Saturday, July 15, 2017

Case 9 - Ep. 1: Proud As Parasites

Convictionist Pride by Beki Yopek
The Reaper and I ascended up the side of the Motery Center in Fountainia, leaving behind the souls we’d harvested during Hildariel’s morning shift. I eyed his shadowy skull during the flight. He didn’t cast me any wary glances while we landed on his office balcony to find Hildy waiting for us. Her skintight tracksuit held fewer than half the crossbow bolts and switchblades she’d shown off at The Down South Lounge a couple nights ago. My boss hadn’t allowed her to see the unloading ritual we performed to empty the fresh souls from his scythe’s two-toned blade.

I wiped sweat off my face with a sleeve of the pinstriped blazer I’d worn to work. “Do you see now why you can’t use those exploding arrows when you’re in close during a fight?”

She yanked snarls out of her dyed-blonde hair and ruffled her wing feathers. “Get off my halo, Ava. They performed fine when The Reaper was behind me. I fly point, I clear a path, and he harvests.”

Reap clacked toward her on his ebony, bone feet. “Your initial strikes into the swarming demons isn’t what concerns me. When we are surrounded, your choice of weapon forces us to retreat skyward, lest I catch haloxite shrapnel to the dome.”

I was so proud of him, weaving modern English vernacular into his speech. It only took him a century and change.

Hildy shook her head. “Demons typically bow to what I demand once they see their first group of buddies die from an Incanted arrow.”

Incanted. Heaven’s magic required words. I’d had enough experience with Jack Te-Konos and The Coalition to infer that. Hell’s spells required blood. Blood Magic. I stuck a mental post-it on my mind so I’d remember to ask Hildy more about Incantations later.

“Bouncing for Nia is different than bodyguard duty,” I said. “Well paid winos behave differently than broke demons.”

Hildariel scowled at me. “You insult my intelligence? Bar goers have something to lose, and they pay with their motes and their respect. Those are two of the weapons I use against troublemakers at The Lounge. Your enemies have no such respect for anyone.”

“No one lives on respect alone. That’s the difference. Keep training with me during our shifts like you did today and you’ll get the hang of it. Going in arrows blazing’s just going to slow down the harvests.”

“You are asking me to violate Heaven Law and do things your way.”

I shrugged. “It’s part of the job. Three Domains of demons and angels depend on us to keep the motes flowing and full. We only kill demon thieves when there’s no way to call the Seraphs.” I might have left out a thing or two about how The Reaper and I did business. Tiptoeing around the SPD was in the job description.

The angel unfurled her wings and hissed, “Thin line to walk.” With that, she launched into the sky and flapped over downtown Fountainia, veering north toward the Heaven side of town. Her b.o. from the day’s work wafted at me and I waved it away with a wing. Trepidation skittered up my skin beneath the blazer and blouse. 

I faced The Reaper, searching his hooded skull for signs he was suspicious. “Not sure how long she’ll be working with us.”

He nodded once. “If we stopped harvesting the instant we spotted a demon thief among souls, Hell and Heaven would already be starved.”

“And I refuse to carry a cell phone. Demons are so violent they’d stalk my friends if they got their hands on it. I’m your bodyguard. If the SPD wants us to follow their laws, they can enforce them on the level they seem to want us to do. With their own angels.”

Reap cackled, crossed to his office door, and pulled it open with his free hand. “Right you are. We must discuss that extra defense you mentioned before we begin writing.”

Huh. Seemed like he hadn’t read the writings we’d done last night. The job itself always did distract him to the point of obsession. Maybe he wouldn’t fire me or kill me for stealing souls. That was almost a hundred years ago.

I entered The Reaper’s ultra-modern office and flicked the lights on. Words carved into the switch plate shimmered and firelight emanated from the LED bulbs overhead. File cabinets lined both brick walls, chocolate wood flooring lent a homey feel to the renovated dungeon atmosphere. Out the far window, life force from the Soul Fountains spouted up to eye level and fell again into the haloxite-rimmed marble bowls. Crimson and ivory motes sopped up the life force and floated in strings onto desks I couldn't see beneath The Reaper's office window. Beyond The Fountains, the glass-and-steel skyscrapers gave way to an unspoken dividing line where neon signage marked Fountainia's south side, and pristine architecture shone on the north side.

One more slip like the one I’d made a week ago and I’d never see this view of the city and system I fought for again.

The Reaper passed me and sat down at his glass-topped desk, then placed his scythe on top where it clanked to a standstill. “While you ready your pen, explain the added layer of security you have planned.”

Tidying up my blazer, I pulled folders, pens, and paper from the file cabinet drawers. “Phlegethon University is my alma mater. The Assassin’s Combat professors still remember me from my decades of martial arts work there. I’m going to get ingredients from the Brimstone Chemistry department next door to my old dorm.”

The Reaper crossed his arms, the elbows and wrists clacking together. “Doesn’t Brimstone Chemistry exist to cause explosions?”

I snorted. “Brimvisibility fluid is also available there if you learn and work the recipes right. I’ll have batches ready in a few days as long as Terrence doesn’t distr--”

Amused rasping burst from The Reaper’s jaws. “It was my assumption you were either spending all your time off at The Lounge, or you were getting some.”

Bemusement flushed through me and heat radiated from both cheeks. I’d covered a career-ending crime only to toot a brain fart.

The Reaper rapped his carpals on the desktop. “I’m surprised you haven’t rubbed it in before now. You are the one with the actual parts to--”

“Whoa,” I blurted, the laughs flooding out of me. “I’m not trying to think about--wait, you’re a virgin. You have to be.”

Stifling his cackles, The Reaper jabbed a finger at the papers I’d scattered on his desk. “And you have a responsibility to write. We have another shift after we document the Paris harvest of World War II.”

My hackles raised at that and I slithered into my chair, crossing both arms. “Pride was a--” The word and its memories choked me and I tried again. “She was a Convictionist. What are you looking for this time? Some hint about a pre-Industrial Revolution insurrection?”

“The Convictionists,” Reap hissed, “wanted to preserve prayers and summonings as the core of our lifestyles. Angels who received prayers got life force for their work. Demons summoned by humans devoured life force once they destroyed their target.”

A thought wave surged into me and I blurted, “You’re curious about the job of reaping. Of harvesting the souls of the dead. Didn’t you just harvest ghosts all the time before the Industrial Revolution wrecked us?”

The Reaper gripped both horns and snarled an earthquake’s snarl. “We do not have time to dissect everything. For now, it is about the Convictionists and the Fountainians. Now write.”

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