smile was the way his eyes brightened. “Your face is much prettier than mine. My nose is better than yours. You question the fire fighter and I’ll walk around the scene and see if I can pick anything up with my senses.”

“Sounds good.” Vanus stopped, puzzled. “Did you just call me pretty?” He turned but the Astorathian had already walked away, his back turned. For the sake of the Good Mother, get to work Kaufman. Time to do what you do best.

As it turned out Vickers was all too ready to tell him what he’d seen. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion; a fresh burn mark in the shape of a thin line marked his cheek. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said with an unsteady voice. “You hear about stuff like this happening…but hearing about it and seeing it are two different things.”

The death magician nodded. I know just how you feel, he thought. In his most soothing voice he said, “I’m sorry. Things like this are never easy. I realize you might have already given a statement to the police, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? I promise to make it quick and painless. There’s a chance this fire could have a connection with another fire that happened a few days ago.”

“The whole building was already up in flames by the time we got here,” Vickers said. “That building is made of steel and glass and is damn near twenty stories tall. How does a building burn that fast? We couldn’t get anyone out. No matter how hard we pounded on the doors…no matter what we did, they wouldn’t open.” His words were coming out in harsh gasps, his eyes wide.

Vanus gave the man a chance to catch his breath; he recognized a panic attack when he saw one.

Vickers took a deep phlegmy breath. “There was a…man, at least I think he was a man. He looked like a man, but it’s hard to be sure. He walked out of the flames, burning, naked as the day he was born. And yet it was like the flames didn’t do anything to him. In fact he was laughing. Laughing like he was having the best damned time of his life.” Tears gleamed at the corner of Vicker’s eyes. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life…I pissed myself. I haven’t done that since I was five years old.”

Vanus thanked him for his time. To ask more of the man would have been cruel.

“Kaufman.” Bazzelthorpe walked up behind him. His tail lashed about irritably; his nostrils flared. “This place reeks of Inferno. I want to leave.”

"You and me both; I think we've seen enough for now." Vanus didn't know what to make of Vicker's story. It wasn't so much that he didn't believe the man, he did, he just didn't know what to make of it. If Van's feet were planted more firmly on the ground, he would have questioned the rest of the responders to see if their stories matched up. Today was not that day. They needed to regroup, fill out the report, and come up with a gameplan. What better place was there than back at the office? He waited until they were back in the SUV, Bazzelthorpe at the wheel again (it seemed an unspoken agreement had been reached that he was the designated driver) before voicing the question that had been rattling inside his head. "I want to go back tonight. I want to do a cleansing."

Bazzelthorpe did not reply for a long time. Vanus began to think the Astorathian hadn't heard him when he said, "Are you going to put the request in for it?"

"Normally I would hold myself to it but not tonight." The words came out in a rush he couldn't stop. "Last night I had a visitation from a spirit. A security guard." The spirit's words echoed through his head: Help me…I'm burning…We're all burning. "I'm starting to wonder if he's one of the many victims who perished in the fire. A man I questioned told me he saw a man walking out of the flames on fire. His skin did not burn."

"It sounds like magic to me."

"Perhaps. If that happens to be the case then this person won't be an amateur occultist. If that's not the case then someone's using him as a tool. A death angel perhaps." A name sat on the tip of his tongue; he swallowed it. Too many implications he wasn't ready to think about; he didn't have enough evidence to start making assumptions just yet.

"It will be dangerous," Bazzelthorpe said.

"Probably," Van said. "At the church it was just one man. This was a massacre. So many deaths in one place will dissolve the barrier between here and the Void, making it easier for nasty things to slip in. A cleansing might not bring all the lives lost in the fire, but it's a step in the right direction. Of course if you don't want to, I won't hold it against you." He said this with a humorous twist, an attempt to break the newly risen tension between them.

It must have worked because the Astorathian barked out a laugh loud enough to make the windows rattle in their flames. "And miss all the fun? I think not."

