The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 39. Chapter 39

Van’s apartment opened itself up to Bazzelthorpe as if it’d been waiting. Upon weekstepping over the threshold, he raised his head towards the ceiling and breathed in deep. Already Van's smell was familiar to him, distinct from the rest of the world. Bazzelthorpe could sense his presence like the trailing scent of a special cologne, vital and pulsing with life. He'd been here not that long ago. The Astorathian had come here in the hopes he would find a clue. It was a desperate, foolish thing to do, but he was tired and sore and the bosswoman was right…he wasn't ready to leave the hospital yet.

Already exhausted from the journey here, Bazzelthorpe ascended the steps to the bedroom. He gingerly lowered himself onto the bed and buried his head in one of the pillows; he was careful not to snag the case with his horns. He breathed in the death magician’s smell, clean and minty. You should be here lying next to me, the Astorathian thought. Close and safe where I can run my fingers through your hair. Where I can keep you safe. Why did you have to run off and be a hero? Why couldn’t you wait for me?

He wasn’t sure how long he slept before a loud knocking sound below snapped him into a sitting position hard enough to tip the bed over.

“Vanus!” a familiar voice called.

Bazzelthorpe’s nostrils fumed. His hands curled into fists. In a flash he was down the stairs. It took a concerted amount of self control not to tear the door off the hinges.

“What are you doing here?” Carlos demanded. He drew his head back to glare at the Astorathian.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I don’t need to explain a damned thing to you!”

“You’d better start.”

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of Van. I just heard about what happened at the hospital and his involvement with it. I know he was pretty hurt. He’s not answering his phone. Do you know where he is? I know he’s mad at me…”

“Yes, he is,” Bazzelthorpe interjected.

Carlos flashed him a bitter smile. “And you like reminding me of that, don’t you? You take every chance you can get. You know maybe I wasn’t the best boyfriend, but I do care about him. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Now where is he?”

Bazzel couldn’t stop his voice from cracking. “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone?”

“He’s been taken.”

“Taken. Taken by who?”

Before the Astorathian could tell the man that was Theocracy information, his phone vibrated in his pocket. The little device had never leapt into his hand so quickly. His heart plummeted when he saw the bosswoman’s name on the screen: BOSSWOMAN.

“What do you want?” he snapped coldly into the phone.

“Are you near a TV?” she asked him in a frigid voice that made his heart stop.

“Yes.” he said, barely daring to breathe.

“Turn it onto the local news.”

Bazzelthorpe waved a hand impatiently for Carlos to turn on the TV. The words "What you are about to see next could be very disturbing" passed through him like slivers of black ice.

For the first few seconds he wasn't sure what he was seeing. The camera on the screen was shaky, the resolution grainy. Crude lighting eclipsed all but the suggestion of a human head. Greasy black tendrils suggested human hair. Wide eyes, frightened and all too familiar, seemed to stare directly into Bazzelthorpe's through the flickering screen. Come find me, those eyes begged him. Bring me home. Bring an end to the terror and the suffering.

"You remember the Astorathian Butcher, haven't you?" said a familiar, wheezy voice. "It's been a while since he's graced your TV screens, but here he is raw and unscripted."

The camera drew back. Beside him Carlos drew in a breath. Van's face was puffy and darkened by fresh bruises and broken blood vessels from where he'd been struck multiple times. Nothing was worse than the haunted look on his face. Bazzelthorpe knew he should do something other than standing there and watching - I should be looking for him - but he couldn't make himself move. His feet were rooted to the floor.

"For the past year you've been led to believe this man is a hero," the voice continued on the screen. "I feel it is my moralistic duty to deliver the truth: I'm afraid this is a lie folks. Agent Vanus Kaufman is not who he's led you to believe."

The camera panned away from Van's face around to his sweat-dappled and bruised back to reveal the tattoo of The Blackened Rose. "For many years, before he became an agent of the Theocracy, he was raised by the hands of The Blackened Cross. He is a liar, a master manipulator, and a murderer…"

The TV blinked off.

Carlos' hand hovered in the air, the remote shaking in his fingers. All the blood had drained from his face.

"Turn it back on," Bazzelthorpe rumbled.

"I can't."

Coward, the Astorathian thought. The word almost slipped his tongue when an idea popped into his mind like a lightbulb exploding in the dark. It occurred to him he might not want to piss off the only other person who cared about the death magician to help him find him.

"So far I have no idea where he's being held. I don't even know where to start looking. We don't have a lot of time." Bazzelthorpe couldn't bring himself to say, We may already be too late. "I know a man who might be able to help. His name is Roan. He owns a club of sorts here in the city."

Carlos crossed his arms over his chest. "Why am I sensing a 'but' somewhere in there?"

"Because I don't know who or what he is. I know he isn't human. I think he could be dangerous and I don't trust him, but he knows Vanus and he has the abilities we need."

“I take it this is a party you can’t bring back up to?” Carlos asked.

Bazzelthorpe growled, jabbing a finger in the direction of the TV. “What is the point? The Theocracy is useless. What good have they ever done for anyone? What good have they done for Vanus? Look at where he is!”

"I figured you would say something like that," said Carlos. "I'll be your back up."

Carlos would not have been Bazzelthorpe's first pick of the litter, but what choice did he have? "I'm driving."

