A clown. His parents had hired a clown. Clyde was terrified of clowns. Bran watched with a sinking pit in his stomach as he watched seven year old Clyde run screaming from the middle- aged man in garish clothing, a red nose protruding from his face. His parents and their adult friends laughed at his terror.
“Young children are so stupid!” the neighbor said.
“Yes, aren’t they?!” Clyde's Mother said, smiling.
Beyond the fear, Clyde felt shame. Deep and intrusive. It changed him in that moment in ways he would only become aware of now, in his dying moments. These were fundamental truths of Clyde’s reality. No one cared about him. Kindness was all an act. A helping hand and a bright smile came with strings attached. They were doing him a favor. Children don’t deserve to be treated with respect. Children were property to be molded. A commodity to be discarded at a whim. One brutal rule stood supreme; favors must always be repaid.
“You know, I thought about hurting them back.” Clyde said. “Sneaking into their room with a knife. Poisoning their morning coffee.” With a casual mental push, Clyde shoved Bran’s ethereal body apart from his own. The memory paused! The clown was frozen in place, blowing up a red balloon. Bran hovered, immobile, several feet away. Invisible bindings of willpower cut into Bran’s soul. Razor blades of concentrated fury. Bran cried out in pain.
Where is the snap! It isn’t ending! Something is wrong!
“A necromancer, huh? I thought those were just myths to scare kids. Like clowns.” With a pulse of green static, the child Clyde flickered and reappeared as his current young adult form.
“Can you hear me?” Bran said, gasping in pain.
“I would hope so. This is my mind. Could you butt out of my dying memories, Pag? You already killed me. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“I—I didn’t mean to kill you. I still can’t believe it happened. I didn’t mean too–” Bran said.
Clyde flexed his mental willpower and the bindings constricted tighter around Bran. “Now you're a Pagan and a murderer.” Clyde's voice was eerily calm. To Bran’s senses, Clyde's soul was fading away, his grip on the realm of memory failing. The swarm of energy that Clyde uniquely projected into the unseen world gradually unraveled itself into chaotic mist. Clyde’s emotions, without a body to feel them, were just disconnected brain waves, ghosts of their former selves.
“They will hunt you down…my family will.” Clyde released Bran, dumping him to the ground in a heap. Bran’s anger flared to life.
“So what!” Bran said, “I—I was defending myself. Any court will find me innocent!”
“Jeez, you are a moron. I’m royalty, Killinger! They won’t tolerate a Pagan killing one of their own. They have assassins for a reason and now YOU are that reason. They don’t kill people slowly, they will drag it out until you are a husk begging for the end. You're crucified.” A sneer tore itself across Clyde’s face.
“See ya soon.” Clyde severed Bran’s consciousness from his own.
Snap!
Bran’s nerves burned. His energy reserve had been forcibly drained. Murder itself administered its own punishment on his body, and even with his increased tolerance, pain engulfed him.
Corpse Drift Complete.
Memories drifted: 4
Souls Committed to Hell: 1
Homicide power granted. You have increased physical attributes. Strength, dexterity and speed can be boosted by soul reserves. Hell is quite pleased.
The room flickered back into focus. Bran’s breathing heaved and his pulse was a staccato beat of pain in his temples. Clyde lay motionless. Bran’s hands were covered in blood. They trembled continuously. The buzzing in his ears increased in pitch until voices broke through the shock.
“What in Moses’s nuts are you, man?!” said the boy with the injured ear.
“Please don’t kill me! I’ve got a date tonight!” another whimpered, trying to crawl towards the door.
In the midst of the shame and disbelief of his own guilt, Bran felt a new feeling. It welled up in his soul. All at once magnificent, and horrific. He felt pride. This is what real power accomplished. Look at these boys cowering to him. No Saints, no Pagans. Just the one person with the power to take life and the others who were powerless to stand against him. Bran shook his head furiously and let out a snarl. He could feel the curse pushing tendrils of influence into his mind. A malevolent intelligence roared a command inside his mind.
ESCAPE!
Knocking the bully in the doorway aside, Bran stumbled from the maintenance room and fled from the high school. An overwhelming sense of wrongness pressed into Bran’s thoughts. The curse seized control of his muscles, forcing him to run into the rainy streets of Zidon. Minutes later, he heard holy trumpet sirens in the distance. Still, the curse pushed him onward, overriding his own thoughts of giving up.
DON’T STOP! YOU WILL DIE!
The voice would urge him to duck into a nearby business or under a car as Seraphs flew through the city overhead. He ran on, keeping to alleyways until his legs buckled from exhaustion. With the last of his strength, he crawled behind a dumpster in the back alley near a crumbling warehouse and collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
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Gracien tapped the stack of papers on his desk lining them up neatly. Then he attached a staple at a forty-five degree angle in the top left corner. Perfect.