"That man we talked to earlier, Carlos. The one you said you worked with on a few cases? Why did he upset you so much?"

Both the abruptness and directness with which the question was asked The question hit Vanus like a bucket of ice-water dumped over his head. "Upset me? He didn't upset me. I just didn't expect to see him there, is all."

Most people would have backed off, sensing his reluctance, and left the topic alone. Agent Bazzelthorpe did not. "I could tell by the expression on your face…the way your heartbeat quickened, the smell of your sweat…"

"Why do you care?" Van scoffed with sudden disgust. "What business is it of yours? How would you like it if I started asking questions about your past?"

More silence of the painful variety followed. The light turned green. Traffic moved at a slow crawl.

"I've never been good at talking to people." Bazzelthorpe's voice came out so rough Vanus had to strain his ears to understand. "I didn't mean to offend you." His red cheeks whitened. "I don't have any friends. I don't talk to anyone, not even my neighbors. The Good Mother knows people have tried to be kind to me. I guess I don't have it in me to be kind."

The death magician blew out air through his teeth; blood simmered beneath his cheeks. Why did he feel so embarrassed, like he had something to hide? Why do I care so much about what he thinks? he wondered. He didn't know why and he couldn't stop. "Carlos and I were lovers."

What he wanted to say but didn't was, I lost my job, my partner, and sanity in one fell sweep. Any more questions you want to ask me? He choked down the words.

"I'm sorry," Bazzelthorpe said. His expression was unreadable, but he sounded like he meant it.

Vanus nodded. It was the closest he could come to saying Thank you. What he did say was, “Hey, can we make a quick detour? I just had an idea.”

…

“I’ll try to make it fast. I might have to rummage around a bit; it’s been a while since I’ve been here,” Vanus said a moment later. With a grunt he rolled up the door to his storage unit…only he wasn’t tall enough to get all the way to the top. You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s just ridiculous.

Before he could say I got it, Bazzelthorpe stepped forward - smirking as he did so, and this time there was no question about it - and lifted it the rest of the way.

“I had that,” Vanus said indignantly.

“You’re tiny,” the Astorathian said. “Even for a human.”

The death magician couldn’t help but smile. It seemed this trend of getting along would continue for the time being. “No need to gloat. Not all of us were made to stand almost three meters tall.” He switched on the flashlight, ducking into the shadowed interior of the storage unit. Boxes and storage tubs were stacked neatly along the wall, labeled in legible handwriting with black Sharpie. The room smelled faintly of dust, of darkness. He could sense the protective powers of the wards he’d put in place to keep spirits out. Bazzelthorpe waited respectfully by the door.

Carefully Vanus started pulling out boxes. It didn’t take him long to find out what he was looking for: an old antique camera. It wasn’t until he turned to face Bazzelthorpe once more that he suddenly felt nervous. He approached the Astorathian cautiously. Bazzelthorpe was scanning a bookshelf lined with leather bound volumes on various topics of the occult. He had to stoop slightly to keep his horns from grazing the ceiling.

“I figured you could use this,” Vanus said. He held out the camera, making sure to use both hands.

Bazzelthorpe looked down at it. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What is it?”

“It’s a camera.”

He turned away, beginning to walk back to the vehicle in disinterest. “I don’t need a camera.”

“This isn’t just any camera.” Vanus had to break into a short jog in order to skirt around Bazzelthorpe. “It doesn’t just take pictures. Not only does it let you see spirits when you look through it, it has the power to exorcize them. See…?” He pointed at the ring of steel around the viewfinder where runes had been engraved in the metal. “I bought it at an auction when I was traveling through Japan. It may not look like much but this is a very powerful weapon. It will come in handy tonight.”

“So will my shotgun,” Bazzelthorpe said confidently.

“This is better than your shotgun.”

“I doubt that.”

Vanus scowled. “Do you always have to be such a stubborn ass? Do you actually enjoy getting on my nerves?”

