Father Auryon waited until he had briskly walked two blocks from the Bourbon Vieux before he ducked into an alley to tend to his own wounds. He looked himself over. He had mild burns on his neck where the blood-witch had spat her foul ichor on him. He had fang-marks in his shoulder. And his hand bore some curious markings - he would almost describe them as freezer-burn. It was nothing he wouldn't heal up on his own, though. God, in his mercy, had steeled Auryon's body, mind, and soul against the damned. His faith had shielded him from attacks that would have brought a swift and painful death to most mortals. Physically, he would recover.
It wasn't Auryon's body that needed tending to. It was his mind and his soul. While the Lord protected him from the wrath of the damned, He had not been so kind with the daggers of the living. With the focus of combat cleared from his mind Auryon felt the seething anger return. Pratik had told him that Juliet was a fellow Hunter of the damned. Perhaps not a woman of God, but a party with power over them. Someone who knew how to drive them back into their dark holes. The more Auryon thought, the more warning signs he saw. The night-time meetings. The curious and slightly archaic accent. The blithe disregard she held for all things. Her arrogance. Auryon would work with the sinful to protect God's children from the wrath of immortals. But to ask him to trade one monster for another was too much. And Pratik had known it was too much. That's why the Councilman had invoked the serpent's blessing to mankind. Why Pratik had lied to him.
Auryon spent a time dressing his wounds. They didn't pain him overly, but the rote and physical processes gave him time to think. Perhaps Pratik and Roger were desperate enough to work with the damned to settle their scores. But Auryon would not. He would not be a pawn in the wars between the undead. He would not be their chess-piece. For a time he thought the Council for Public Safety would be the imperfect vessel for his holy mission and his vengeance against the Vampires who wronged him so long ago. But tonight it had been made clear to him that the CPS was one more catspaw for Vampires. Perhaps it had not always been that. Perhaps it had started with good intentions. But the damned and their agents brought only suffering wherever they went.
He thought back to the night that the alliance he now abandoned had been forged in God's house. The challenge that the Lord had laid before him. To find virtue in the sinful and turn them into blades for righteousness. And while it wounded his pride to admit it, he knew the exact sinner to wield against the CPS. He finished dressing his wounds and walked east. Sometime later he came to a condominium building and looked for the unit with shutters over the windows.
He walked up to Agent Francis Northam's door and knocked.
There was a momentary pause. The sound of footsteps. Of a slit opening over the peephole. Then the intercom on the front door crackled to life.
"I won't even ask how you found me," Northam said into it.
"The shutters were rather conspicuous," Auryon replied. They both knew that the Society of Leopold had little trouble finding one federal agent's home. Auryon tried to sound calm, but the strain on his voice couldn't be hidden.
"Gotta take hurricanes seriously," Northam said. "So is this business or pleasure? I assume that since you knocked you don't want to throw down."
"Never," Auryon said. "Not with the children of God."
A moment passed, and Auryon heard the door lock click. Northam opened the door, dressed in an FBI T-shirt and pajama pants. "Then what is your business?" He asked.
Auryon sighed. Pride was perhaps the greatest of the Deadly Sins, but one that no man was free from. But God did not call man not to sin. Sin was in their nature. He called them to rise above their sins. He was humiliated to be here. To admit that he had been wrong. But righteousness called for him to show humility if he was to prevail against the damned. Another lesson, another gift from God.
"I believe I have a lead for your investigation."
Coming Together
Coming Together
Alex - Your Friendly Neighborhood Storyteller
Coming Together - Part 2
Francis Northam looked up to the sky. It had been months since he had seen the moon overhead. It struggled to compete with the lights and towers of New Orleans' Westside and Central District. But here in the French Quarter it was clearly visible overhead the historic buildings. It was beautiful. But it was dangerous, as well. Agent Northam knew it was dangerous for him to be out at this hour. It was 3AM. The sun would be cresting in a few hours, but not soon enough that the Vampires would back in their havens. He could get unlucky. But the lead he had gotten was too valuable to farm out. He needed to see and hear this for himself.
Northam parked his car in a paid lot a mile away from his destination. Even at this hour, Bourbon Street during the summer was packed with people. He blended into the mass of humanity teeming around him. His leather jacket and jeans were conspicuous against the upscale crowd, but moreso was his attitude. Northam was sober - the large thermos in his hand held hot coffee. He was serious. He wasn't here for a good time. And people parted around him as though they could feel it in their aura. As if they knew he was a man with a mission and they were better off out of his way.
