Posting Fiction....
Firstly, thanks go out to those who offered feedback solely on my world description alone. Now, we all know that descriptions of a world are far different than stories taking place in it. I mean, Communist Russia is a setting, but hardly the seeds of a story.
Here of course, is a story. It might take you some time to read it, but I believe the gist of the world I created is all here.
Enjoy. And again, be as critical as humanly (or inhumanly) possible.
Puppets are notoriously docile, and Tommy was no exception. He had the shakes, the bruises, and the obligatory doe-like eyes. Matted-dark hair, buckteeth, and billowy cheeks further supported this theory. He kept licking his lips. He was short of breath. His hands wouldn’t keep still-he kept feeling the table, himself, and his chair. He blinked and flinched as if he kept seeing things. But this was a Warded interrogation room inside a Warded Federal Building, and the chances of a hostile paracorps even showing its translucent self within these walls were next to nil.
“This our guy?” asked Mike, our supervisor. He knew we’d been on this case for some time.
“Yeah,” said Shaman dismissively.
All three of us stood in the room we affectionately called the closet-the small dark room with security monitors, audio equipment, and the better end of a two-way mirror. We observed the squirming Puppet in the interrogation room.
“How do you know?” probed Mike.
“The track marks on his arms are Sigils,” replied Shaman. I could just picture Tommy drawing the Roman letters on his arms with a Sharpie, then shooting up dope within the patterns. Crafty paracorp cattle branded their Puppets this way.
“Shit,” Mike said. He looked at Shaman. “Can you tell whose they are?”
“Not yet,” he said. I’m sure my partner scrutinized this Puppet’s arm earlier.
“Well,” said Mike, “what are you two waiting for?”
“Take one guess,” I offered.
After a moment Mike shook his head. “Father Norman?”
“Yep.”
Mike cursed under his breath. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit, a pale shirt, and a striped tie. His dark eyes squinted through wire-rimmed spectacles. “Does he know anything about this Puppet yet?”
“Nada,” Shaman replied.
“If we found anything out,” I added, “we’d have to repeat it as soon as he got here.” A part of the job I truly hate.
Mike nodded. “So we wait?”
I nodded.
Shaman leaned against the wall. He opened a pouch on his utility belt, pulled out his own blended tobacco, some paper, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. It was probably the same mixture he used when casting a Circle or prepping a Banishment or doing some other magical duty for the Bureau. It seemed like some ritual an old-world, grizzled medicine man would perform-not a Gifted, somewhat unsophisticated ex-Marine. That’s one of the reasons why I called him Shaman-his real name’s Manny. Soon the closet filled with Shaman’s incense-riddled smoke.
The closet door opened and Father Norman ambled in as if on a mission. He was a gangly clergyman whose male-patterned baldness traveled from temple to temple. Pockmarked skin sagged on his face. Coke-bottles glasses hovered over long, hollow cheeks. If he hadn’t sported the standard cleric’s black, he would’ve looked apropos in whiteface, with elongated shoes and a red rubber-ball nose. He nodded and waited a moment, as if he was trying to think of what to say. He looked through the mirror at the Puppet. “So, what’s his story?”
Shaman and I looked at each other. “Go ahead,” I said.
“The Puppet’s name is Tommy Mulligan, nineteen years old,” Shaman began. “We IDed him from the security tapes of the banks that were robbed. The last one was hit earlier today. His rap sheet says he’s done juvie time for assault and battery and armed robbery. He’s also involved in local satanic cults. We found him wandering along New Hampshire Avenue, near University Boulevard. He exhibited symptoms of amnesia and delirium tremens when we apprehended him. We then brought him here and waited for you, Father.”
Father Marcus cocked his head. “I thought the paracorps involved in the robberies used humans already in the bank, not Lost Souls.” This is what the padre called Puppets-what a humanist.
“Yes,” I said, “but the paracorp needed a Puppet to get to the bank. I mean, somebody has to drive the getaway car. He’d ride the Puppet to the bank, find his unwilling human entering it, ride that human inside, and rob the place. Besides, the paracorp could stay undetected safely within a Puppet. This Puppet showed up every time before and after a robbery.”
“So,” continued the clergyman, “have you IDed the paracorp?”
“We were waiting on you,” I said.
“You have clearance to begin the interrogation,” continued the priest, “as long as everything is recorded and follows Church protocol.”
Mike and Shaman said nothing; I bit my tongue.
“Unless…” the clergyman stared at us for a moment, “you already did something profane.”
I bit my tongue. We hadn’t even started interrogating yet, and the good padre was already on our asses.
“It’s amazing that the Bureau continues to employ the both of you.” lectured the priest.
That did it; I turned to my partner. “Is he aware how time-sensitive this case is?”
Shaman shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
I turned back to the padre. “The paracorp that rides this Puppet is now resting. Paracorporeal Possession is tiring for both the human and the ghost-”
“I’m aware of that, Agent Eckel.”
“Yes, yes,” I commented, “but are you aware that the latest robbery occurred this morning? If we don’t act now, the paracorp will awaken, figure things out, and look elsewhere?”
“I appreciate the urgency, Agent Eckel,” said Father Norman, “which is why I made pains to get here as quickly as I could. But that does not account for heresy.”
Here we go, folks: it’s time for the Inter-Agency Pissing Contest. I looked at Shaman. “How many Banishments did we do this month? Four? Five?”
Shaman shrugged, exhaling smoke. “Didn’t count them.”
Father Norman didn’t skip a beat. “All methods involving the pursuit and apprehension of paracorporeal threats must be approved by the Church. The Bureau has adhered to these guidelines since the Crossover. It’s about time that the both of you adhere to them, too.”
“You know,” I noted caustically, “I wonder if Agents Khaldǘn or Leibowitz get this much love.” My big smile twinkled.
Father Norman bristled. “I won’t stand for this disrespect.” He looked at Mike. “Agent Bevereaux…?”
Mike shook his head. “All right, Agent Eckel…”
“What am I doing, Mike?” I asked.
“We have a case,” said Mike, saving us from embarrassment, “Agents, Bait the Puppet.”
I decided to let it go. For now. I looked at Shaman. He tamped the butt of his cigarette out on the sole of his boot and stuck it in the back pocket of his chinos. He opened the door of the closet and entered the hallway. I followed.
“What do you think?” I whispered as soon as I shut the door.
“Padre seems a little testy today,” Shaman whispered back.
“More than usual?”
“More than usual.”
“You think it means something?” I offered.
“Don’t know,” whispered my partner. “It’s no secret that he wants to nail us, but…”
“But,” I smiled. “We won’t give him that opportunity, will we, Shaman?”
“Not at all, Chaser,” he said and returned my smile. He nodded to the guards standing in front of the interrogation room. They opened the door for us.
The Puppet stared at us blankly as soon as we entered the room.
The first few minutes of an interrogation-especially involving a Puppet we were planning to Bait-were crucial to the outcome of a case. A successful Baiting involves enticing the Puppet into secretly taking us along on its next planned crime. We do this by bribery: we’d promise mucho material rewards, because any gifts paracorps would promise are not exactly tangible. And if they were, we’d promise more. We would then intervene, stop the crime, save the Puppet, and Banish the paracorp into Hell. And the chorus would sing “Hallelujah!” At the end of the day, you Baited a Puppet any way you could. Because Baiting is, for all intents and purposes, a crapshoot. Shaman and I used techniques that made us especially good at it. We protected people from fucking scary beings. If it involved heretical practices, we really didn’t give a shit.
“How are you, Tommy?” Shaman started. He decided to lead this time.
The kid blinked.
“I’m Agent Blanco and this is Agent Eckel,” he continued. “Do you need anything?”
The kid paused. “A cigarette.”
Shaman took out a pack of Blesseds from his utility belt-he never touched the things, himself-and gave them to the kid. The kid pulled one out of the pack and put it in his mouth. Shaman produced his Zippo and lighted it. The pack was left on the table. The interrogation room soon filled with Smoke.
“We’d like to know if you could help us out,” Shaman continued.
The kid exhaled and nodded.
“Do you remember anything of your whereabouts this morning?” I was pretty sure of the answer, but I had to put on record that this Puppet remembered absolutely nothing of being paracorporeally possessed.
“I was around.”
“Do you remember specifically where you were?” I insisted.
The Puppet clammed up.
“You’re not under arrest, Tommy,” said Shaman. “We just need to know if you remember anything from today, that’s all.”
Tommy took a drag from his cigarette and looked around the interrogation room, his gaze lingering for a few moments on the large crucifix hanging plainly above the doorway. He then looked at the just-as-large Star of David hanging on the right-hand wall. He looked back at us and took another drag. “I got high.”
“Okay,” said Shaman. “Did you do that first thing this morning?”
Another pause, more smoke. “Yeah.”
Shaman looked at me. I nodded, urging him to go on.
“Do you remember what you did after that?”
“Sort of,” said the Puppet.
Shaman paused; then, “Can you tell us about it?”
“I went to Worship.”
Of course he went to Worship. Everyone nowadays went to Worship. If they had half a brain and didn’t want to risk being ridden by a self-serving paracorp, they’d attend Worship and apply Wards that would protect their corporeal shells. I wonder if people went to Worship as much back in the early 60’s, before the Crossover. But I digress.
