Lucian stood tall, in front of the police squad with their rifles aimed at the doorway (and Vincent, since he was conveniently standing smack in the middle of it), tail end of a holy seal crackling blue in his hands right over his heart, illuminating the giant white cross set into his chest plate in a divine light. His eyes darted between the blood on Vincent’s cassock and the smear of decay across his armor.
“Show me your soul bind.”
Vincent rolled his eyes and spun his collapsed staff around the back of his hand, the mechanism inside tinkling like the pins of a music box. Only Vincent knew how to spin it with such buttery-smooth perfection.
Lucian just glared at him, eyes resolute beneath the abrupt silver crop of his bangs as he raised the hand with the tail end of the holy seal a little higher.
“Seriously, Lucy?” Vincent drawled, but dropped the staff into its holster and undid the button close on his left shirt sleeve. He jerked both cassock and shirt up to show the full expanse of the black star that bound his soul to his body, holding his hand up and wiggling his fingers, flexing the forearm muscle. His normally honey skin glowed blue in the harsh light of the holy seal. “See? Hundy percent pristine.”
Lucian scoffed, dropping the holy seal fragment to the floor. Its light fizzled out, dying like a candle. He jerked his head at the older officer to his left - the one whose vest had the words “detective” inscribed on it. The policeman lowered his weapons with a slow exhale, then nodded behind him. Vincent heard the clicking and tapping of armored gloves against hard metal plating of the guns, as the other barrels lowered to the ground.
“You know, I’m really hurt. I’d think you’d know me well enough by now to know that I’m not acting possessed.”
Lucian pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose like he was smelling something deeply unpleasant. Perhaps the corpse odour had finally reached him.
“Your problem, St. Clair, is that you already act so much like a demon that I honestly don’t think I could tell the difference.”
“Alright, now you’re really hurting my feelings, you absolute monster.”
Lucian smiled, raising his eyebrows.
Bless his pea-sized little heart — and other pea-sized things.
There was shuffling and grunting behind Vincent; he stepped aside to allow two policemen carry the sagging black form of Father Peter our of the mansion, depositing him on the ground. As two of the policemen from Lucian’s party — the ones with a giant MEDIC plate across their back — fussed around him, the exorcist squad’s steadfast leader gurgled and groaned, but remained motionless.
“How did Father Peter go down?” The glance Lucian threw into the muggy shadows behind Vincent was all business. Definitely not fear or… was that a hint of awe, flickering and disappearing across his pallid face?
“I honestly didn’t see. We barely made it past the front doors and reported that initial threat assessment, when a bright flash fizzed the visors into a reset. I fell, then the next thing I know, Father Peter is on the ground next to me. And it was chaos from there.” Vincent scratched the back of his neck.
“Was it magic?”
“Huh?” Vincent blinked. “Oh, the light. No, fireworks, I think. Based on the smell. By the way, I couldn’t help but notice I didn’t hear a ‘good job on handling the ooky spooky demonic Possession by your lonesome, Brother St. Clair’.”
“I only give praise when it’s deserved, Brother St. Clair.”
“Name one instance where you’ve given someone praise recently, Brother Lucian. Got my fingers out, all ready to count.” Vincent raised his hand, wiggling his fingers. “On the one hand, of course.”
Lucian's lips tightened into a line.
“Do you think it’s a witch we’re dealing with?”
He’s showing defference now, is he? Didn’t think a little ribbing would’ve gotten to him this fast.
“That possession was so… unaware, it couldn’t have made even ten steps on its own. Where there’s a puppet, there is a puppeteer, right?”
“Did I hear you boys right? That a witch in there?” The guy with the detective vest ducked out from the maw of the servant door at the most inopportune moment. His bushy brows, that made him look very much the film noir detective his voice suggested, furrowed beneath a pompom toque that clashed quite violently with that image. Vincent sighed.
“Ninety percent certainty.” Lucian said, his face all sombre and professional. “Maybe ninety-three.”
Vincent snorted.
“Oh yes, because we deal with probabilities that precise.” He said as Lucian threw him a death glare. “It’s either a witch or a cognizant demon of the Minor Circles. Maybe both. Either way, we’re in for a ball of wicked fun.”
“This operation was not authorized with the knowledge that the exorcist outfit would be dealing with a threat of that caliber,” Lucian droned. “What we need is back-up from a fully licensed exorcist outfit, not a mentor with two trainees.”
“I agree,” the detective said. “It’s best if we back out of this operation before we incur any more,” he eyed the blood stain on Vincent’s cassock, “losses.”
Vincent frowned.
“Okay, hold on just a minute.” He stuck his thumb back in the direction of the manor. “You said your organization thinks there’s missing kids there, right? Like a whole bus load of them?”
The detective nodded.
“We thought they were being kept for the purposes of a criminal ring that hired an Aberrant contractor. If there is indeed a witch or a—a demon on the premises,” his voice skipped an octave for a split second, “then this suggests that the ring itself is operated by criminal Aberrants, does it not?”
“Right.” Vincent scratched the back of his neck. “Look. Witch, demon, I don’t really give a shit—” he ignored the expected double-take from the detective, eyes bulging at the impropriety of a holy man swearing, “but we walk away now, and I guarantee you that those kids will never be seen again. Alive, anyways,” he clarified, and tried not to think about the fact that the Possession was roughly the right height and size to have been a really tall kid.
“No offense, boys, but this is looking like it’s well beyond your capabilities.” There was a flash of something - pity, maybe, or regret - in the detective’s beady eyes, but he pulled his collar closer around him and stood up a little straighter, as if preparing to give an order.
“Detective, if I may.” Lucian’s voice cut Vincent off before his throat could make a single sound of protest. “I agree with Brother St. Clair.”
And then Vincent really felt speechless.
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