“Rebecca, please inform the Minister of Good Deeds that his petition of funds has been denied. The Church does not need to waste its limited funds on drug addicts. You know how to write it.”
“Yes, Inquisitor. If he asks to speak to you?” Rebecca said.
“The usual excuses. Emergency situation in the outer plains or something.” Gracien smiled ruefully. He wished he could see the look on the Minister’s face when he heard the bad news. Ah well, such is the burden of someone at his station. There was simply too much to do.
“Here is the report on Operation Fallen Pillar that you requested, Sir.” Rebecca said, handing him a sealed folder.
“Thank you. Please lock the door. We don’t need another janitor incident like last month. It took nearly a week to find a replacement.”
“Of course.” Rebecca left the room and Gracien cut open the seal with his ivory hilted dagger.
CONFIDENTIAL - INQUISITOR GENERAL EYES ONLY
Update by
Made contact with the heretical organization known to us as codename INFERNO. Will be tested for membership. Base of operations still unknown. Should have more information once inside. How they learn about potential recruits is still unknown. They found me after I had asked around at a few underground bars. Tests begin next week. Requesting additional equipment for surveillance.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
—Judas
Gracien nodded to himself in satisfaction. This latest operative was proving quite adept. It wouldn’t be long until the heretics were rooted out. INFERNO was, up to this point, a ghost. Every agent sent to find them found nothing at all or disappeared without a trace. He got up and paced the length of his office. His office was sparsely decorated but every item within was placed with purpose. He stopped to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Church Prayer Gardens.
Enshrined at the center of the gardens was the Fountain of St. Horbus. Rising from the fountain, a marble angel spread its silver wings to reflect the evening sun. Over the past year, creeping vines had invaded the fountain and up the angel’s torso. Before long they would ensnare the wings as well. Gracien made a note to have the vines cut down again. There was a parable in the angel’s struggle with the vines, he thought. It was a fact of life that the Church Supreme held absolute power on the continent of Calenzeth. It was his duty to ensure it remained as such. Heretics were a creeping vine to be cut and burned. However, they could never be fully eradicated. Destroy one cell of rebels and two more spawned in its place. Their continued existence irked him like an itch he couldn’t quite reach. With a sigh he sat down and reached for another new report.
MANHUNT - WANTED FOR MURDER
A boonless named Bran Killinger in the city of Zidon is wanted in connection to the murder of Clyde Calister, a minor Duke in the Holy Family. Last seen fleeing Eccasties Grace High School. Suspect is 5’ 11” with black hair and green eyes. Wearing dark red pants and a black leather jacket. Suspected to have demonic magic abilities, extremely dangerous. Avoid direct confrontation.
Any information that leads to the fugitives capture will be rewarded. —Inquisitor General’s Office
"Well isn’t that interesting.” Gracien mused aloud. Boonless were rare indeed, much less a murderer as well and with a mysterious demonic magic power. Gracien knew that the murder of a Royal would lead to a visit from the Holy Family. That was going to be unpleasant. It was a good time to get ahead of the curve. In his experience this sort of inciting incident had a tendency to cause more of the same, if not handled with a firm hand.
“Rebecca!”
Rebecca peeked in through the doorway. “Yes sir?”
“Get ahold of Mr. Penance will you? I have a job that is right up his alley.” Gracien pitied the boy. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
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Something cold and wet dripped on Bran’s lips. He startled awake. A steady downpour of spring rain soaked through his clothes. He shivered and stood, his body aching with every movement. His vision blurred at the edges. Fumbling, he pulled out his Mobile Tome.
Dad: BRAN! Where are you!
Zidon Seraph’s Department: Mr. Killinger, we would like to speak with you. Please report to the Seraph’s office immediately.
Mom: Dear, are you OK? What happened?
Bran felt hot tears run down his face mixing with the rain. The realization crashed down on him. He was a murderer. Even if Clyde deserved it. The law of the Church only saw one thing. Bran was Boonless. An abomination. They were going to hunt him down and kill him. Or worse.
In spite of the hell his life was, he didn’t want to die. But he couldn’t go home; he couldn’t go anywhere. He pulled out a radiant quill and began to reply to his mother.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a husky feminine voice said.
Bran whirled, flinging his tome away. A few paces away stood a figure in dark clothing. A heavy hood obscured all of its features except for a bone white mask with a red enamel “7/3” embossed on the brow.
“Stay back!” Bran said, moving away from them.
“I’m here to help you moron,” the figure said and pointed to his tome laying in a puddle. “If you reply, the Seraphs can track you.”
“How did YOU track me then?”
“Smell. You curse-users have a distinct scent. Like sulfur and licorice.”
“W-what do you want!?” Bran’s anxiety was peaking into paranoid fear. Whoever this person was, they had a way of finding him and that was very bad.