“Tommy?” said Shaman. “Can I take a look at your arm?”
The Puppet took another long pull off of his smoke. He then coughed violently. His eyes shut tight and he doubled over in his chair. Each retch made his muscles contract spasmodically. My partner and I waited patiently, knowing that this coughing fit was going to be transformative.
After the fit subsided he shook his head a few times. Tears streamed down his face. He refocused and looked around the room-again-as if he were immediately unfamiliar with his surroundings.
“Tommy?” repeated Shaman. “Your arm, please?”
The Puppet looked at Shaman. His eyebrows rose and his head tilted, as if something amused him. He then sat up bolt-straight in his chair and presented his left arm with the track-marked-Sigils. Moments ago he didn’t care; now he’s attentive, obedient.
Was he possessed? Anybody’s guess, at this point.
Shaman approached the Puppet, and kneeled. He pulled his PDA out and made a big display of fiddling with it. He already knew everything about this particular Puppet; he was just showing off for the powers-that-be.
The boy beamed at him. “You could have asked me, you know,” he commented in a crystal clear voice-not the voice he used before, the usual rasp of a Puppet. “I would have told you what they meant.”
Shaman slowly looked up at him. “Is that you, Tommy?”
“Why wouldn't it be?" asked the Puppet.
“Can you see anything?” I asked my partner.
“Not now,” he said. Shaman has paracorporeal Sight: he can see paracorps as clearly as he could see anyone else. A possessed person holds the face of the riding paracorp superimposed over his or her own. I can see things like this, too, but only when I am a paracorp-but I digress.
Shaman looked back at the kid’s elbow, squinted as if to read the Sigils, and nodded. “Can you tell me about your birthday?” Shaman asked, putting back his PDA. “Where you went to elementary school? Your favorite color?”
The Puppet-or the paracorps within-continued to beam.
“Can you tell me any of those things, Tommy?” Shaman persisted.
The Puppet’s smile grew.
Shaman was trying to find out if this Puppet was truly being Ridden or if we were, in fact, the ones being taken for a ride.
Because not only did this Puppet walk through a metal detector upon entering this building, he was also searched, Warded by Diocesan interns, and, for good measure, dusted and photographed by junior agents. Warding includes reciting incantations and touching holy objects to the Puppet’s Chakra or Virtue Points, spiritually sealing them, expelling from the Puppet’s corporeal shell any paracorporeal presence that may have passed through the Wards outside the Federal Building. Dusting involves taking paracorporeal dust and spreading it all over the Puppet, who is then Aurally Photographed. Paracorporeal dust works a lot like fingerprint dust, for paracorporeal ectoplasm leaves detectable smudges everywhere it goes, not unlike slug trails. An aural photo clarifies the Puppet’s Aura, confirming whether or not it is hosting an entity-the dust enhances this. All in all, these procedures are virtually foolproof, since our technology is state-of-the-art and the interns work staggered shifts and frequently vary the incantations.
But still, the fuckers get through.
“Who are you Hosting, Tommy?” continued Shaman.
The Puppet’s countenance darkened considerably, adding malice to his smile. “Berith,” he said with an overextended exhale on the last consonant blend. “The great Duke of Hell, he who tells things of the past, present, and future with true answers, he who turns all metals into gold.”
“So,” said Shaman, not missing a beat, “if you can tell things of the past, present and future with true answers, then what elementary school did Tommy Mulligan attend?”
The Puppet blinked at us; if he expected to either shock us he was sorely mistaken.
“And if you’re Berith and you can turn all metals into gold,” I chimed in, “then why do you need to rob banks?”
He looked at me and smiled again. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I mean really,” I continued. “Couldn’t you just find a frying pan and be done with it?”
The Puppet looked at Shaman. “Neither of you would understand.”
“We’re trying,” said Shaman.
“Gentlemen?” came a booming metallic voice from above. “Could you please come in here?” It was Father Norman, on the intercom, doing a bad God impersonation.
I looked at Shaman. He shrugged. We left.
As soon as we entered the hallway, Shaman dug into his pants pocket and produced a dollar. Shaman and I usually had a running bet concerning the actual time clergymen would barge in on our interrogations. My partner opted for more than five minutes, while I opted for less.
We opened the closet door and went inside.
“Did he say the name I thought he said?” asked Father Norman.
“And what name would that be?” I wanted to hear him say it.
Father Norman shuddered. His eyes darted around the floor. He produced rosary beads and wrapped them around his left hand. He crossed himself before he said, “Berith, the great Duke of Hell, who has twenty-six legions of demons under his command.”
“Padre?” I began. “You could have played back the tape or asked Mike what was said. You didn’t have to interrupt.”
“But,” the clergyman commented, “if you’re dealing with an entity of this magnitude, we would need a trained exorcist.”
“That’s if Berith is riding this Puppet,” Shaman replied.
“Those Sigils on his arms,” said Father. “He changed right before our eyes. Berith is there.”
I turned to Mike. “Do you know any actors?”
“No,” said Mike, answering quickly. “Why?”
“Do you know any Latin?” Shaman added.
“Yes,” answered Mike. He blinked. “What are you two driving at?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Father Norman.
“Sir? You could get Sigils on your arms,” said Shaman.
“And you could fake a Possession,” I noted.
“I still don’t see what this has to do with Berith!” exclaimed Father Norman.
“Agents, explain yourselves,” said Mike, glancing at the Puppet through the mirror.
“With all due respect, Father,” began Shaman, “we need to determine whom this Puppet is Hosting. It could be Berith, but we have no proof. We’d like to find some.”
“You have no proof?” The clergyman was beginning to sweat.
Shaman shook his head. “Anyone, alive or dead, could do this.”
“Besides,” I said, “if Berith is such an important muckity-muck, then why is he bothering with a nobody like Tommy? Why not set his sights higher? Why not the Pope?” I shrugged. “Why not you?”
Father Norman opened his mouth and let out a deep gasp. He looked around the room a bit then looked at Mike. “Agent Bevereaux…?”
“I see where they’re coming from, Father,” said Mike. “With the years I’ve served in the Bureau, I’ve dealt mostly with small-time paracorps with delusions of grandeur, not Dukes of Hell. We should permit the agents to interrogate the Puppet as they see fit. Once this investigation is over, no matter the outcome, I’ll personally make sure that they follow protocol.”
Father Norman waited a while before he replied. He fiddled with the rosary beads. He was still sweating. He looked from Shaman, to me, to Mike, and back to me several times before starting the circuit again. “Fine,” he admitted. “But you had better keep them on a leash, Agent Bevereaux. Or else you’ll be in the doghouse with them.”
“There’s no need for threats, Father,” said Mike coolly.
The padre looked at Mike for a while. “And this entire interrogation had better be recorded.”
“As long as you keep your boundaries,” replied Mike, “we’ll keep ours.”
That’s right! I wanted to add. Although the Church has a stranglehold on virtually all procedures concerning the apprehension of criminal paracorporeal entities, they make pains to remain as invisible as possible. There have been too many cases when, after intervention from church agents, paracorps would become quite uncooperative, rendering Puppets injured or Emptied, and leaving other victims delusional and dribbling.
The clergyman headed for the door. “Vaya con dios.” The door slammed behind him.
“Vic? Manny?” said Mike.
“One thing, Mike,” I said before we left.
“Two,” added Shaman.
Mike huffed. “What?”
“Could you turn off the equipment?” I asked.
“And we’ll need a third man,” Shaman said.
Mike looked at Shaman. “You’re doing your thing?”
My partner nodded.
Mike looked at me. “Father wants this recorded.”
“Right,” I said. “We could do this the official way…”
Mike turned and looked through the mirror.
“And we could-”
“I know, Agent Eckel!” Mike barked, glaring at me.
Shaman and I waited.
“Oh, the Hell with it,” said Mike. “But this is the last time, VIc. I mean it.”
I gave Shaman a sideways glance. “Fine.”
Mike toggled the switch on the surge protector connecting all of the equipment in the closet; if asked, he’d claim paracorporeal interference. Before we went in, he reassigned one of the two guards outside the interrogation room and put him in front of the closet. He ordered that nobody-nobody-was to enter either room until we were finished, no matter how long it took.
Shaman was already smoking when Mike and I entered the interrogation room; we waited by the door. He walked around the room, stopping in four spots-the Four Winds-muttering prayers and exhaling smoke at each one, until he returned to the spot where he started. The table was out of the way and the Puppet sat in his chair in the center of the room, facing my partner. Shaman signaled Mike and me to join him.
Shaman grabbed Mike’s hand, who stood to his left; Mike grabbed mine-I stood to his left; and I grabbed Shaman’s free hand, who stood to my left. The Puppet sat in the chair in the middle of our circle/triangle.
My partner began to hum; we joined him. Our humming resonated through the interrogation room, and I could feel the energy spawning from it.
Mike and I knew this drill well.
Then we unclasped hands; our energy still held the Circle together. Shaman took a badger-hair brush and a small bottle of dust from his belt. The Puppet held his breath. “This will sting,” he said to the Puppet as he dipped the brush into the bottle. He started at the top of the Puppet’s head, then moved to his forehead, then to his eyes, his throat, the heart, the lower abdomen, and finally, his hands and feet. He muttered prayers.
