by Norris Black
While Dagda searched the guardhouse for any clues as to where its delinquent minder might have gotten off to, I reached into my pocket and took hold of the snub-nosed revolver residing there.
"I was starting to think you abandoned me," whispered Parakas in my ear. "I thought we were partners, and you just left me in the hands of the Seraph? Unacceptable."
Parakas had proven adept at communicating visuals as well as words through our connection. This time I had the unmistakable impression of the daemon crossing his arms and looking away in a huff.
"First off, shut up," I hissed, checking to make sure Dagda was still out of earshot. "Secondly, we are not partners. And thirdly, I need you to do your thing."
"My thing?" Tone still a little huffy, but interest definitely modifying it.
"Yes, your thing. I need to know if there's anything out there waiting to leap out and stab us with sharp objects."
"Oh, that thing. All right." A moment passed. "It's all clear partner, no malevolent spirits detected. Present company excluded of course."
As I took my hand from the gun, I felt a twinge of regret and had to fight down a desire to take hold of it again. To feel the wonderful power it contained in the palm of hand. I gave my head a shake and noticed I had broken out in a cold sweat. Well... that can't be good.
I had no time for further introspection as Dagda came out of the guardhouse, a troubled expression on her face. "No sign of the guard. The posting here is typically used as punishment for those who've ended up on the wrong side of their commanding officer. Mostly because it's so Gods' awful boring." The bitterness in her voice told me she knew that from first-hand experience. "Whoever was stationed here is probably goofing off somewhere. Still, I should report it."
"We have more important things to worry about right now." I had been looking over the vehicles and one caught my eye. It was a two-door beast of a car. The wide front had been lowered close to the ground while the rear had been raised up with a set of hefty tires making it look like a predator ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. At some point it had been a light green color, but most of that was now covered by red primer and redder rust. It was one of the most hideous vehicles I had ever seen. It was perfect.
"That one," I said, pointing it out to my companion.
"Surely you can't be serious." She squinted against the glare of the setting sun. "I'm not convinced that could make it to the end of the parking lot, let alone across the city."
"Only one way to find out."
Dagda fetched the keys from the abandoned guard house while I examined the car close up. Both 'old' and 'decrepit' would be proper descriptors for the metal beast, but it was also solidly built with a nearly new engine under the hood. It was obvious it had been in the process of some heavy restoration before its previous owner had crossed paths with the Seraph. A labor of love for a vehicle truly deserving of it. The V-12 Marauder was scarce even in my youth, but these days? This might be the last of that rare breed.
By the time Dagda had located and returned with the keys the sun had dropped below the horizon. The closest streetlight was about a hundred or so feet away and left most of the lot swimming in shadows. The aroma of old cigarettes and dead mice hit me as I opened the car door and I quickly cranked my window down before getting in.
The old girl was difficult to start at first, but on the sixth attempt she roared into life, the whole frame vibrating with a satisfying rumble. My grin spread ear to ear and Dagda looked at me from the passenger's seat like I had lost my mind. The Marauder had been a dream car when I was kid. Even in the middle of all this fucked up shit, sitting behind the wheel was euphoric. Sometimes things do go your way, I guess. I flicked on the lights and was startled to see a handful of cloaked and hooded figures standing directly in front of the car.
My smile dropped.
I almost threw it in drive and mowed the entire lot down in an orgy of thundering steel and burnt rubber before I realized the faces under the cowls weren't some twisted monstrosities but were indeed human. Noticeably young humans. I glanced over at Dagda who was as perplexed as I, before cutting the engine off and getting out. Sliding a hand into my pocket I gripped the revolver and felt a surge of elation that made me uneasy. But these days you couldn't be too careful, and in my experience nothing good comes from folks who decide to prance around at night in blackened bedsheets. I heard what sounded suspiciously like a tongue running over sharpened teeth. "Down boy," I said, mumbling it under my breath.