To this Bazzelthorpe chuckled. “You do very interesting things with your face when you’re annoyed. I find it very amusing.”

“Well stop it.” Vanus brandished the camera at it. “We don’t have time for verbal sparring today. Take the damn camera.”

The Astorathian looked away, his expression becoming sheepish, his eyes drifting down to his boots. He cleared his throat, his tail tensing. “I’ve…I’ve never used one before. I’m afraid I’ll break it.”

A lightbulb went off in Van’s head. The reason for Bazzelthorpe’s reluctance to take the camera became clear to him. “This thing is almost a hundred years old. It’s not going to break. It’s not that different from using a gun: You just point and shoot.”

“Will it stop your whining?”

“Yes.”

Bazzelthorpe grumbled something under his breath before taking the camera gently from Van’s hands; the camera looked ridiculously tiny in his large hands but he didn’t drop it. He held it as if afraid the device would crumble into dust. Now that he looked down at it Van could see the gleam of fascination in his eyes. Don’t need a camera my eye, he thought. He had to bite his lip to keep from grinning.

“It’s heavier than it looks.” The Astorathian’s voice rang with surprise.

“People made things to last in the old days. Not like they do now.” Vanus carefully drifted closer. “Let me show you how to hold it. May I?” He reached out a hand towards Bazzelthorpe, hovering halfway across.

The Astorathian nodded somewhat stiffly; his shoulders were tense as if he were afraid the death magician’s touch would infect him with a curse. Or maybe he’s just afraid he’ll drop the camera, Vanus thought, again wondering why he care so much about what Bazzelthorpe thought of him.

He stood close enough to Bazzelthorpe that he could feel the heat radiating off the Astorathian. He knew Astorathians had naturally higher temperatures than human beings but now the death magician was beginning to sweat and it was below thirty degrees outside. He forced this thought out of his mind as he lifted Bazzelthorpe’s index finger and placed it gently over the button. “See?” he said gently. “Just like that. Not so bad, is it?”

“No,” Bazzelthorpe said in a strange voice, as if he was afraid to breathe. “I suppose not.”

“Keep holding it like that. Stay there.”

“Where are you going?” the Astorathian asked. Immediately he sounded suspicious.

The death magician bit his lip to keep from issuing another scowl. He walked towards the direction of the car, stopped in front of it, and then turned to face the camera again. “Just take my picture. Hold the camera up to your eye and peek through the little black hole. When you have me in the viewfinder, you press the button. But before you do, tell me if you see anything you normally wouldn’t see.”

“How will I know?”

You’ll know, the death magician thought. He let his silence answer for him. Stop asking questions and just take the damn picture.

Bazzelthorpe raised the camera to his eye slowly. The moment he did, the death magician heard him make a gasping sound, saw his tail jerk.

Vanus resisted the urge to turn around, to look both ways. “Is something there?” he asked. He tried to sound casual, but the unsteady quake behind his words betrayed him. He resisted the urge to reach out with his mind. If there was something there, something awful, did he truly want to know what it was?

Bazzelthorpe did not answer. He seemed every bit as frozen as Vanus.

“Agent?” Vanus said. The fluttering anxiety in his chest bloomed into petals of growing panic.

“No,” the Astorathian said and his posture relaxed. “There isn’t.”

Liar, the death magician wanted to say. He knew there was something there, standing either behind him or beside him, perhaps grinning at Bazzelthorpe from over his shoulder. And for some reason Bazzelthorpe was too frightened or too embarrassed or too whatever to tell him what it was.

“Aren’t you supposed to smile?” Bazzelthorpe asked.

“Take the picture,” Vanus said through gritted teeth.

Bazzelthorpe pressed the button. The camera shuddered before disappearing into one of the gigantic pockets of his coat.

“What did you see?” Vanus said with a frown.

“It’s not important.” Bazzelthorpe pulled down the door to the storage unit, refusing to look the death magician in the eye.