The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 2. Chapter 2 (revised)

The man who’d captured the Butcher of Innocence and appeared on the Roc City Tonight Show scarcely resembled his real life counterpart. Baraq recalled those long nights when every mother in the slums of the city had clutched their children to their breasts in fear for their lives; between this and the threat of the plague it seemed that no one was safe from the wrath of death. Only one voice served as a guide during those long dreadful nights when Baraq was on the brink of madness, wishing his eternal existence would come to an end at last. The magician’s reassurance, the kindness he’d shown the camera with his eyes had stirred something like hope within Baraq, reinforcing the lie that everything would work out in the end.

The Butcher would meet his end, but his spirit would haunt the city a month after his death. Another child had been snatched. This time the city would not wait with bated breath. The abduction of Hellen Vance sent the media into a renewed frenzy. It was like something out of a badly written serial drama: Just when you thought the show was over a new, horrific twist revealed itself.

Everyone knew the girl was dead, it just hadn’t been confirmed yet. When the body was found it was as if the city no longer cared. Vance and the Butcher were erased from the papers as if they’d never existed, Vance’s plight forgotten. Kaufman graced the television screens twice more, once to attend the Butcher’s public execution. Then he disappeared and did not resurface for almost a year.

Baraq now knew where the saying about never meeting your heroes came from. Kaufman was shorter than he’d appeared on Roc City Tonight. Fine-boned and long-fingered with a narrow build, he kept his dark brown hair brush pack so it swept past the collar of his shirt. Dark blue eyes scanned the shattered windows and graffitied walls of the church ruins with intense concentration from the safety of the truck Baraq had commandeered. “Well there it is,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

By the time Baraq was able to squeeze his bulk out of the truck - his horns kept getting in the way - Kaufman was already rummaging around inside the truck. He slid his arms through the leather straps of a holster, attaching a five foot long staff to his back. Much like a gun, magicians required a license to carry a staff. The symbols and runes etched into the steel reflected the gray afternoon light.

Baraq drew up beside him. Standing next to Kaufman was like standing next to a child who thought being an agent of the Theocracy was a game. A fantasy to share with friends. “What are you bringing the staff for? Expecting to get attacked by squatters?” He couldn’t disguise the bitterness he felt towards Kaufman. I used to look up to you. It turns out you’re nothing more than a phony…a coward.

“If the squatters were smart, they’d stay away from this place,” Kaufman said in a voice that brooked no further comment. Mocking or otherwise. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Whatever we encounter in there…and I have the feeling we’re going to encounter something…you won’t be able to take it out with your firearm.”

Baraq drew aside the flaps of his coats to reveal the sawed off shotgun he kept tucked inside. “Happy now?”

This earned him a smile from Kaufman. “If there were any squatters inside, I’m sure they’d think twice before messing with you.”

I still don’t like you, the Rephaim thought.

Baraq took the lead while the death magician fell behind him. He kicked aside the crumple up beer cans and twisted cigarette packs that littered the lawn choked with overgrown weeds. The smell of mildew and rotting wood curdled in his nostrils. They passed through the entrance which yawned open like a hungry mouth. Darkness awaited them beyond the threshold. Kaufman hesitated long enough to whisper something under his breath before touching the torch-shaped pendant at his throat. “Elysia, may you watch over me…” So religion was another one of his idiosyncracies. None the matter, it only made him a greater fool in Baraq’s eyes.

Once he was finished wiping the tears from his eyes, Baraq found himself staring up at the artifact of a dead religion: a man nailed to a holy cross.

The other cross was on the floor, cordoned off with yellow security tape that glowed in the gloom. Pale daylight seeped in through the holes that the fire had opened up in the rafters and walls. The death magician stopped in his tracks. Since entering the church a transformation had come over him. His eyes, no longer blue, burned with a bright white inner light. He stood within the center of a flickering dome of light. Gnosis. The divine-given powers that all magicians wielded. The dome no doubt acted as a shield of sorts. From what, Baraq could only guess. As far as he could tell they were alone within the charred walls of the church. He stood at the edge of the tape, mere inches from where the corpse had lain. His back remained stiff.

He was looking at something over his shoulder. His teeth chattered together as if he was very cold.

Baraq followed his gaze.

There was nothing there except the gloom. Past experiences made him skeptical. It doesn’t mean something isn’t standing there. You’re not as insightful as you used to be, old pup, he reminded himself.

Something was there behind the death magician alright. He just couldn’t see it.