Northam finally arrived at his destination. He could tell the Bourbon Vieux by the police cordon surrounding it. Officers milled about outside of their cars. But there was no yellow tape. No ambulance. None of the hallmarks of a mass casualty event. Really the police looked more confused than anything. He walked up to a pair of them. Before they could challenge him he flashed his badge, and the two moved aside. The two Obsidian goons weren't paid enough to risk pissing off a federal agent. He nodded to each and walked between them, making his way to the front entrance and stepping through the open doors.
Northam found himself surveying a rather sad sight. In front of him Roger Anderson paced back and forth. Northam had not met Roger personally yet, but he had heard of the small-time Horizons Unlimited executive who helped found the Council for Public Safety. Roger was angrily barking into his phone. His face was red, but Northam could tell he was scared from the slight tremble in his voice. To his left and a bit back was Dr. Ernest Harper, cowering in a corner and sobbing. He rocked back and forth, quietly crying. And near him was Pratik Mehta, trying to calm the doctor down. He offered coffee. He offered whiskey. He offered assurances that Ernest wasn't in danger. But none of them could pry the little man away from his hiding spot.
Northam shook his head. This was going to be a long morning.
The federal agent walked up to Roger and snatched his phone from his hands and hung it up. Roger looked about ready to explode, but his protests turned into stutters when he saw who had done it. Northam tossed Roger back his phone, and then put his pinky fingers to his mouth to whistle loudly. Pratik and Harper both jumped and looked to the man. Ernest's face filled with even more terror, and Pratik's with relief.
"All three of you, front and center," he said. Pratik looked like he was about to say something, but Northam cut him off pre-emptively. This was not a social call. He looked at the line of men. Pratik, Roger, and Dr. Harper. "From left to right," he said. "You're each going to tell me what happened. One at a time. No interruption." The agent whipped out his notepad and his pen, preparing to take notes. He knew what had happened already. He'd trust the bothersome priest over these buffoons any night. But he wanted to hear what they had to say.
Pratik and Roger gave virtually identical stories. They had been hosting an event for the CPS with their mutual friend Juliet. At the end of the night, three Vampires walked in - Bonaparte Desrosiers, Gabriella Rosario, and Catherine Chevalier. Juliet attempted to talk them down, but was brutally slain right there. And then the three left. When Northam came to Ernest Harper, the nervous doctor couldn't find words. Whether it was intended or not, it was the best decision anyone had made this evening as far as Northam was concerned. The Fifth Amendment existed for a reason.
"So the Vampires came in, Ms. Carlisle-Hastings attempted to plead for her life, and then she was killed," Northam said, tapping his notepad. "One moment." Northam left the three men standing and briefly walked outside. He flagged down the nearest police officer and ushered him in. "Officer...Davis," Northam said, quickly looking at the badge. "Why are you here?"
"To investigate a civil disturbance, sir," he said, his expression slightly confused.
"A murder?" Northam asked. Roger and Pratik looked on blankly.
"No sir," the officer said. "We got reports of shouting and fighting from the Bourbon Vieux so we came over."
"Any injuries on the scene?" Northam asked.
"No sir," Officer Davis replied.
"No bodies? No evacuations of injured civilians?" At this question, Pratik's and Roger's eyes went wide. Both seemed to weigh if they were more afraid to face Northam, or more afraid to flee.
"No sir," Officer Davis replied.
Northam nodded and patted him on the shoulder. "Go ahead and get back to work, officer," Northam said. The officer shrugged, smiled, and went on his way. Northam put away his notebook. His face was inscrutable. He wasn't even sure how to feel himself. Was he angry? Was he amused? Was he appalled? He was all three. Francis took a deep breath. Then he took a big sip of his coffee. He was in no rush. He was fine making these three idiots wait. Northam finished his drink and looked at Ernest. "You," he said, causing the doctor to shrink back as though he had been struck. Northam pointed his thumb to the door. "Get out. Don't tell anyone what you saw here tonight. I'll be in contact. Now." Ernest didn't need to be told twice. He skittered away, breaking into a full blown run out the door. Northam watched him until he was out of sight.
"So let me get this straight," he said to the other two. "You're telling me you witnessed a murder. But you didn't call the police about it and the police themselves have reported no injuries or fatalities." Roger opened his mouth to try to reply, but a gesture from Northam silenced him. "Luckily, I don't have to take your word or theirs for it," Northam said. "The police have told me that no injured or dead have been removed. So if someone died here..." Northam looked right into each of the men's eyes. "Where is the body?"