The Puppet exhaled slowly.
“How are you feeling?” asked Shaman.
“Okay,” said the Puppet as he opened his eyes.
Shaman looked at me and Mike, requesting our participation. He crossed his arms on his chest and looked directly into the Puppet’s eyes; Mike and I placed hands on the Puppet’s shoulders and on my partner’s.
We would now wait-for an hour, or two, or all night if necessary.
Shaman twitched while he stared at the Puppet. He muttered indistinguishable prayers. He murmured negotiations, exclamations, and perhaps ultimatums. It was sometimes hard to watch my partner perform these rites, because he looked as if he were having serious tremens; but I gave him my word that I would not interfere unless he specifically asked.
The Puppet sat completely still.
I’m not sure how long we waited, but as soon as Shaman was done, he stepped back from the Puppet, leaned against the wall, and slowly slid to the floor. He hyperventilated the entire time. He then scrambled for his tobacco, and began the process of methodically making a cigarette. Mike and I let go too, and we waited until Shaman took a few long pulls.
“I saw it,” Shaman said.
We waited. The Puppet sat still, staring at the floor.
“Was it the Demon?” I asked. “Was it Berith?”
“Not sure,” said Shaman. “It left as soon as I spotted it.”
“And…?” I asked. I knew there was more.
Shaman looked at me. “It needs help.”
My eyebrows rose. “So we’re in?”
“We’re in,” said Shaman.
Mike waited a moment. “When?”
“Not sure,” said Shaman.
“Did he give you anything else?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then how can you be sure it wants help?” persisted Mike.
Shaman paused a moment then looked up at us. “The paracorps is running from something,” he began after taking a long drag from his cigarette. “That I’m sure of. Which means it’s looking for help.” He took another drag. “That I’m also sure of.”
“So what will you do?” asked Mike.
“I have an idea,” said my partner. “Turn the recorder back on.”
Mike nodded and headed for the door. He opened it and-
“Father, please step back-” came the voice of the guard outside.
Father Norman quickly appeared and threw open the door. He wielded a hardbound Bible and a deranged look danced in his eyes. “Exorcizo te, immundíssime spíritus-”
“Oh shit!” I exclaimed as I ran toward the door, planning to knock Norman back out from whence he came. Mike was there with me: he shouldered the priest and helped to push him into the hallway. Shaman shielded the Puppet from the crazed clergyman.
On my way out I heard a thump and a crash-somebody had gone though the two-way mirror, I wasn’t sure who-but when I got a chance to look the guard had already shut the door and was helping Mike and me restrain Father Norman.
Now, I knew that the good padre had had it in for us, but I never expected the man to go this far. He always played by the rules-I mean, he was a Catholic priest-allowing dusters to do their jobs and criticizing them after the fact. But barging in on an interrogation, trying to perform an exorcism, and fighting agents to continue was just wrong.
Soon other guards and agents made it over to help restrain the priest. I didn’t know if Shaman went though the window with the Puppet. I ran for the interrogation room and opened it.
Inside was a mess: the mirror was shattered and the Puppet lay sprawled out on the floor like a rag doll. My partner tried to no avail to revive the Puppet. He then looked up at me. “Get the EMT’s!” Since the Crossover, the Bureau always kept medical staff on premises.
I ran out to the fiasco with Father Norman. The padre wasn’t quitting. He struggled to break free of the agents, mumbling in Latin, and throwing punches and kicks whenever he could. More agents joined the fray. It was like orderlies trying to restrain a belligerent mental patient. EMT’s also helped; one was preparing a shot. I got his attention; he looked at me. “When you’re done, we’ll need you in here.”
I went back into the interrogation room. Shaman was still working: he held the Puppet’s head in his hands, and looked in his eyes.
“Did we lose him?” came Mike’s voice from beside me.
“I think so,” I said. After a moment, I added, “What the hell was that priest doing?”
“Don’t know,” said Mike. “I’ll question him.”
Shaman then gestured for me. I went to him. “Is he Emptied?”
“Don’t know,” said Shaman.
The Puppet lay bent on the floor with his head twisted back, his mouth agape, and his tongue lolling. He looked dead, but he wasn’t; he was something worse. To be Emptied meant that your soul was taken from your body, in most cases spirited away by the riding paracorps. Physically it resembles being in a coma; only life support systems kept everything going after this point.
“Give me one of your hairs,” asked Shaman.
I complied.
Shaman put my hair into the Puppet’s jeans’ pocket. “Okay,” he began, “let’s let him go.”
“Where?” asked Mike.
“Somewhere outside,” said Shaman. “Anywhere.”
“So if the paracorp is still inside when the Puppet awakens,” I added, “we chase it down.”
“Take him to D.C. General.” said Mike with a wink.
D.C. General Hospital had one of the best treatment facilities for recovering Puppets around. Mike was smart to “officially” have us escort the Puppet there. If the paracorp were still inside Tommy-which I was beginning to think it was-it would most likely make a move outside Warded spaces. Then Shaman and I would be right behind it.
EMT’s came in with a gurney; they carefully placed the Puppet onto it. They wasted no time-or resources-connecting an IV drip to the patient. Shaman and I helped to direct the gurney outside. The Puppet stirred a bit as soon as the gurney went inside the ambulance; Wards have that effect. The EMT’s looked at us expectantly. Shaman and I climbed in the back.
After the patient was admitted and the emergency room staff busied themselves with other, more life-threatening situations, Shaman and I saw our opportunity. “We’ll take this patient to Puppet Recovery,” I offered the desk clerk. She absently thanked me.
We rolled the gurney through the hospital, looking as if we had a destination in mind. We needed a wheelchair, though; the gurney wouldn’t work with what we had planned. Before I knew it, Shaman produced one, and we switched vehicles out of sight of the security cameras. Then we headed for the loading dock.
As soon as we passed the threshold of the exit door the Puppet started stirring again. As we pushed him down the ramp onto the back parking lot, he began to convulse.
“We don’t want him to have too much of head start,” said Shaman, “Let’s get started.”
I nodded. I began to take deep breaths, concentrating only on air entering and exiting my lungs. I needed to be completely relaxed for what I was about to do.
I was about to Plane. Which means I was to become, for all intents and purposes, a paracorp; the very thing I dedicated my entire career to stop. But again, to catch something one must be able to function like one; and what better way to catch a ghost than to become one oneself?
The only senses one retained while Planing were sight and hearing…and a particular, if not limited, human emotion: a longing for flesh, for a real sense of touch. I would feel this too-it does come with the territory-and the longing was strong, like a vampire’s need for blood. It is said that paracorp are jealous of living humans. I completely concur.
As a paracorp I don’t worry about exact locations, for I do not need to follow any paved paths to catch my quarry. The advantages abound: pesky things like gravity and mass and space mean nothing to me. I could go anywhere I wanted, except of course if places were Warded. But even if they were, they could, with some effort, be circumvented; I’ve learned a few tricks.
Shaman already had his smoke rolled and lit, and he was calling the quarters-or acknowledging the spirits of the Four Winds by walking in a circle and stopping in the appropriate spots-when I was finished. He went back to his starting point, muttered prayers, exhaled some smoke and looked at me.
I nodded and stepped into the center of the Circle.
“Here we go,” said my partner. And thus began the ritual that was to-literally-set my spirit free to chase down the renegade paracorp.
Our timing was lucky; because as soon as Shaman began, the Puppet got up from his wheelchair and ran away. The paracorp must have just awakened.
Shaman stood behind me, and I knew that it would only be a moment until I was Planing. I felt his touch lightly brush the back of my head, my heels, and my hands in a particular order before he finally took in a deep breath and pushed toward the center of my shoulder blades.
My spirit quickly left my corporeal shell, via my heart chakra, and I was free.
I felt nothing except wind, for that is all that I was. Wind. Air. A breeze. I was lighter than a feather. I could fly above the clouds and hang out with 767’s if I wanted to; I could go subterranean, and swim around the inside of the earth as if it were the sea; I could move about underwater with incredible ease; I could safely dance along with wildfire flames-but more pressing matters were at hand. And I felt the longing-I thirsted for flesh. Being an experienced duster, I used this longing to my advantage. It was this yearning, this addiction that helped me hone in on the runaway Puppet; for he did have my hair in his pocket. The Puppet had no idea of my little tracking device.
The Puppet wound up heading for a check cashing place-a Check ‘N Go, to be exact, on 8th Street, Southeast. Perhaps the paracorp was going to rob the place. He stood in front of it and looked around, nervous.
I had to act quickly: I had to get inside the establishment before the paracorp; for all he had to do was to ride an employee and lock the door and my job would be much harder. Nowadays, every residence and place of business is Warded by utility companies.
But the paracorp decided to just walk in. Right behind him walked a lady who carried a leather purse. How convenient. Before she stepped over the threshold I got into the purse and proceeded to ride it. I knew I couldn’t reanimate dead tissue, but it got me through the Wards.
Safe inside the purse, I looked around for the Puppet. He sat in a chair near an elderly, armed security guard at the door. He discreetly touched the old man’s hand. Bingo. Tommy the Puppet then slumped over, passed out. The guard he touched shook his head, blinked a few times, and looked around the establishment. The paracorps was trying out his new shell.