…

The moment Baraq and he entered the old Christian church, Kaufman knew there was something wrong with the place. It had nothing to do with the neighborhood or the houses around it. The horrible act that had occurred here was more than just senseless brutality. By now it would have saturated into the walls and floors, leaving behind a stain that would never be entirely washed away. He could feel it in the air. Outside no cars or people passed by, sick with the plague or otherwise.

The presence of evil chilled the air, turning his breath white. It was good they had come here during the day when the volatile energies trapped inside were not as active. The passing of a soul from the mortal realm into one that existed within the Void left doorway open in their wake. Judging the way his tail was curled into a tight ball, it seemed the Rephaim didn’t want to be here either. He had his shotgun out.

Upon stepping into the flimsy walls of the church a crawling sensation creeped over his flesh, making the hairs on the back of Kaufman’s neck standon end. He’d allowed himself to become distracted by his new partner. In doing so the shield that would protect him from the dark forces inside the church had begun to seep through. With a push of his will and a crackle of gnosis, the shield around him solidified.

Cordoned off by yellow security tape, the Blackened Cross waited for them just as he feared. Dust covered pews, Bibles, and shattered syringed littered the floor around it like relics from a race long since forgotten, erased by the sands of time. The shadows here were so thick, not even the light seeping through a hole torn in the ceiling could illuminate the Blackened Cross. The eye of Hamon winked at the two agents as if to say, Too late, I beat you to the chase.

The darkness and the cold closed around them, stygian and alive. Kaufman looked down at the Blackened Cross and was afraid. A prayer touched his lips, but he did not say it out loud for fear that the Baraq would hear him and find a new reason to mock him. The Blackened Cross was no ordinary bit of graffiti. There was a power around it that bled into the rotting wood, into the dank ash-smelling air itself. He could feel invisible fingers crawling around the top of his scalp like spiders, trying to breach his skull.

A voice parted the shadows, making the dust move, low and bestial and hungry: “Vanussss…”

Kaufman froze.

The voice had spoken from behind him.

Kaufman felt his thoughts disperse. He tried to cling onto the fraying thread, but it was futile. They slipped from his grasp before he could regain hold of them, slippery as snakes. He wanted to touch his necklace if only to reassure himself, but he couldn’t even lift his hand.

He knew if he turned he would see something standing behind him. Something that would reach out with clawed hands and take him. Those clawed fingers would clamp around his torso and snatch him up. The jaw of a megalodon would open like a black yawning cavern and devour him whole.

He looked at his partner who had not stopped, was not even aware something was wrong.

Hey stop! he wanted to say. Help me. He didn’t have the words or the will to speak. His stomach twisted. His bowels threatened to spill their contents.

“I can smell your fear and it smells gooooodddd,” said the beast.

If you don’t pay attention to it, if you don’t acknowledge that it’s there, then it can’t touch you, his mind jibbered.

“Don’t turn around, don’t turn around.” It occurred to him then that the sing-songy high-pitched voice he heard was his own.

“Death magician.”

It was Baraq. The fallen angel’s shadow fell over him, tall as a brick wall and just as solid. His eyes glowed like beacons. Like the headlights of a car, Kaufman thought. In his mind he ran towards them, a drifter running down an endless highway.

“Are you alright?” the Rephaim asked when he did not respond. For the first time in their limited interaction he sounded something other than indifferent. Kaufman closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of his voice the way a composer might focus on a single note.

“It’s really loud in here,” he hissed. He barely dared to breathe. He was trapped, suffocating from the strain of keeping the darkness at bay.

“Deny me all you want,” the beast said. “Don’t look over your shoulder. Lie to yourself. But deep down inside you know I will always be with you, a whisper in the back of your mind…”

“This is not good,” he said nodding at the symbol burnt into the wood. “That’s the calling card of the Architect Harmon…”

“I know who it is and what it means,” the Rephaim said in a bored tone.

A hot knife was twisting in Kaufman’s gut, burrowing in his intestines. The cramps were so bad he feared he’d shit himself on the spot. Dots formed at the back of his vision. The darkness was tearing his thoughts apart quicker than he could put them back together. Even prayer failed him.

“Meet you back at the truck,” he managed to say.

It wasn’t until he was back at the truck that he could breathe again. Back at the truck, the Rephaim glared at him. This time Kaufman could not keep his comments to himself.

“Got something you want to say to me?” he snapped. He felt his hands clench into fists. He would not be cowed into silence by the Rephaim. If you think I’m afraid of you, you have another thing coming.

“No, no problem,” Baraq said. The smirk in his voice said otherwise.