There was silence. First a few seconds. Then half a minute. Then a full minute. It was the loudest, most terrifying silence either Roger or Pratik had stood through. Northam looked between them. He knew eventually one of them would break. And he knew it would probably be Pratik. He took a step toward the Councilman, locking eyes. "Where is the body, Pratik?" He asked, his voice low and threatening. Pratik didn't speak, but his gaze shifted for just a moment. He looked down, and Northam followed his glance. Francis hadn't noticed that he had been standing in a pile of wet, clumpy ash. He had tracked it in footprints as he approached Pratik.
"That's what I thought," Agent Northam said. He took another sip of coffee and looked at Roger. "Luckily for you, I only need one of you and don't want to deal with Horizon's lawyers." He thumbed at the door again. "Get out before I decide you're worth my time." Roger blinked twice before scurrying out. Then he turned to Pratik. The Councilman looked like he could have melted just from Northam's gaze. "Call your wife and tell he you won't be home for a few nights. Don't tell her where you're going."
"Where...where am I going?" Pratik stuttered out.
"You'll be joining me for a sleepover at the federal courthouse until I'm done with you," Francis said. He took Pratik by the arm. "We're going to paint each others' nails, watch scary movies..." He leaned into Pratik again. "And you're going to tell me every single thing you know or I am going to throw the book at you so hard it will leave an indent in your skull." Northam growled. "And nobody on the council will pass up a chance to throw you under the bus so one of their friends can take your place. Am I perfectly clear?"
Pratik weakly nodded. He couldn't find the words. Francis Northam pulled him from the building, and Pratik meekly followed. "This isn't surprising," he said casually as he led Pratik towards his car. "Disappointing, but not surprising." He looked back to Pratik as they passed the police lineup. "You're a weak man, Pratik. A sucker. A pawn. And if there is one thing I've learned in my years on the force? It's that you can never really trust a weak man."
Northam parked his car in a paid lot a mile away from his destination. Even at this hour, Bourbon Street during the summer was packed with people. He blended into the mass of humanity teeming around him. His leather jacket and jeans were conspicuous against the upscale crowd, but moreso was his attitude. Northam was sober - the large thermos in his hand held hot coffee. He was serious. He wasn't here for a good time. And people parted around him as though they could feel it in their aura. As if they knew he was a man with a mission and they were better off out of his way.
Northam finally arrived at his destination. He could tell the Bourbon Vieux by the police cordon surrounding it. Officers milled about outside of their cars. But there was no yellow tape. No ambulance. None of the hallmarks of a mass casualty event. Really the police looked more confused than anything. He walked up to a pair of them. Before they could challenge him he flashed his badge, and the two moved aside. The two Obsidian goons weren't paid enough to risk pissing off a federal agent. He nodded to each and walked between them, making his way to the front entrance and stepping through the open doors.
Northam found himself surveying a rather sad sight. In front of him Roger Anderson paced back and forth. Northam had not met Roger personally yet, but he had heard of the small-time Horizons Unlimited executive who helped found the Council for Public Safety. Roger was angrily barking into his phone. His face was red, but Northam could tell he was scared from the slight tremble in his voice. To his left and a bit back was Dr. Ernest Harper, cowering in a corner and sobbing. He rocked back and forth, quietly crying. And near him was Pratik Mehta, trying to calm the doctor down. He offered coffee. He offered whiskey. He offered assurances that Ernest wasn't in danger. But none of them could pry the little man away from his hiding spot.
Northam shook his head. This was going to be a long morning.
The federal agent walked up to Roger and snatched his phone from his hands and hung it up. Roger looked about ready to explode, but his protests turned into stutters when he saw who had done it. Northam tossed Roger back his phone, and then put his pinky fingers to his mouth to whistle loudly. Pratik and Harper both jumped and looked to the man. Ernest's face filled with even more terror, and Pratik's with relief.
"All three of you, front and center," he said. Pratik looked like he was about to say something, but Northam cut him off pre-emptively. This was not a social call. He looked at the line of men. Pratik, Roger, and Dr. Harper. "From left to right," he said. "You're each going to tell me what happened. One at a time. No interruption." The agent whipped out his notepad and his pen, preparing to take notes. He knew what had happened already. He'd trust the bothersome priest over these buffoons any night. But he wanted to hear what they had to say.