A lot of newly minted religions cropped up when the Last God fell from the sky and put a crater in the middle of the city. A whole generation of wackos realized there was, in fact, at least one higher power. That realization was quickly followed by a second: where there had been one, there certainly could be more. Everyone and their holy dog started up some cult or another.
There was a solid year, right after Godfall, where you couldn't swing a dead chicken without hitting at least one robe-swaddled lunatic. And Trust me, there was a lot of dead-chicken swinging going on. The founders of many of those cults were grifters playing pretend for money, power or simply to screw impressionable young girls.
There were some true believers in the mix. Those were the most dangerous of all because, now and then, one would have a smidgen of talent at wychcraft but with none of the training required to control it. The vast majority of those that actually succeeded at reaching the wyrd were promptly devoured by whatever deity they were trying to invoke. As for their followers, watching your dear leader get pulled out of his skin and eaten by something with more mouths than should be legally allowed suddenly made living a godless life incredibly attractive. A great many of those reformed cultists were among the first to don the Seraph badge.
The high-water mark of Crash City's cultist activity didn't last long. The cult riots of '48 thinned that particular herd out considerably. The ones who survived were caught between the growing power of the Wardlords and the official formation of the Seraph. They were a fringe element in the city these days, ranks made up of the young or the disillusioned. But one thing that hadn't changed was their unquenchable desire to tell you everything you could ever want, or not want, to know about whatever mythical god, goddess, or celestial porcupine they worshiped. Yes, that last one is a real example and no, I'm not going to go into it. I don't need to relive the trauma of that stuck elevator experience just to satisfy your curiosity.
These lads, and lady—at least one of them appeared to be of the female persuasion—all wore typical, matching black, ankle-length robes complete with pointed hoods. I studied the robes for any identifying insignia. On the left breast of each robe was an embroidered patch depicting what appeared to be a cow wearing a traffic cone on its head.
"Is that a cow wearing a traffic cone on its head?" I asked.
The tallest of the figures—so tall in fact his ankle-length robe could be more accurately referred to as a mid-shin robe—looked down at the patch on his breast in confusion.
"It's not a traffic cone, it's a... hat," he said indignantly. His long face, dark lank hair and droopy eyes made me want to go take a nap just by looking at him. "It's the Celestial Gorgon. The holy symbol of our savior Baranabus."
The cultist to the left of him coughed meaningfully into her hand and dug an elbow into his ribs. She had a round chubby face, short, curly auburn hair and a spray of freckles across her nose.
"Our former savior," she said, with a sheepish expression on her face. "We're not with him anymore."
"I have no idea who 'banana bus' is, but I'm about one hundred percent certain that is not a real name. Now look, son, we don't really have time for whatever... this is," I said with a gesture encompassing the entire troupe. "Do you have like, a pamphlet or something you can give us, and we can all be on our way?"
"You're Gideon Brown, right?" asked one of the cultists standing to the side, just inside the edge of the light thrown by the car's headlights. He was short and the belt on his robe was performing a heroic j
ob of restraining his girth. Long brown hair framed his round face as he peeked out from under the hood. He was sixteen if he was a day, the valiant attempt to grow a beard evident in the scattered stubble covering his cheeks and upper lip. He looked scared. They all did.
"Why don't you kids tell me exactly what you're looking for, and how it is you know my name?"
"And why you are trespassing on Seraph property," added Dagda, the steel in her voice catching their attention fully. She may not be wearing her uniform or carrying her sword, but her authority was unmistakable.
The tall one looked around nervously. "Can we go somewhere more private? It's not safe here."
I consider myself a good judge of character and these kids weren't dangerous, but something had them spooked. Considering they knew my name, a name that had been cropping up in a lot of unsavory places as of late, it was in my best interest to hear them out.
"Get in," I said, gesturing at the back seat. "It'll be snug, but you can make it work."