Now was the time to find a Tagged human I could Ride. A Tagged human is any living person who, after signing several release forms and undergoing a battery of tests and procedures, has his or her aura marked, or Tagged; signifying that a trained agent can easily posses or overtake their living shell temporarily, especially in cases of paracorporeal apprehension. I mean, taking over someone’s car to pursue a criminal is one thing. A small percentage of the population participates in Aural Tagging, since the benefits include preferential treatment at all hospitals. I looked around, two people in the place had the familiar hue and twinkle added to their auras, but it just so happened that the lady whose purse I was riding was also Tagged. I quickly asked her permission-manners are always a necessity-received it, and got in.
With human eyes I focused on the guard to see what exactly he was hosting, to see if I could at all identify the paracorp. He was darting about the place, looking back and forth between the people inside and the street outside. And, superimposed over the face of the old guard I thought I saw a familiar face: male-patterned baldness and pockmarked, hollow cheeks rang familiarity bells in my head.
No, it couldn’t.
One thing was for sure: this was no Demon, no General of Hell; it was a human-a human I knew all too well. If only it stood still enough so I could be sure.
“Everyone,” began the new Puppet as he unholstered the gun at his hip and began to brandish it, “drop to the floor and put your hands behind your heads.”
My new eyes blinked for a while in disbelief, and then it hit me: all of the pieces fell neatly into place. How did this paracorp easily slip by Federal and Diocesan Wards and know how to hide himself from two seasoned dusters? Why was this being so willing to cooperate in the interrogation room yet cagey when Shaman actually looked for it? Why would a by-the-book clergyman go out of his way to do an exorcism he wasn’t trained or authorized to do? And why did he need to do it at a particular point in time? I needed to act, and I needed to do it soon.
Everyone in the place had pretty much followed the instructions of the possessed guard. All except one: me. I saw my opportunity: “Father?” I said in my new feminine voice.
The guard’s face flinched as if he had just been slapped. He looked around the place. “Who said that?!”
“Father?” I repeated. I was then absolutely sure who this paracorps was. “Father Norman?”
He finally found me; the gun in his hand followed. “You!”
I paused, then, “Yeah.”
To the casual observer, it seemed unbelievable that an old security guard was robbing a Check ‘N Go, and that a frail old lady was trying to stop him, but there it was.
“God damn it!” exclaimed the old man. He aimed the gun for my (her?) head.
Now I had to convince the good padre that I was on his side. “You were Riding Tommy the entire time weren’t you?”
“Shut up,” he retorted.
“Howe tough was it?” I continued. “Jumping back and forth between you and Tommy?”
“Don’t say another word, Eckel,” replied the paracorps that is truly Father Norman. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“You’re running from something,” I insisted. “And it must be really big. Why else would you risk ex-communication?”
“Shut up while you’re not ahead,” he said. He cocked the hammer of the gun.
“I can help you,” I offered.
“No you can’t,” he scoffed.
“Yes,” I replied. “What my partner and I have seen?” I paused. “I can help you.”
The security guard/priest said nothing. I had him thinking. Good.
“How did you get into this?” I persisted. “This can’t be a single-person deal. Who else is involved?”
He stormed over to me, the gun aimed pointedly at my head. “Say something foolish, Eckel,” he hoarsely whispered, “and I swear to you I’ll blow a hole in this lady’s head!”
A pregnant pause entered the conversation. The customers and employees of the establishment were being very cooperative: on the floor, hands covering their heads, waiting for this all to blow over. And, they most likely would admit to nothing of what was said. Selective amnesia. Still, the padre was right: I needed to be careful about what was said.
“What do you want, Father?” I asked.
He looked at me though weathered eyes. I could tell that the paracorps behind the living man was exhausted. “I want out,” he said. “Can you help with that?”
“Yes.”
Out of the corner my eye I noticed Shaman had shown up outside with a few other agents in tow. There was also an ambulance discreetly pulling up with its lights off-it probably contained my corporeal shell. How he could find me in situations like this is a trick he’d never reveal.
The guard lowered his gun arm and rubbed it with his free hand. “What do you need?”
“Drop the gun,” I said. “And touch this purse. When you do, act as if you’re going to ride it. Then we’ll go outside and talk.”
“No funny stuff?” asked Father Norman.
“Look around,” I said as I stopped in front of him. “Do you see any Papal Monks?” Papal Monks, short for Brothers of the Order of Papal Justice, Franciscan Monks who investigate any alleged infractions of Papal Law. They’re the Church’s version of Internal Affairs, and Papal Monks are as scary and as serious as anyone I’ve ever met. These fellows are almost certainly the ones Father Norman is running from.
The paracorporeal priest looked around the establishment. “No.” He gave me a last look before he touched the purse. As soon as he did so, I felt a slight thump. Then the old guard passed out.
“It’s all right, everyone,” I said to the check-cashing customers and employees. “There is no longer any danger. Federal agents and EMT’s are outside if you need assistance.” I then walked toward the door.
Outside I nodded toward my partner and walked down the street. Shaman said something to a group of agents. Some agents dispersed, probably to perform some case-ending tasks for Shaman. Two followed him, and the three of them followed me and my purse at a distance.
Night was coming, and light was getting scarce.
“How long have you been into this?” I asked the purse.
“Don’t bother,” it replied.
“And you really saw this Berith?”
The purse scoffed. “The funny thing is, we never got to see him. We never got proof of his existence.”
“You weren’t the one riding Tommy were you?” I continued.
“No,” said Father Norman.
“Then if you knew who and what he was why did you even let us interrogate him?” I continued.
“I had to make it look good,” said the purse.
There were things I still needed to know. “Then why did you barge in and try an Exorcism?”
“Your partner was getting too close for anyone’s comfort.”
Ah, that says tons.
A half a block down I found an alley that was perfect. I turned into it.
A few yards in, I put the purse down on the ground and stepped back from it. “You can come out now,” I said. “It’s safe. I’ll come out, too”
Nothing happened.
I turned around and gestured for Shaman and the two agents. They entered the alley.
“I’ll wait until everyone else leaves,” said the purse. I guess he wanted no one to finger him.
“Someone needs to attend to this lady when I leave her,” I said aloud. “Two of them will carry her away.”
The purse waited.
I made the lady who hosted me take a deep breath in and, “One…two…three!” She exhaled, and out I went. She then lost her balance and fell backwards, into the arms of the agents who came with Shaman.
“Get her some help,” said Shaman. The agents quickly and quietly carried her away.
Father Norman, in paracorporeal form, appeared then, next to the purse. He stood there just like any other living human would. What made him paracorporeal was the dim gray glow that he radiated, and his translucence. “What do I do now?” he asked.
“Shaman, explain,” I said as I looked at my partner.
Shaman pulled an empty glass vial from his utility belt and held it out. “I can-”
But then he stopped. I saw something I don’t usually see: my partner’s eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open. I turned back around to look at what Shaman was gaping at.
And there, behind the paracorps, seemingly rising out of a dumpster, was something I had never seen in my entire life: a Demon.
It was much taller than any paracorps I’ve seen; about nine feet tall. And it was redder; or as red as anything could get in this glowing gray world. He had no horns protruding from his temples, nor did I notice a long, pointed tail. But he did have presence: the kind of presence that renders him recognizable and anonymous at the same time; he could silence a room upon entering, or leave completely undetected. He also had an outsized forehead which overshadowed large, wide eyes, and no eyebrows whatsoever to speak of. He was completely hairless, except for a small vandyke he wore under his bottom lip. His upper torso was large and finely-muscled, covered in tattoos that seemed to consist of Latin sigils and medieval art. From his waist down there was nothing but drifts of air, flowing down, as thick as water from a faucet.
The Demon drifted closer behind Father Norman. He clutched the ghost’s shoulders. “You are mine,” it said in a deep, resonating voice, with just enough rasp that scraped at my very soul.
Father Norman opened his mouth to scream, but no sounds came out. He trembled at the touch, and his whole body slumped as if paralyzed. Then the Demon pulled the smaller being into it, into the drifts of air that fell from its waist.
In a moment, Father Norman was duly consumed. His corporeal shell was most likely lying in some corner of the Bureau Building somewhere, completely Emptied.
The Demon then set his sights on Shaman and me. “Thank you, gentlemen,” it said. “You’ve made my task that much easier.”
My partner and I said nothing. We just stood there. At that moment, I did not possess the wherewithal to worry if I were next. I was just too fucking scared.
“You can now go about your business,” continued the Demon.
We couldn’t move. I mean, I was a free-floating spirit with no ties whatsoever to gravity and I still couldn’t move. I couldn’t even ask the being who he exactly was; I had no voice.
The Demon waited a moment, as if he were self-conscious about anyone watching him leave. He then exhaled and glared at us. “Do you want me to remember you?” it asked slowly, carefully. “Go. About. Your business…Now.”
I looked at my partner; he looked at me. He still held the glass vial out to catch a paracorps. I got the hint and went inside. He then turned around and quickly exited the alley.
“So, partner,” I began. “You may want some agents to come in and check out that dumpster.”
