Saturday, May 20, 2017

Case 6 - Ep. 2: Mass Produced Soul Destruction

Fallen Fisticuffs by Beki Yopek
The end of the Great War meant The Pneuma Coalition got smarter. Flooding battlefields with demon thieves might have worked in 1918, but stealing life force form dead human souls in war zones died out when The Reaper formed the Volunteer Guardian Angels. We paid heavenly recruits several motes a week to work with the Seraph Police Department. The VGA watched Earth’s big cities for Septuplets and demon thieves, and reported them to the SPD, who cleaned up in the name of the Soul Fountains. By 1920, we were filling millions more motes with life force than we had ten years ago. We could pay the VGA, the SPD, and still have an abundance of life force for the demon and angel masses.

So the Pneuma Coalition snuck themselves back into prominence during Prohibition in 1922. America’s ban on alcoholic beverages turned the entire yankee population into surly teenagers, doing the opposite of what Uncle Sam said just because he said it. The Reaper and I soared up from a hell divide in Manhattan and swerved out over U.S. territorial waters to where almost a hundred ships, schooners, and sea vessels swarmed with humans. An angel in a dress of wavy gray material flapped in the skies above a single boat with the words, Marie Celeste painted in huge on the side.

We dove for the Marie Celeste, odors of salt and dead fish wafting up from the sloshing ocean surface. The Reaper put his back to the shining sun while he flew and I did the same, so we could actually see the stick-thin brunette angel and her sand-colored wings. She slipped the bodice off of one shoulder to reveal the VGA patch-a golden ring with “Volunteer Guardian Angels” stitched around the rim-sewn into the dress’s underside. “Reaper, sir. I am Lyndsarial, the Manhattan volunteer.”

“Please tell me there’s only one Septuplet down there,” I groaned, double checking my trenchcoat pockets and finding the Blood Magic folio and haloxite knife I usually carried. 

The Reaper hovered closer to Lyndsarial and hissed, “The Pneuma Coalition is using watercraft to steal souls now?”

“Not the way you’re thinking,” the volunteer replied. “A fallen angel and a Septuplet have been in and out of this area. They’re meeting in private with a rum runner.”

I held up both hands. “You mean they’re not killing humans? No demon thieves either?”

Lyndsarial shook her haloed head. “No deaths caused by demons, or Septuplets.”

Reap’s voice was metal on metal. “Demon thieves were recently banned by the Acheria Board. Since I destroyed Rage, every being on the Board forbid hostilities between Septuplets and Soul Fountain representatives.”

The ostentatious courts of the I.R. Conference Chamber in Acheria flashed through my mind. When the Great War ended, The Lucky Seven-the virtues embodied-had ordered a gathering in Acheria to address the Pneuma Coalition’s organized crimes and The Reaper’s slaying of Rage. I still didn’t know what The Reaper had seen Rage change into before he killed him at the Battle Of Amiens in 1918. At least Reap’s new leg surgery in Eden had gone smoothly.

Politics and laws pissed me off, but six of the seven Acheria Board members had agreed on a three-piece Theft And Violence Tenant.

T.V.T. One: No Septuplet or demon could steal life force from a dead soul.

T.V.T. Two: No Soul Fountain representative could harvest souls in a Septuplet’s or a demon’s presence. 

T.V.T. Three: SPD and/or VGA angels could go anywhere, anytime to find and prevent theft and harvesting that could lead to violence between demons, Septuplets, and Soul Fountain representatives.

I looked Lyndsarial down and up, then smiled. “Thanks for interpreting the T.V. Tenants the way you do.”

She beamed at me, all innocent and formal. “The SPD helps the Board however they can. It was the Chief Seraph herself that added the T.V. Tenants to Heaven Law. They make up the thirteenth Tenant now.”

Waving a hand to blow away the political stink, I said, “I meant it’s hilarious how freaking angels twist the law in their favor. You and the SPD literally chase the Pneuma Coalition away whenever we show up.”

Reap raised a finger, like a wise old man without the beard. Or skin. Or hair. “Heaven is helping demons do benevolent work. I can taste the irony.”

“You don’t even have a tongue,” I snarked. 

“Think about that,” Reap rattled, “while Lyndsarial sends the Septuplet away. How many did you spot?”

“One,” she replied. “Let’s board the Marie Celeste and get to work.”

We swooped closer and flapped alongside the Marie Celeste, invisible to the humans on board. No surprise there. Bootleggers praying to angels or summoning demons? They had guns and factories now. Not much need for us.

Lyndsarial boarded first and crossed the decks, then pulled open the boat’s cabin door. Moments later, three figures emerged. A man in a white button-down and a floppy hat carried a case of irish whiskey in both arms. He carried himself like the ship’s captain, and humans on board greeted him with shouts of, “McCoy,” and “Shots for the captain.” 

McCoy's no-thank-you reply ceased to register when I saw who emerged from the cabin next. Apathy came out right behind him, his bald pate and stumpy horns standing out like a satyr at a soiree. 
Apathy’d gotten chubbier since I last saw him during the Battle Of The Somme. He wore slacks with no belt and a plaid shirt that clashed with every fashion that existed both then and now. Jack Te-Konos followed close behind them, his slicked-back hair, ripped blazer and pants clearly designed to make him look like a business angel who'd just won a bar fight. 

Jack’s crimson halo and tar-black wings snapped out to the sides and he shot me and Reap a sneer. “You’re flying into a hurricane, miss Vasaga. No law can stop the Coalition.”

“Good idea,” I snarled. “Talk smack to the woman who wrecked you last time. Why don’t you throw a spell?”

Jack nodded toward Lyndsarial in the cabin, tapped the side of his head next to his eye, then launched off the stern a second later. Apathy ignored us and flapped his grease-gray wings behind Jack, flying into the sunlight after him.

I threw an arm in front of The Reaper’s rib cage. “We can’t look for souls to harvest yet. Those two could lie in wait nearby and ambush us in an area with no souls, Seraphs, or Volunteers.”

Reap cackled. “Do not worry, Avaline. Our exit strategy is better than theirs. Ready your Blood Magic.”

I whipped the knife and folio out of my trenchcoat’s inner pockets just as Lyndsarial emerged. “Apathy was silent, like he always is. You do your job. I’ll see if I can track him and learn his ties to the Coalition.” She waggled two fingers to indicate she’d fly nearby and observe, then leapt into the sky and flew into the glaring afternoon sun.

“She should have brought more angels,” I said, glancing at a hundred-foot yacht approaching. Over a hundred humans yelled and cheered, guzzling illegal liquor and dancing amidships. A few dozen ghosts already robbed of their life force lingered among them, where a demon darted through the air among the humans. His beer gut jutted out from the waistband of his plus-size slacks, and stains peppered his shirt front and smoking jacket. Two short, thick horns curved up from the top of his head, and his mullet flopped like a tentacle each time he swerved in mid-air to steal the last of the life force from a soul onboard.

Not only was he stealing life force, he was screwing with the humans’ drinks. 

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