After much pushing and bickering the four managed to squeeze themselves into the back seat of the Marauder. With the path finally clear I gunned it, and we hit the streets with a roar.
"Where are we going?" asked Dagda. She was keeping a watchful eye on our passengers by way of the rearview mirror.
"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink, and I know just the place."
I hadn't been back to the Yellow Crown since that fateful morning that seemed oh so long ago but was like, Tuesday, I think. This time there weren't any fancy limos or ugly bodyguards decorating the outside of the place. Still, when I pushed through the front door, I checked the shadows to ensure there were no murder-faced sons of bitches waiting for their chance to waylay me. The room was clear.
Hassil had run the place for as long as I could remember. He had a long dour face that always looked like he had just eaten something sour and a disposition to match. But he stayed well stocked in my favorite whiskey.
"I'll have no funny business," he said when he saw me. "You left a dent in my finest table the last time."
"You don't have any fine tables, let alone one that would earn the dubious distinction of 'finest'. But yeah, the next time someone slams my head into a table I'll do my best to do it softly."
"You with a soft head, there's one promise I can believe at least."
I scowled at him. "I'll have my usual, the tall lady here can have whatever she wants—"
"Just water, please."
"Right, and these four can have... soda pop I guess? Just throw it all on my tab, oh, and I'll need the use of one of your back tables."
"Be my guest, you can use the one with the dent in it," said Hassil as he filled our glasses.
Grabbing our drinks, we headed to the back, I sat down on one side of the round table while the cultists pulled their chairs close on the far side, clustered like a gaggle of geese huddling together for protection. Dagda chose to stand at my elbow, likely to be in a better position to react if things went south.
On the drive over, the rusty cogs in my head had been spinning and I had started to put some things together.
"So," I said without any preamble. "You folks been spending a lot of time barbecuing in back alleys lately? Maybe taking up a hobby of unconventional graffiti? Hmm?"
The sound of robes rustling nervously as the teenagers did everything but meet my eyes was all the confirmation I needed.
"It wasn't supposed to be like that," said the tall cultist into his lap before looking up at me, his eyes haunted. "It was just supposed to be some fun, yeah?"
"Fun? It was supposed to be fun? You were burning people alive in alleyways. Correction, you were burning people alive in my alleyway. That's your idea of fun? Just shits, giggles and gasoline?" I caught Dagda's sharp glance in my direction, this was the first she was hearing of any of this. I gave her a look to let her know I'd fill her in later.
"What Ray is trying to say is we didn't know any of that was going to happen," said the girl, reaching out and taking her friend's hand in hers to give it a reassuring squeeze.
"And you are?"
"Loretta. This is Ray, that's Zane and the one on the end is my little brother Lonnie," she said, indicating the heavyset boy as Zane and a smaller boy who was staring at the table in sullen hostility as Lonnie. Lonnie had red hair and a freckled face, the family resemblance between him and his sister was unmistakable.
"Alright Loretta. How exactly were things supposed to happen? Were you out for an innocent stroll and just happened to trip and set a hobo on fire?"
I could almost feel the tension in Dagda's posture, her eyes surveyed the group like a pair of green glass daggers. She clearly didn't like what she was hearing, but so far was willing to let me take the lead on the questioning.
"It was all Ralph's fault," muttered Lonnie, still staring angrily at nothing.
"Ralph? Who the fuck is Ralph? Gods' sake, am I going to have to break out the corkboard and strings of yarn to keep all the names straight? Tell you what, Loretta, how about you tell me everything, and start at the beginning."
"Ralph is this guy from our ward. He's only a few years older than us but it felt like a lot more. He seemed to have so much more life experience than us, he had even started running errands for the Blood Ravens. To hear him tell it he was already a full-fledged ganger. A few months back Ralph was spreading word around the ward there was a new cult starting up and looking for some fresh blood. You have to understand, Ralph was one of those guys who was just so confident, like he had figured out the secrets of the universe, and we could have them too if we just followed his lead."