“Why?” asked Shaman.
“To see if it turned into gold.”
Here of course, is a story. It might take you some time to read it, but I believe the gist of the world I created is all here.
Enjoy. And again, be as critical as humanly (or inhumanly) possible.
Puppets are notoriously docile, and Tommy was no exception. He had the shakes, the bruises, and the obligatory doe-like eyes. Matted-dark hair, buckteeth, and billowy cheeks further supported this theory. He kept licking his lips. He was short of breath. His hands wouldn’t keep still-he kept feeling the table, himself, and his chair. He blinked and flinched as if he kept seeing things. But this was a Warded interrogation room inside a Warded Federal Building, and the chances of a hostile paracorps even showing its translucent self within these walls were next to nil.
“This our guy?” asked Mike, our supervisor. He knew we’d been on this case for some time.
“Yeah,” said Shaman dismissively.
All three of us stood in the room we affectionately called the closet-the small dark room with security monitors, audio equipment, and the better end of a two-way mirror. We observed the squirming Puppet in the interrogation room.
“How do you know?” probed Mike.
“The track marks on his arms are Sigils,” replied Shaman. I could just picture Tommy drawing the Roman letters on his arms with a Sharpie, then shooting up dope within the patterns. Crafty paracorp cattle branded their Puppets this way.
“Shit,” Mike said. He looked at Shaman. “Can you tell whose they are?”
“Not yet,” he said. I’m sure my partner scrutinized this Puppet’s arm earlier.
“Well,” said Mike, “what are you two waiting for?”
“Take one guess,” I offered.
After a moment Mike shook his head. “Father Norman?”
“Yep.”
Mike cursed under his breath. He was neatly dressed in a dark suit, a pale shirt, and a striped tie. His dark eyes squinted through wire-rimmed spectacles. “Does he know anything about this Puppet yet?”
“Nada,” Shaman replied.
“If we found anything out,” I added, “we’d have to repeat it as soon as he got here.” A part of the job I truly hate.
Mike nodded. “So we wait?”
I nodded.
Shaman leaned against the wall. He opened a pouch on his utility belt, pulled out his own blended tobacco, some paper, and proceeded to roll a cigarette. It was probably the same mixture he used when casting a Circle or prepping a Banishment or doing some other magical duty for the Bureau. It seemed like some ritual an old-world, grizzled medicine man would perform-not a Gifted, somewhat unsophisticated ex-Marine. That’s one of the reasons why I called him Shaman-his real name’s Manny. Soon the closet filled with Shaman’s incense-riddled smoke.
The closet door opened and Father Norman ambled in as if on a mission. He was a gangly clergyman whose male-patterned baldness traveled from temple to temple. Pockmarked skin sagged on his face. Coke-bottles glasses hovered over long, hollow cheeks. If he hadn’t sported the standard cleric’s black, he would’ve looked apropos in whiteface, with elongated shoes and a red rubber-ball nose. He nodded and waited a moment, as if he was trying to think of what to say. He looked through the mirror at the Puppet. “So, what’s his story?”
Shaman and I looked at each other. “Go ahead,” I said.
“The Puppet’s name is Tommy Mulligan, nineteen years old,” Shaman began. “We IDed him from the security tapes of the banks that were robbed. The last one was hit earlier today. His rap sheet says he’s done juvie time for assault and battery and armed robbery. He’s also involved in local satanic cults. We found him wandering along New Hampshire Avenue, near University Boulevard. He exhibited symptoms of amnesia and delirium tremens when we apprehended him. We then brought him here and waited for you, Father.”
Father Marcus cocked his head. “I thought the paracorps involved in the robberies used humans already in the bank, not Lost Souls.” This is what the padre called Puppets-what a humanist.
“Yes,” I said, “but the paracorp needed a Puppet to get to the bank. I mean, somebody has to drive the getaway car. He’d ride the Puppet to the bank, find his unwilling human entering it, ride that human inside, and rob the place. Besides, the paracorp could stay undetected safely within a Puppet. This Puppet showed up every time before and after a robbery.”
“So,” continued the clergyman, “have you IDed the paracorp?”
“We were waiting on you,” I said.
“You have clearance to begin the interrogation,” continued the priest, “as long as everything is recorded and follows Church protocol.”
Mike and Shaman said nothing; I bit my tongue.
“Unless…” the clergyman stared at us for a moment, “you already did something profane.”
I bit my tongue. We hadn’t even started interrogating yet, and the good padre was already on our asses.
“It’s amazing that the Bureau continues to employ the both of you.” lectured the priest.
That did it; I turned to my partner. “Is he aware how time-sensitive this case is?”
Shaman shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
I turned back to the padre. “The paracorp that rides this Puppet is now resting. Paracorporeal Possession is tiring for both the human and the ghost-”
“I’m aware of that, Agent Eckel.”
“Yes, yes,” I commented, “but are you aware that the latest robbery occurred this morning? If we don’t act now, the paracorp will awaken, figure things out, and look elsewhere?”
“I appreciate the urgency, Agent Eckel,” said Father Norman, “which is why I made pains to get here as quickly as I could. But that does not account for heresy.”
Here we go, folks: it’s time for the Inter-Agency Pissing Contest. I looked at Shaman. “How many Banishments did we do this month? Four? Five?”
Shaman shrugged, exhaling smoke. “Didn’t count them.”
Father Norman didn’t skip a beat. “All methods involving the pursuit and apprehension of paracorporeal threats must be approved by the Church. The Bureau has adhered to these guidelines since the Crossover. It’s about time that the both of you adhere to them, too.”
“You know,” I noted caustically, “I wonder if Agents Khaldǘn or Leibowitz get this much love.” My big smile twinkled.
Father Norman bristled. “I won’t stand for this disrespect.” He looked at Mike. “Agent Bevereaux…?”
Mike shook his head. “All right, Agent Eckel…”
“What am I doing, Mike?” I asked.
“We have a case,” said Mike, saving us from embarrassment, “Agents, Bait the Puppet.”
I decided to let it go. For now. I looked at Shaman. He tamped the butt of his cigarette out on the sole of his boot and stuck it in the back pocket of his chinos. He opened the door of the closet and entered the hallway. I followed.
“What do you think?” I whispered as soon as I shut the door.
“Padre seems a little testy today,” Shaman whispered back.
“More than usual?”
“More than usual.”
“You think it means something?” I offered.
“Don’t know,” whispered my partner. “It’s no secret that he wants to nail us, but…”
“But,” I smiled. “We won’t give him that opportunity, will we, Shaman?”
“Not at all, Chaser,” he said and returned my smile. He nodded to the guards standing in front of the interrogation room. They opened the door for us.
The Puppet stared at us blankly as soon as we entered the room.
The first few minutes of an interrogation-especially involving a Puppet we were planning to Bait-were crucial to the outcome of a case. A successful Baiting involves enticing the Puppet into secretly taking us along on its next planned crime. We do this by bribery: we’d promise mucho material rewards, because any gifts paracorps would promise are not exactly tangible. And if they were, we’d promise more. We would then intervene, stop the crime, save the Puppet, and Banish the paracorp into Hell. And the chorus would sing “Hallelujah!” At the end of the day, you Baited a Puppet any way you could. Because Baiting is, for all intents and purposes, a crapshoot. Shaman and I used techniques that made us especially good at it. We protected people from fucking scary beings. If it involved heretical practices, we really didn’t give a shit.
“How are you, Tommy?” Shaman started. He decided to lead this time.
The kid blinked.
“I’m Agent Blanco and this is Agent Eckel,” he continued. “Do you need anything?”
The kid paused. “A cigarette.”
Shaman took out a pack of Blesseds from his utility belt-he never touched the things, himself-and gave them to the kid. The kid pulled one out of the pack and put it in his mouth. Shaman produced his Zippo and lighted it. The pack was left on the table. The interrogation room soon filled with Smoke.
“We’d like to know if you could help us out,” Shaman continued.
The kid exhaled and nodded.
“Do you remember anything of your whereabouts this morning?” I was pretty sure of the answer, but I had to put on record that this Puppet remembered absolutely nothing of being paracorporeally possessed.
“I was around.”
“Do you remember specifically where you were?” I insisted.
The Puppet clammed up.
“You’re not under arrest, Tommy,” said Shaman. “We just need to know if you remember anything from today, that’s all.”
Tommy took a drag from his cigarette and looked around the interrogation room, his gaze lingering for a few moments on the large crucifix hanging plainly above the doorway. He then looked at the just-as-large Star of David hanging on the right-hand wall. He looked back at us and took another drag. “I got high.”
“Okay,” said Shaman. “Did you do that first thing this morning?”
Another pause, more smoke. “Yeah.”
Shaman looked at me. I nodded, urging him to go on.
“Do you remember what you did after that?”
“Sort of,” said the Puppet.
Shaman paused; then, “Can you tell us about it?”
“I went to Worship.”
Of course he went to Worship. Everyone nowadays went to Worship. If they had half a brain and didn’t want to risk being ridden by a self-serving paracorp, they’d attend Worship and apply Wards that would protect their corporeal shells. I wonder if people went to Worship as much back in the early 60’s, before the Crossover. But I digress.
