Read ORTUS :: CHAPTER 1.1 | Tapas Community

The young policewoman crouched next to him was shaking - her pistol, which she held tightly against her body, tapping lightly against the buckles of her tactical vest. Vincent’s lip curled. She probably wasn’t that much older than him, which meant that like him, she'd grown up in a world where the supernatural was the norm. What was she scared of? It wasn’t like the assholes she dealt with on the regular were that much less scary compared to the (wheezing) reanimated corpse that was hovering somewhere above. If anything, her kind of assholes were alive, which made them entirely unpredictable. These ones were either dead, or in the process of dying, and that, well. That narrowed their possible actions down to a nice and predictable level.

His ear piece buzzed.

“Father Peter, we’re in position at the servant's door. I’ve activated a double six-pointed holy seal in the perimeter — nothing will be getting out through here.” Not even the shitty sound quality of these standard-issue Brotherhood of Light ear pieces could destroy the nasal condescension of Lucian’s voice. A whole double six-pointed seal, like a real big boy, huh? Never mind that this level of problem really called for something much simpler.

And faster.

[Took you long - V.] Vincent tapped back in Morse code - his nail against the tip of his mic.

“St. Clair?” He couldn’t help but feel a pang of smugness at the genuine note of surprise in Lucian’s voice. Even if the asshole predictably left off the requisite “Brother” title before Vincent’s surname. “Where is Father Peter?”

Vincent looked down on the slouching form beside him, wedging his own shoulder against the other man’s armored chest plate a little firmer... Juuust in case he needed to stop the good Father from clonking down on the floor and/or crushing his holy balls with the bottom lip of his body armor. The wounded priest gurgled up a groan somewhere in the back of his throat, then went still again. Vincent could feel the wetness, the drip drip of the blood scratching all the way through all his layers and settling against his skin.

[Out] he tapped back. [No use] A little harsh, but he wasn't about to write essays in Morse.

“Son, how many people are still with you?” The voice was lower - not Lucian’s. Must be the older detective, the one leading the Human Affairs police force. What was his name? Detective Stevenson? Stiltson?

[1 on me] Vincent tried to strain his ears to listen. There was a shuffle, unmistakable rhythm of rapid human breathing just across the mouth of the stairs. [2 cover. Unsure]

There was a tapping on the line - not static. The cogs in Vincent’s brain churned way too slowly.

[4 cover] the tapping said.

Well shit, that’s basically all of us!

He’d feared that their losses might have been considerably more… unfortunate - especially considering how easily (and inconveniently) Father Peter had been taken out by the Aberrant creatures of the night.

[Cops target wolf.] Vincent tapped back, hoping (and definitely not praying) that the werewolf that was prowling somewhere within the mansion didn’t also know Morse code. His fingers curled around the handle of his folded-up staff, its presence comfortable and warm against his skin. He thumbed the edge of the inactive holy seal wrapped around the tip, wondering if any of the chalk might have gotten rubbed off in the earlier commotion. And okay - this thought, he might have entertained with a little prayer. [I take dead guy.]