The figure sighed. “How about we get you away from the murder squad flying around town first? Talk later?”
“Why would I go with you? I’m doing fine.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bran saw a flash of silver. A Seraph dove down between the buildings framing the alleyway, their spear whining with holy power. Bran froze in terror. I’m dead. Before he could make himself react, the masked figure leaped past Bran, planted their feet, reached THROUGH the Seraphs energy sheild, and seized the haft of the spear, stopping it inches from Bran’s face. As the spear was ripped from their grasp, the Seraph grunted in surprise at the sudden halt to their momentum and tumbled to the ground. Without delay, the Seraph launched back into the air, simultaneously drawing their sword.
“What the unholy hells was that?!” Bran shouted.
“Watch and learn, kid.” The masked figure spun the spear in a reverse figure eight motion and lowered into a guard position. The holy energy of the spear flickered out and blazed back to life as a crimson red flame. Floating above them, the Seraph cracked a sinister smile.
“Ah, a heretic. I am blessed to purge one of your kind. You face a holy warrior. God has already assured my victory.”
“Whatever, firefly. Bring it then.” The rain seemed to hang in midair as the masked figure lunged forward inhumanly fast. Growling the Seraph dove and swung his sword in a deflecting slash, knocking the blazing red spear to the side. The masked figure didn’t stop. Releasing the spear, they bowled into the Seraph, once again ignoring the energy shield and grappling the Seraph in midair. Bran heard tearing sounds as the Seraph cried out in pain. One glowing wing had been ripped off and flung to the ground. Light and dark crashed to the pavement with a sickening thud. The Seraph thrashed for a moment, gurgling, and then lay still. Crosses — that Seraph didn’t last five seconds. Bran watched as the masked figure turned back towards him. Claws coated in blood retracted from their fingers.
“Do you trust me now, newbie?” The figure said, their voice rough with battle fury.
Bran held up his hands. “I don’t know what is going on. But I’ll stick with the person that can murder Seraphs.”
“It’s not murder!” The figure said defensively. “They deserve everything that comes to them. Flying pigs.”
“Whatever you say. After you, I guess.” As if I have a choice.
The figure motioned him to follow and led Bran through a criss-crossing path of alleys and unlocked doors leading through buildings.
“So, uh, you have a name?” Bran asked, scrabbling to climb into a window at head-height.
“You can call me Swap.”
“OK, that’s an—interesting name.”
“That's all you get, for now.”
The next several hours Bran attempted to engage Swap in small talk several times. He was always shut down by their curt — or blatantly offensive — replies. As dusk approached they moved out of the city proper and into affluent suburbs. Swap led him to a house that was under construction. The air smelled of fresh-sawed lumber and cement dust. Seraphs flew overhead and the two fugitives dove under a storage trailer.
“We wait here.” Swap said, declining to explain.
The sunlight faded as they hid for over an hour. Finally, Bran couldn’t stand it anymore.
“What are we waiting for? I really have to go to the bathroom!”
Ignoring him, Swap muttered, “Where are they…”
“Where is who?”
Swap turned to look at Bran and rolled their eyes behind the mask. “Our ride. They are usually late, but not this late.”
As they spoke, a beat-up work van pulled into the construction site. Black smoke sputtered from the rusty tail pipe. Checking that the coast was clear, Swap scrambled from their hiding place and Bran quickly ran to the construction workers' outhouse. Exiting the outhouse Bran noticed a shorter figure with a thick build had stepped out of the van. The two strangers were speaking with one another. I really wish they would tell me what is going on. The suspension creaked as if they were much heavier than their small stature suggested. They too were dressed in black with a white mask emblazoned with red 7/3.
“Dammit Judd, what took so long?!” Swap said.
“Listen, sometimes old cars break down. I can only fix things so fast!” Judd said in a deep masculine voice, throwing their arms up into the air in exasperation.
“I got the kid. We need to scoot. I already off’d a flyboy.”
Judd looked Bran up and down. “Bit skinny isn’t he?”
“Hi, nice to meet you too!” Bran said with mock congeniality. “If at any point you would like to explain any of what the hells is going on, I would love that!”
“On the ride back,” Swap said.
“The ride back where?!” Bran said, planting his hands on his hips.
“The Refuge.” Judd replied. “It’s the only place left for people like us.”
“Like us?”
“Boonless, cursed, heretics…Satan Spawn. Whatever the slur of the day is.”
“So, it’s like a support group?”
“No, it's more than that.” Swap cut in, “It’s an army and we are at war with the Church Supreme.”
Before Bran could object any further, Swap and Judd each grabbed him by an arm and unceremoniously tossed him into the back of the van. Swallowing his indignation, Bran watched out the rear window as Zidon grew smaller on the horizon. I guess this is goodbye.