“Tommy?” said Shaman. “Can I take a look at your arm?”
The Puppet took another long pull off of his smoke. He then coughed violently. His eyes shut tight and he doubled over in his chair. Each retch made his muscles contract spasmodically. My partner and I waited patiently, knowing that this coughing fit was going to be transformative.
After the fit subsided he shook his head a few times. Tears streamed down his face. He refocused and looked around the room-again-as if he were immediately unfamiliar with his surroundings.
“Tommy?” repeated Shaman. “Your arm, please?”
The Puppet looked at Shaman. His eyebrows rose and his head tilted, as if something amused him. He then sat up bolt-straight in his chair and presented his left arm with the track-marked-Sigils. Moments ago he didn’t care; now he’s attentive, obedient.
Was he possessed? Anybody’s guess, at this point.
Shaman approached the Puppet, and kneeled. He pulled his PDA out and made a big display of fiddling with it. He already knew everything about this particular Puppet; he was just showing off for the powers-that-be.
The boy beamed at him. “You could have asked me, you know,” he commented in a crystal clear voice-not the voice he used before, the usual rasp of a Puppet. “I would have told you what they meant.”
Shaman slowly looked up at him. “Is that you, Tommy?”
“Why wouldn't it be?" asked the Puppet.
“Can you see anything?” I asked my partner.
“Not now,” he said. Shaman has paracorporeal Sight: he can see paracorps as clearly as he could see anyone else. A possessed person holds the face of the riding paracorp superimposed over his or her own. I can see things like this, too, but only when I am a paracorp-but I digress.
Shaman looked back at the kid’s elbow, squinted as if to read the Sigils, and nodded. “Can you tell me about your birthday?” Shaman asked, putting back his PDA. “Where you went to elementary school? Your favorite color?”
The Puppet-or the paracorps within-continued to beam.
“Can you tell me any of those things, Tommy?” Shaman persisted.
The Puppet’s smile grew.
Shaman was trying to find out if this Puppet was truly being Ridden or if we were, in fact, the ones being taken for a ride.
Because not only did this Puppet walk through a metal detector upon entering this building, he was also searched, Warded by Diocesan interns, and, for good measure, dusted and photographed by junior agents. Warding includes reciting incantations and touching holy objects to the Puppet’s Chakra or Virtue Points, spiritually sealing them, expelling from the Puppet’s corporeal shell any paracorporeal presence that may have passed through the Wards outside the Federal Building. Dusting involves taking paracorporeal dust and spreading it all over the Puppet, who is then Aurally Photographed. Paracorporeal dust works a lot like fingerprint dust, for paracorporeal ectoplasm leaves detectable smudges everywhere it goes, not unlike slug trails. An aural photo clarifies the Puppet’s Aura, confirming whether or not it is hosting an entity-the dust enhances this. All in all, these procedures are virtually foolproof, since our technology is state-of-the-art and the interns work staggered shifts and frequently vary the incantations.
But still, the fuckers get through.
“Who are you Hosting, Tommy?” continued Shaman.
The Puppet’s countenance darkened considerably, adding malice to his smile. “Berith,” he said with an overextended exhale on the last consonant blend. “The great Duke of Hell, he who tells things of the past, present, and future with true answers, he who turns all metals into gold.”
“So,” said Shaman, not missing a beat, “if you can tell things of the past, present and future with true answers, then what elementary school did Tommy Mulligan attend?”
The Puppet blinked at us; if he expected to either shock us he was sorely mistaken.
“And if you’re Berith and you can turn all metals into gold,” I chimed in, “then why do you need to rob banks?”
He looked at me and smiled again. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I mean really,” I continued. “Couldn’t you just find a frying pan and be done with it?”
The Puppet looked at Shaman. “Neither of you would understand.”
“We’re trying,” said Shaman.
“Gentlemen?” came a booming metallic voice from above. “Could you please come in here?” It was Father Norman, on the intercom, doing a bad God impersonation.
I looked at Shaman. He shrugged. We left.
As soon as we entered the hallway, Shaman dug into his pants pocket and produced a dollar. Shaman and I usually had a running bet concerning the actual time clergymen would barge in on our interrogations. My partner opted for more than five minutes, while I opted for less.
We opened the closet door and went inside.
“Did he say the name I thought he said?” asked Father Norman.
“And what name would that be?” I wanted to hear him say it.
Father Norman shuddered. His eyes darted around the floor. He produced rosary beads and wrapped them around his left hand. He crossed himself before he said, “Berith, the great Duke of Hell, who has twenty-six legions of demons under his command.”
“Padre?” I began. “You could have played back the tape or asked Mike what was said. You didn’t have to interrupt.”
“But,” the clergyman commented, “if you’re dealing with an entity of this magnitude, we would need a trained exorcist.”
“That’s if Berith is riding this Puppet,” Shaman replied.
“Those Sigils on his arms,” said Father. “He changed right before our eyes. Berith is there.”
I turned to Mike. “Do you know any actors?”
“No,” said Mike, answering quickly. “Why?”
“Do you know any Latin?” Shaman added.
“Yes,” answered Mike. He blinked. “What are you two driving at?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Father Norman.
“Sir? You could get Sigils on your arms,” said Shaman.
“And you could fake a Possession,” I noted.
“I still don’t see what this has to do with Berith!” exclaimed Father Norman.
“Agents, explain yourselves,” said Mike, glancing at the Puppet through the mirror.
“With all due respect, Father,” began Shaman, “we need to determine whom this Puppet is Hosting. It could be Berith, but we have no proof. We’d like to find some.”
“You have no proof?” The clergyman was beginning to sweat.
Shaman shook his head. “Anyone, alive or dead, could do this.”
“Besides,” I said, “if Berith is such an important muckity-muck, then why is he bothering with a nobody like Tommy? Why not set his sights higher? Why not the Pope?” I shrugged. “Why not you?”
Father Norman opened his mouth and let out a deep gasp. He looked around the room a bit then looked at Mike. “Agent Bevereaux…?”
“I see where they’re coming from, Father,” said Mike. “With the years I’ve served in the Bureau, I’ve dealt mostly with small-time paracorps with delusions of grandeur, not Dukes of Hell. We should permit the agents to interrogate the Puppet as they see fit. Once this investigation is over, no matter the outcome, I’ll personally make sure that they follow protocol.”
Father Norman waited a while before he replied. He fiddled with the rosary beads. He was still sweating. He looked from Shaman, to me, to Mike, and back to me several times before starting the circuit again. “Fine,” he admitted. “But you had better keep them on a leash, Agent Bevereaux. Or else you’ll be in the doghouse with them.”
“There’s no need for threats, Father,” said Mike coolly.
The padre looked at Mike for a while. “And this entire interrogation had better be recorded.”
“As long as you keep your boundaries,” replied Mike, “we’ll keep ours.”
That’s right! I wanted to add. Although the Church has a stranglehold on virtually all procedures concerning the apprehension of criminal paracorporeal entities, they make pains to remain as invisible as possible. There have been too many cases when, after intervention from church agents, paracorps would become quite uncooperative, rendering Puppets injured or Emptied, and leaving other victims delusional and dribbling.
The clergyman headed for the door. “Vaya con dios.” The door slammed behind him.
“Vic? Manny?” said Mike.
“One thing, Mike,” I said before we left.
“Two,” added Shaman.
Mike huffed. “What?”
“Could you turn off the equipment?” I asked.
“And we’ll need a third man,” Shaman said.
Mike looked at Shaman. “You’re doing your thing?”
My partner nodded.
Mike looked at me. “Father wants this recorded.”
“Right,” I said. “We could do this the official way…”
Mike turned and looked through the mirror.
“And we could-”
“I know, Agent Eckel!” Mike barked, glaring at me.
Shaman and I waited.
“Oh, the Hell with it,” said Mike. “But this is the last time, VIc. I mean it.”
I gave Shaman a sideways glance. “Fine.”
Mike toggled the switch on the surge protector connecting all of the equipment in the closet; if asked, he’d claim paracorporeal interference. Before we went in, he reassigned one of the two guards outside the interrogation room and put him in front of the closet. He ordered that nobody-nobody-was to enter either room until we were finished, no matter how long it took.
Shaman was already smoking when Mike and I entered the interrogation room; we waited by the door. He walked around the room, stopping in four spots-the Four Winds-muttering prayers and exhaling smoke at each one, until he returned to the spot where he started. The table was out of the way and the Puppet sat in his chair in the center of the room, facing my partner. Shaman signaled Mike and me to join him.
Shaman grabbed Mike’s hand, who stood to his left; Mike grabbed mine-I stood to his left; and I grabbed Shaman’s free hand, who stood to my left. The Puppet sat in the chair in the middle of our circle/triangle.
My partner began to hum; we joined him. Our humming resonated through the interrogation room, and I could feel the energy spawning from it.
Mike and I knew this drill well.
Then we unclasped hands; our energy still held the Circle together. Shaman took a badger-hair brush and a small bottle of dust from his belt. The Puppet held his breath. “This will sting,” he said to the Puppet as he dipped the brush into the bottle. He started at the top of the Puppet’s head, then moved to his forehead, then to his eyes, his throat, the heart, the lower abdomen, and finally, his hands and feet. He muttered prayers.