"I know the type," said Dagda in a flat tone.
We all stared at her. Interesting. That's a thread I might need to tug on at some point. Dagda was a decent sort, for a Seraph, but every situation was made better with leverage. Or safer anyway.
When it was clear Dagda wasn't going to say anymore, Loretta continued. "He made it sound exciting. We'd have to start out as initiates, but we'd be allowed to participate in some forbidden rituals and gain some hidden knowledge."
"Forbidden rituals? Secret knowledge? Man, somebody saw you guys coming from a mile away," I said. "So, you joined up."
"We joined up. A couple times a week we'd gather in some abandoned warehouse, throw our robes on and perform some rituals to reach the ‘place beyond the veil’, whatever that is. Then we'd all get drunk after. Most of us were there for the alcohol," she said with a guilty look. "A few weeks back the Imperior announced that—"
"I'm sorry, who?" I interrupted.
"The Imperior, he was our high priest."
"Can you describe him?"
Loretta looked at Zane, prompting the heavy boy to speak up.
"He kept his hood up most of the time when he was out among the lower ranks,” said Zane, obviously uncomfortable with having to speak. “But I got a look at him once, at the end of a sermon. It was dark, so I didn't see much, but he had short dark hair and his eyes were funny, like they were different colors."
That got my attention. "And his voice? Anything different about that?"
"Now that you mention it, yeah," said Ray, speaking a little more comfortably now he knew I wasn't going to shoot them all on the spot. "His voice was all raspy. He made me want to get a drink of water just listening to him."
Murder Rowe. I should’ve guessed.
"Anyway," broke in Loretta. "The Imperior shows up and gives this big speech about how he's discovered the ritual that would finally allow us to reach past the veil. He told us the key to the lock was fear. Fear and pain."
"Did he ever say why he wanted to do such a thing?" asked Dagda.
"He said it's where Baranabus, the New God was waiting to be born into this world. That if we freed it, then it'd give us power," said Ray.
"Power to do what?"
"Power to fix everything," the tall boy said in a small voice as he stared down at his lap. Loretta squeezed his hand again.
"Most of u
s didn't really believe that though," chimed in Zane. "We thought it was a story. Something to keep us entertained, part of the show."
"And then?" I prompted.
"One night Ralph came and picked us up and drove us to a spot, just a few blocks from here actually,” Loretta had picked up the story again. “The Imperior and the other members were already there. They had gathered in this alley."
"I'm familiar with the place," I said dryly.
She gave me a nervous look before continuing. "They had a man there. He had been stripped naked and his arms were bound behind his back. He... he was crying. You have to understand. I thought it was a show, we all did. The Imperior liked his dramatics. Sometimes he'd pay actors to come in and play the 'sacrifice' but it was always just theater."
"And this time it wasn't," I said, starting to get an idea what had happened.
"We were all chanting the words we had prepared, strange words, they twisted in my mouth when I spoke them. Like something living trying to escape."
"It gave me an awful headache," said Zane, the others nodding in agreement.
"I kept waiting for them to wrap everything up, so we could go back to the warehouse and get drunk," continued Loretta, eyes wet with tears. "Even when they doused him in gasoline, I thought it was all part of the act. Right up until they lit the match, and he started screaming. Then something happened to Ralph, he started screaming too, but not like he was in pain, or at least not just that. He was laughing too. It wasn't like anything I'd ever heard before." The girl shuddered. "We ran after that. The four of us, plus a bunch of the others. We ran and never looked back."
"Nothing could be more horrible than that," said Ray. "I don't know what was worse, the screams or that awful smell."
My stomach protested loudly.
"Hey kid, Lonnie, right?" I snapped my fingers at the smallest of the teen cultists who had continued his marathon of staring off into space with an angry frown on his face. He met my eyes. "Why don't you go and see if old Hassil has any food he can cook up for us? Bacon and eggs if he has it. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."