Pratik and Roger gave virtually identical stories. They had been hosting an event for the CPS with their mutual friend Juliet. At the end of the night, three Vampires walked in - Bonaparte Desrosiers, Gabriella Rosario, and Catherine Chevalier. Juliet attempted to talk them down, but was brutally slain right there. And then the three left. When Northam came to Ernest Harper, the nervous doctor couldn't find words. Whether it was intended or not, it was the best decision anyone had made this evening as far as Northam was concerned. The Fifth Amendment existed for a reason.
"So the Vampires came in, Ms. Carlisle-Hastings attempted to plead for her life, and then she was killed," Northam said, tapping his notepad. "One moment." Northam left the three men standing and briefly walked outside. He flagged down the nearest police officer and ushered him in. "Officer...Davis," Northam said, quickly looking at the badge. "Why are you here?"
"To investigate a civil disturbance, sir," he said, his expression slightly confused.
"A murder?" Northam asked. Roger and Pratik looked on blankly.
"No sir," the officer said. "We got reports of shouting and fighting from the Bourbon Vieux so we came over."
"Any injuries on the scene?" Northam asked.
"No sir," Officer Davis replied.
"No bodies? No evacuations of injured civilians?" At this question, Pratik's and Roger's eyes went wide. Both seemed to weigh if they were more afraid to face Northam, or more afraid to flee.
"No sir," Officer Davis replied.
Northam nodded and patted him on the shoulder. "Go ahead and get back to work, officer," Northam said. The officer shrugged, smiled, and went on his way. Northam put away his notebook. His face was inscrutable. He wasn't even sure how to feel himself. Was he angry? Was he amused? Was he appalled? He was all three. Francis took a deep breath. Then he took a big sip of his coffee. He was in no rush. He was fine making these three idiots wait. Northam finished his drink and looked at Ernest. "You," he said, causing the doctor to shrink back as though he had been struck. Northam pointed his thumb to the door. "Get out. Don't tell anyone what you saw here tonight. I'll be in contact. Now." Ernest didn't need to be told twice. He skittered away, breaking into a full blown run out the door. Northam watched him until he was out of sight.
"So let me get this straight," he said to the other two. "You're telling me you witnessed a murder. But you didn't call the police about it and the police themselves have reported no injuries or fatalities." Roger opened his mouth to try to reply, but a gesture from Northam silenced him. "Luckily, I don't have to take your word or theirs for it," Northam said. "The police have told me that no injured or dead have been removed. So if someone died here..." Northam looked right into each of the men's eyes. "Where is the body?"
There was silence. First a few seconds. Then half a minute. Then a full minute. It was the loudest, most terrifying silence either Roger or Pratik had stood through. Northam looked between them. He knew eventually one of them would break. And he knew it would probably be Pratik. He took a step toward the Councilman, locking eyes. "Where is the body, Pratik?" He asked, his voice low and threatening. Pratik didn't speak, but his gaze shifted for just a moment. He looked down, and Northam followed his glance. Francis hadn't noticed that he had been standing in a pile of wet, clumpy ash. He had tracked it in footprints as he approached Pratik.
"That's what I thought," Agent Northam said. He took another sip of coffee and looked at Roger. "Luckily for you, I only need one of you and don't want to deal with Horizon's lawyers." He thumbed at the door again. "Get out before I decide you're worth my time." Roger blinked twice before scurrying out. Then he turned to Pratik. The Councilman looked like he could have melted just from Northam's gaze. "Call your wife and tell he you won't be home for a few nights. Don't tell her where you're going."
"Where...where am I going?" Pratik stuttered out.
"You'll be joining me for a sleepover at the federal courthouse until I'm done with you," Francis said. He took Pratik by the arm. "We're going to paint each others' nails, watch scary movies..." He leaned into Pratik again. "And you're going to tell me every single thing you know or I am going to throw the book at you so hard it will leave an indent in your skull." Northam growled. "And nobody on the council will pass up a chance to throw you under the bus so one of their friends can take your place. Am I perfectly clear?"
Pratik weakly nodded. He couldn't find the words. Francis Northam pulled him from the building, and Pratik meekly followed. "This isn't surprising," he said casually as he led Pratik towards his car. "Disappointing, but not surprising." He looked back to Pratik as they passed the police lineup. "You're a weak man, Pratik. A sucker. A pawn. And if there is one thing I've learned in my years on the force? It's that you can never really trust a weak man."
Alex - Your Friendly Neighborhood Storyteller