…

The door opened with the squeal of rusty hinges. The mouth beyond yawned open. Red light seeped up from the depths below. Bazzelthorpe wavered on the spot for a moment. He was not looking forward to another meeting with Roan. If you can remember all too well what their last encounter had revealed: confusion and pain and suffering; scabs that had begun to heal only to be torn open anew. He only had to think of the news feed moments earlier to replenish his motivation. He glanced back at Carlos. The man nodded back, perhaps sensing his hesitation. Bazzelthorpe still didn't like Carlos, but his presence was appreciated. Bazzelthorpe needed all the help he can get at this point.

Nadia was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, a permanent scowl screwed on her face. "Roan is waiting for you." She gave Carlos the briefest of glances, but did not add further comment.

Nadia led them past the stage and bar area into the back room where Roan waited for them at the table as if he'd never left. He rose immediately. "Good, you are here as I knew you would be." The urgency in his voice thickened his accent considerably. "We do not have a lot of time. Kaufman is in grave danger."

"We saw the news," Carlos said.

"Where is he?" Bazzelthorpe demanded.

"I don't know where he is. It is your job to find him. But I can help you look. I have something of his that will help reveal his location." He waved a hand and Nadia appeared at once, as if she'd been waiting in the shadows listening to the conversation all along. In her hands she carried a small ornate box with archaic symbols and runes carved into the sides and tops of the box in Greek and Egyptian. With one hand placed on the top and the other place on the bottom of the box, she handed it to Roan.

"What is it? " Carlos looked at the box as if it contained a bomb within it.

"Something that used to belong to Kaufman. He gave it to me when we met years ago. The box is merely a receptacle for the object inside, and is of little importance by itself. The object inside however is very important. For the time being it must stay contained. We will simply use it has a conduit to help us find where Kaufman is."

Bazzelthorpe's eyes lingered on the box. It was ancient looking and complex, unworn by time and migration. He didn't like it and he couldn't say why. It doesn't matter, Seil's voice said in his mind. You'll do whatever it takes to get Kaufman back.

Yes. I will not fail him the way I failed you, he answered the voice. "How do we do this?"

"You have to do very little," Roan said with the faint trace of a smile. "All you have to do is sit there in your chairs. I will do the rest." He rose gracefully from the chair, unfolding long angular limbs. He unfolded a large map of the city that spread across the circumference of the table. He went around the room and blew out the candles until only a single candle, placed at the center of the table, was lit.

"Vanus is a death magician," Roan said. "He has a natural connection with the realms of the dead. Who better is there to turn to than the dead themselves?"

"A seance?" said Carlos.

"Yes. Time is running out. We should begin." Roan pulled out a familiar wooden pipe that Bazzelthorpe remembered all too well. He remembered how Vanus had emerged from his high sobbing and shaking against him as if he might break apart? Would Carlos and he still have the same terrible experience?

There was no time to decide one way or the other. Already a plume of smoke snaked from Roan's mouth. Bazzelthorpe inhaled the smoke. The moment he felt it in his throat, began to cough; great wracking coughs that brought tears to his eyes. Once he was able to breathe the room spun in dizzying circles. He wasn't the only one. Beside him Carlos was coughing hard enough to make the table shake; his face was red as a tomato. Roan merely watched them as if this was a common occurrence.

Roam lifted the candle from the table. His face calmed in the small pinpoint of its glow. He almost looked peaceful. Bazzelthorpe envied his ability to be able to find the slightest modicum of calm. He cleared his throat. The air in the room went completely still.

The temperature plunged. Bazzelthorpe felt as if he was being submerged in cold ice-water; to he sensation was so sudden he gasped, the air catching in his throat. The candle flickered and danced about frantically but did not go out.

"We call out to the dead," Roan called. "Hear us…"

Bazzelthorpe sensed movement in the room, circling around the table. The icy fingers of the dead traced along the back of the Astorathian 's neck and his spine. When he looked down at his hand, fingers gray with decay, caressed the top of his hand. It took every ounce of self control not to look over his shoulder or tear his hand away.

"We need your help. One of your own has been taken. Vanus Kaufman…"

A thousand mournful sighs collected into one filled the room.

"...can you find him? Can you tell us where he is?"

Another cold breath caressed the back of the Astorathian's neck, another his ear. "Go to the abandoned paper mill," a dry raspy voice whispered in his ears. He could feel the eyes of the undead staring into his soul. A dark spot, no bigger than an ink drop formed on the map.

The location of the paper mill.

The location of Vanus.

"Find him," Roan said when the spell passed and all the candles had relit themselves. "Find him and bring him home."

"I'm coming with you, " Carlos said when they were back on the street.

“No, you’re not,” Bazzelthorpe growled. “This is as far as you go. This is where I do what I do best.”

“I can take care of myself, puta!” Carlos spat. “I know how to fire a gun. I’m not a pussy.”

“I didn’t say you were. But I can’t watch your back where I’m going. This is not a firefight if you want to get into. If you want to help me you can start by trusting Vanus and being a better friend. You owe him that much. We both do.”

The ex gritted his teeth in frustration. For a moment he looked like he might scream. When he looked back at Bazzelthorpe he had the look of a man who’s in the middle of a play he has no role in and has at last accepted it. “Find him and bring him home.”