The Puppet exhaled slowly.
“How are you feeling?” asked Shaman.
“Okay,” said the Puppet as he opened his eyes.
Shaman looked at me and Mike, requesting our participation. He crossed his arms on his chest and looked directly into the Puppet’s eyes; Mike and I placed hands on the Puppet’s shoulders and on my partner’s.
We would now wait-for an hour, or two, or all night if necessary.
Shaman twitched while he stared at the Puppet. He muttered indistinguishable prayers. He murmured negotiations, exclamations, and perhaps ultimatums. It was sometimes hard to watch my partner perform these rites, because he looked as if he were having serious tremens; but I gave him my word that I would not interfere unless he specifically asked.
The Puppet sat completely still.
I’m not sure how long we waited, but as soon as Shaman was done, he stepped back from the Puppet, leaned against the wall, and slowly slid to the floor. He hyperventilated the entire time. He then scrambled for his tobacco, and began the process of methodically making a cigarette. Mike and I let go too, and we waited until Shaman took a few long pulls.
“I saw it,” Shaman said.
We waited. The Puppet sat still, staring at the floor.
“Was it the Demon?” I asked. “Was it Berith?”
“Not sure,” said Shaman. “It left as soon as I spotted it.”
“And…?” I asked. I knew there was more.
Shaman looked at me. “It needs help.”
My eyebrows rose. “So we’re in?”
“We’re in,” said Shaman.
Mike waited a moment. “When?”
“Not sure,” said Shaman.
“Did he give you anything else?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then how can you be sure it wants help?” persisted Mike.
Shaman paused a moment then looked up at us. “The paracorps is running from something,” he began after taking a long drag from his cigarette. “That I’m sure of. Which means it’s looking for help.” He took another drag. “That I’m also sure of.”
“So what will you do?” asked Mike.
“I have an idea,” said my partner. “Turn the recorder back on.”
Mike nodded and headed for the door. He opened it and-
“Father, please step back-” came the voice of the guard outside.
Father Norman quickly appeared and threw open the door. He wielded a hardbound Bible and a deranged look danced in his eyes. “Exorcizo te, immundíssime spíritus-”
“Oh shit!” I exclaimed as I ran toward the door, planning to knock Norman back out from whence he came. Mike was there with me: he shouldered the priest and helped to push him into the hallway. Shaman shielded the Puppet from the crazed clergyman.
On my way out I heard a thump and a crash-somebody had gone though the two-way mirror, I wasn’t sure who-but when I got a chance to look the guard had already shut the door and was helping Mike and me restrain Father Norman.
Now, I knew that the good padre had had it in for us, but I never expected the man to go this far. He always played by the rules-I mean, he was a Catholic priest-allowing dusters to do their jobs and criticizing them after the fact. But barging in on an interrogation, trying to perform an exorcism, and fighting agents to continue was just wrong.
Soon other guards and agents made it over to help restrain the priest. I didn’t know if Shaman went though the window with the Puppet. I ran for the interrogation room and opened it.
Inside was a mess: the mirror was shattered and the Puppet lay sprawled out on the floor like a rag doll. My partner tried to no avail to revive the Puppet. He then looked up at me. “Get the EMT’s!” Since the Crossover, the Bureau always kept medical staff on premises.
I ran out to the fiasco with Father Norman. The padre wasn’t quitting. He struggled to break free of the agents, mumbling in Latin, and throwing punches and kicks whenever he could. More agents joined the fray. It was like orderlies trying to restrain a belligerent mental patient. EMT’s also helped; one was preparing a shot. I got his attention; he looked at me. “When you’re done, we’ll need you in here.”
I went back into the interrogation room. Shaman was still working: he held the Puppet’s head in his hands, and looked in his eyes.
“Did we lose him?” came Mike’s voice from beside me.
“I think so,” I said. After a moment, I added, “What the hell was that priest doing?”
“Don’t know,” said Mike. “I’ll question him.”
Shaman then gestured for me. I went to him. “Is he Emptied?”
“Don’t know,” said Shaman.
The Puppet lay bent on the floor with his head twisted back, his mouth agape, and his tongue lolling. He looked dead, but he wasn’t; he was something worse. To be Emptied meant that your soul was taken from your body, in most cases spirited away by the riding paracorps. Physically it resembles being in a coma; only life support systems kept everything going after this point.
“Give me one of your hairs,” asked Shaman.
I complied.
Shaman put my hair into the Puppet’s jeans’ pocket. “Okay,” he began, “let’s let him go.”
“Where?” asked Mike.
“Somewhere outside,” said Shaman. “Anywhere.”
“So if the paracorp is still inside when the Puppet awakens,” I added, “we chase it down.”
“Take him to D.C. General.” said Mike with a wink.
D.C. General Hospital had one of the best treatment facilities for recovering Puppets around. Mike was smart to “officially” have us escort the Puppet there. If the paracorp were still inside Tommy-which I was beginning to think it was-it would most likely make a move outside Warded spaces. Then Shaman and I would be right behind it.
EMT’s came in with a gurney; they carefully placed the Puppet onto it. They wasted no time-or resources-connecting an IV drip to the patient. Shaman and I helped to direct the gurney outside. The Puppet stirred a bit as soon as the gurney went inside the ambulance; Wards have that effect. The EMT’s looked at us expectantly. Shaman and I climbed in the back.
After the patient was admitted and the emergency room staff busied themselves with other, more life-threatening situations, Shaman and I saw our opportunity. “We’ll take this patient to Puppet Recovery,” I offered the desk clerk. She absently thanked me.
We rolled the gurney through the hospital, looking as if we had a destination in mind. We needed a wheelchair, though; the gurney wouldn’t work with what we had planned. Before I knew it, Shaman produced one, and we switched vehicles out of sight of the security cameras. Then we headed for the loading dock.
As soon as we passed the threshold of the exit door the Puppet started stirring again. As we pushed him down the ramp onto the back parking lot, he began to convulse.
“We don’t want him to have too much of head start,” said Shaman, “Let’s get started.”
I nodded. I began to take deep breaths, concentrating only on air entering and exiting my lungs. I needed to be completely relaxed for what I was about to do.
I was about to Plane. Which means I was to become, for all intents and purposes, a paracorp; the very thing I dedicated my entire career to stop. But again, to catch something one must be able to function like one; and what better way to catch a ghost than to become one oneself?
The only senses one retained while Planing were sight and hearing…and a particular, if not limited, human emotion: a longing for flesh, for a real sense of touch. I would feel this too-it does come with the territory-and the longing was strong, like a vampire’s need for blood. It is said that paracorp are jealous of living humans. I completely concur.
As a paracorp I don’t worry about exact locations, for I do not need to follow any paved paths to catch my quarry. The advantages abound: pesky things like gravity and mass and space mean nothing to me. I could go anywhere I wanted, except of course if places were Warded. But even if they were, they could, with some effort, be circumvented; I’ve learned a few tricks.
Shaman already had his smoke rolled and lit, and he was calling the quarters-or acknowledging the spirits of the Four Winds by walking in a circle and stopping in the appropriate spots-when I was finished. He went back to his starting point, muttered prayers, exhaled some smoke and looked at me.
I nodded and stepped into the center of the Circle.
“Here we go,” said my partner. And thus began the ritual that was to-literally-set my spirit free to chase down the renegade paracorp.
Our timing was lucky; because as soon as Shaman began, the Puppet got up from his wheelchair and ran away. The paracorp must have just awakened.
Shaman stood behind me, and I knew that it would only be a moment until I was Planing. I felt his touch lightly brush the back of my head, my heels, and my hands in a particular order before he finally took in a deep breath and pushed toward the center of my shoulder blades.
My spirit quickly left my corporeal shell, via my heart chakra, and I was free.
I felt nothing except wind, for that is all that I was. Wind. Air. A breeze. I was lighter than a feather. I could fly above the clouds and hang out with 767’s if I wanted to; I could go subterranean, and swim around the inside of the earth as if it were the sea; I could move about underwater with incredible ease; I could safely dance along with wildfire flames-but more pressing matters were at hand. And I felt the longing-I thirsted for flesh. Being an experienced duster, I used this longing to my advantage. It was this yearning, this addiction that helped me hone in on the runaway Puppet; for he did have my hair in his pocket. The Puppet had no idea of my little tracking device.
The Puppet wound up heading for a check cashing place-a Check ‘N Go, to be exact, on 8th Street, Southeast. Perhaps the paracorp was going to rob the place. He stood in front of it and looked around, nervous.
I had to act quickly: I had to get inside the establishment before the paracorp; for all he had to do was to ride an employee and lock the door and my job would be much harder. Nowadays, every residence and place of business is Warded by utility companies.
But the paracorp decided to just walk in. Right behind him walked a lady who carried a leather purse. How convenient. Before she stepped over the threshold I got into the purse and proceeded to ride it. I knew I couldn’t reanimate dead tissue, but it got me through the Wards.
Safe inside the purse, I looked around for the Puppet. He sat in a chair near an elderly, armed security guard at the door. He discreetly touched the old man’s hand. Bingo. Tommy the Puppet then slumped over, passed out. The guard he touched shook his head, blinked a few times, and looked around the establishment. The paracorps was trying out his new shell.
Now was the time to find a Tagged human I could Ride. A Tagged human is any living person who, after signing several release forms and undergoing a battery of tests and procedures, has his or her aura marked, or Tagged; signifying that a trained agent can easily posses or overtake their living shell temporarily, especially in cases of paracorporeal apprehension. I mean, taking over someone’s car to pursue a criminal is one thing. A small percentage of the population participates in Aural Tagging, since the benefits include preferential treatment at all hospitals. I looked around, two people in the place had the familiar hue and twinkle added to their auras, but it just so happened that the lady whose purse I was riding was also Tagged. I quickly asked her permission-manners are always a necessity-received it, and got in.
With human eyes I focused on the guard to see what exactly he was hosting, to see if I could at all identify the paracorp. He was darting about the place, looking back and forth between the people inside and the street outside. And, superimposed over the face of the old guard I thought I saw a familiar face: male-patterned baldness and pockmarked, hollow cheeks rang familiarity bells in my head.
No, it couldn’t.
One thing was for sure: this was no Demon, no General of Hell; it was a human-a human I knew all too well. If only it stood still enough so I could be sure.
“Everyone,” began the new Puppet as he unholstered the gun at his hip and began to brandish it, “drop to the floor and put your hands behind your heads.”
My new eyes blinked for a while in disbelief, and then it hit me: all of the pieces fell neatly into place. How did this paracorp easily slip by Federal and Diocesan Wards and know how to hide himself from two seasoned dusters? Why was this being so willing to cooperate in the interrogation room yet cagey when Shaman actually looked for it? Why would a by-the-book clergyman go out of his way to do an exorcism he wasn’t trained or authorized to do? And why did he need to do it at a particular point in time? I needed to act, and I needed to do it soon.
Everyone in the place had pretty much followed the instructions of the possessed guard. All except one: me. I saw my opportunity: “Father?” I said in my new feminine voice.
The guard’s face flinched as if he had just been slapped. He looked around the place. “Who said that?!”
“Father?” I repeated. I was then absolutely sure who this paracorps was. “Father Norman?”
He finally found me; the gun in his hand followed. “You!”
I paused, then, “Yeah.”
To the casual observer, it seemed unbelievable that an old security guard was robbing a Check ‘N Go, and that a frail old lady was trying to stop him, but there it was.
“God damn it!” exclaimed the old man. He aimed the gun for my (her?) head.
Now I had to convince the good padre that I was on his side. “You were Riding Tommy the entire time weren’t you?”
“Shut up,” he retorted.
“Howe tough was it?” I continued. “Jumping back and forth between you and Tommy?”
“Don’t say another word, Eckel,” replied the paracorps that is truly Father Norman. “You have no idea what you’re getting into.”
“You’re running from something,” I insisted. “And it must be really big. Why else would you risk ex-communication?”
“Shut up while you’re not ahead,” he said. He cocked the hammer of the gun.
“I can help you,” I offered.
“No you can’t,” he scoffed.
“Yes,” I replied. “What my partner and I have seen?” I paused. “I can help you.”
The security guard/priest said nothing. I had him thinking. Good.
“How did you get into this?” I persisted. “This can’t be a single-person deal. Who else is involved?”
He stormed over to me, the gun aimed pointedly at my head. “Say something foolish, Eckel,” he hoarsely whispered, “and I swear to you I’ll blow a hole in this lady’s head!”
A pregnant pause entered the conversation. The customers and employees of the establishment were being very cooperative: on the floor, hands covering their heads, waiting for this all to blow over. And, they most likely would admit to nothing of what was said. Selective amnesia. Still, the padre was right: I needed to be careful about what was said.
“What do you want, Father?” I asked.
He looked at me though weathered eyes. I could tell that the paracorps behind the living man was exhausted. “I want out,” he said. “Can you help with that?”
“Yes.”
Out of the corner my eye I noticed Shaman had shown up outside with a few other agents in tow. There was also an ambulance discreetly pulling up with its lights off-it probably contained my corporeal shell. How he could find me in situations like this is a trick he’d never reveal.
The guard lowered his gun arm and rubbed it with his free hand. “What do you need?”
“Drop the gun,” I said. “And touch this purse. When you do, act as if you’re going to ride it. Then we’ll go outside and talk.”
“No funny stuff?” asked Father Norman.
“Look around,” I said as I stopped in front of him. “Do you see any Papal Monks?” Papal Monks, short for Brothers of the Order of Papal Justice, Franciscan Monks who investigate any alleged infractions of Papal Law. They’re the Church’s version of Internal Affairs, and Papal Monks are as scary and as serious as anyone I’ve ever met. These fellows are almost certainly the ones Father Norman is running from.
The paracorporeal priest looked around the establishment. “No.” He gave me a last look before he touched the purse. As soon as he did so, I felt a slight thump. Then the old guard passed out.
“It’s all right, everyone,” I said to the check-cashing customers and employees. “There is no longer any danger. Federal agents and EMT’s are outside if you need assistance.” I then walked toward the door.
Outside I nodded toward my partner and walked down the street. Shaman said something to a group of agents. Some agents dispersed, probably to perform some case-ending tasks for Shaman. Two followed him, and the three of them followed me and my purse at a distance.
Night was coming, and light was getting scarce.
“How long have you been into this?” I asked the purse.
“Don’t bother,” it replied.
“And you really saw this Berith?”
The purse scoffed. “The funny thing is, we never got to see him. We never got proof of his existence.”
“You weren’t the one riding Tommy were you?” I continued.
“No,” said Father Norman.
“Then if you knew who and what he was why did you even let us interrogate him?” I continued.
“I had to make it look good,” said the purse.
There were things I still needed to know. “Then why did you barge in and try an Exorcism?”
“Your partner was getting too close for anyone’s comfort.”
Ah, that says tons.
A half a block down I found an alley that was perfect. I turned into it.
A few yards in, I put the purse down on the ground and stepped back from it. “You can come out now,” I said. “It’s safe. I’ll come out, too”
Nothing happened.
I turned around and gestured for Shaman and the two agents. They entered the alley.
“I’ll wait until everyone else leaves,” said the purse. I guess he wanted no one to finger him.
“Someone needs to attend to this lady when I leave her,” I said aloud. “Two of them will carry her away.”
The purse waited.
I made the lady who hosted me take a deep breath in and, “One…two…three!” She exhaled, and out I went. She then lost her balance and fell backwards, into the arms of the agents who came with Shaman.
“Get her some help,” said Shaman. The agents quickly and quietly carried her away.
Father Norman, in paracorporeal form, appeared then, next to the purse. He stood there just like any other living human would. What made him paracorporeal was the dim gray glow that he radiated, and his translucence. “What do I do now?” he asked.
“Shaman, explain,” I said as I looked at my partner.
Shaman pulled an empty glass vial from his utility belt and held it out. “I can-”
But then he stopped. I saw something I don’t usually see: my partner’s eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped open. I turned back around to look at what Shaman was gaping at.
And there, behind the paracorps, seemingly rising out of a dumpster, was something I had never seen in my entire life: a Demon.
It was much taller than any paracorps I’ve seen; about nine feet tall. And it was redder; or as red as anything could get in this glowing gray world. He had no horns protruding from his temples, nor did I notice a long, pointed tail. But he did have presence: the kind of presence that renders him recognizable and anonymous at the same time; he could silence a room upon entering, or leave completely undetected. He also had an outsized forehead which overshadowed large, wide eyes, and no eyebrows whatsoever to speak of. He was completely hairless, except for a small vandyke he wore under his bottom lip. His upper torso was large and finely-muscled, covered in tattoos that seemed to consist of Latin sigils and medieval art. From his waist down there was nothing but drifts of air, flowing down, as thick as water from a faucet.
The Demon drifted closer behind Father Norman. He clutched the ghost’s shoulders. “You are mine,” it said in a deep, resonating voice, with just enough rasp that scraped at my very soul.
Father Norman opened his mouth to scream, but no sounds came out. He trembled at the touch, and his whole body slumped as if paralyzed. Then the Demon pulled the smaller being into it, into the drifts of air that fell from its waist.
In a moment, Father Norman was duly consumed. His corporeal shell was most likely lying in some corner of the Bureau Building somewhere, completely Emptied.
The Demon then set his sights on Shaman and me. “Thank you, gentlemen,” it said. “You’ve made my task that much easier.”
My partner and I said nothing. We just stood there. At that moment, I did not possess the wherewithal to worry if I were next. I was just too fucking scared.
“You can now go about your business,” continued the Demon.
We couldn’t move. I mean, I was a free-floating spirit with no ties whatsoever to gravity and I still couldn’t move. I couldn’t even ask the being who he exactly was; I had no voice.
The Demon waited a moment, as if he were self-conscious about anyone watching him leave. He then exhaled and glared at us. “Do you want me to remember you?” it asked slowly, carefully. “Go. About. Your business…Now.”
I looked at my partner; he looked at me. He still held the glass vial out to catch a paracorps. I got the hint and went inside. He then turned around and quickly exited the alley.
“So, partner,” I began. “You may want some agents to come in and check out that dumpster.”
“Why?” asked Shaman.
“To see if it turned into gold.”