Magie Noire

By Rurouni Star

Chapter Thirteen

I got on my bike and drove.

It wasn't the best idea. I knew it even as I did it. But I was suffocating, and I needed the hell out of the precinct. The further away I drove, still dizzy and nauseous, the more I became aware that the job I'd put in my rear view mirror was poisoning me. As sure as the scorpion venom, this shit was going to kill me, the same way it had killed my father.

The problem was, I didn't know how to stop it.

Some part of me wondered whether this was how my father had felt, right before he'd given up. Maybe Carmichael was right to worry. I'd never been this low before, and I knew I had yet to find the bottom.

My Third Eye wasn't cracked, but I was messed up enough that I guess I should have expected where I'd end up.

Saint Mary of the Angels still inspired such a weird clash of emotions in me. If it was possible to feel simultaneously safe and serene, and utterly bitter and disillusioned, that's the taste it gave me looking at it. As a kid, I'd always thought the giant round window that looked out onto the street was shaped like a daisy. Though I was now pretty sure it had some kind of actual religious, symbolic significance, some silly part of me still saw that simple, childish flower in the window, and felt comforted.

I climbed the stairs and slipped inside. I hated myself for it. I was disappointed in myself for it. But I'd only ever Seen two beautiful things with the Sight, and since one of them was currently dissecting a body at work, Saint Mary seemed to have won my attentions for the moment.

I settled into one of the pews near the back. After a moment's thought, I pulled the headphones onto my ears and leaned back, closing my eyes.

Never in a hundred years did I think I would say this, but something about the sound of polka made me feel just a little bit better.

I let myself drift off, soaking in the feel of that forbidden spiritual safety and the cheerful downbeat of what I thought was probably a tuba.

Eventually, I became aware that someone was sitting next to me. Had been sitting next to me for a while. I opened my eyes, and saw Father Forthill leaning back into the pew, his hands folded in his lap.

I tugged down the headphones. Some perverse instinct made me decide not to turn off the music, so the polka filtered across the air between us, as it had done in the hospital before.

Forthill turned to consider me with worried eyes. He couldn't help but pick up on the music though, and he frowned. "Karrin," he said. "Are you… listening to polka in church?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Is there a commandment against that?" I asked. "I could swear I memorized all of those."

He blinked. "No. I don't think it's a sin… though perhaps it ought to be."

Normally, I think that would've gotten a tiny smile out of me, even considering the source. But I didn't have any smiles left today. In my current state, I couldn't be sure I would ever scrape up a smile again.

Forthill saw it in my face. "...Karrin," he said softly. "Would you like to talk about it?"

I shook my head slowly. There was a knot in my throat. "I don't think you want to talk about it," I said. "You wouldn't like what I have to say."

The old priest closed his eyes. He took a long breath. When he opened his eyes again, I saw a steel resolve in them. "I'll endure," he said. "I promise."

0-0-0-0

"We both know how long it's been since my last confession."

I leaned back into the hard confessional wall, crossing my arms. I wasn't angry anymore. I was just… worn out. Like a rag torn to tiny, fraying bits.

"Do you intend to confess and serve penance?" Forthill asked me curiously.

"No," I said. "I'm not Catholic anymore."

"Then I don't think we need to go through the formalities," he said. "I just thought you might feel more comfortable and private in here."

I chewed on that. He was right. There was something about sitting in the dark, talking through the screen, that made it easier to say things out loud.

"...okay," I said. I pressed my head into the corner. "I've lost my faith. In everything. I believed in my father, and he broke. I believed in God, but he turned out to be an asshole. I tried to believe there was something inherently worthwhile about humanity, but we're such laughably cosmic fuckups, I can't even say that with a straight face anymore." I was silent for a long moment, as I tried to put my latest crisis into words. "...I believed there was a point to being a good person. But trying to do the right thing just feels like I'm screaming uselessly into the void. I'm honestly just not sure what's left."

Forthill thought quietly on that. "...faith, hope, and love are not merely the building blocks of the church," he said finally. "They are sustenance to our souls. Without them, we wither and die, as surely as we die from diseases of the body." I heard him shift on the other side of the screen. "You've lost your love for humanity, so you cannot fight for love. You have no hope that things will improve, so you cannot fight for hope. You no longer have faith that there is a point to your suffering, in the absence of the other two."

I shrugged. "I guess so," I said. "I'd have used a few more curse words, but that works."

His silhouette nodded. "Then you must find one of these three again, and hold it close. Is there anything you can think of in the recent past which made you happy or fulfilled, if only for a moment?"

I closed my eyes. I thought of Waldo, terrified of fragility but courageous enough to walk into a hospital room for a friend. I thought, strangely, of Bob's stupid, silly puns, and the honest, enthused way he'd greeted me when he first saw me after so many years away. I thought of the briefest child-like moment of wonder I'd felt when I'd been told that magic was real, that there was so much I still had to learn about it, before the reality that someone had killed with it — of course they had — had dragged me back down to earth.

That led me to the satisfaction of knowing I had one-upped Marcone. The gratification of killing a magical scorpion I shouldn't have had a chance in hell of squishing. The fulfillment of knowing that the Shadowman, with all his phenomenal power, had tried to kill someone and failed, solely because I'd put myself in his way.

"There's a handful of people," I said finally. "And there's… game theory. Aikido. The challenge, whatever you want to call it." I paused. "I take on arrogant assholes, people who should be way more powerful than me, and I make them eat dirt." I frowned dubiously. "That's not a great thing to live for, is it?"

Forthill shook his head. "It's not the worst thing to live for, either, in the absence of something better," he said. "It's a start." He hesitated. I felt the struggle in him, before he spoke again. "I know that you don't hold my opinion in very high regard lately. But for what it's worth, Karrin, I believe that there is a point. To everything."

I thudded my head against the wall. "Making God happy?" I asked bitterly. "That ship's sailed, Father. I don't give a damn about His opinion either. If He cares so much, He can get down here and do some dirty work with the rest of us."

Forthill sighed heavily. "I've had to do some soul-searching of my own," he admitted. "Perhaps, since we're being so informal, you won't mind if I confess a few things to you in turn."

I knitted my brow. That wasn't high up on the list of things I had expected to hear in the confessional today. "...sure," I said slowly. "I guess."

Forthill leaned his chin into his hand. "We've both dedicated our lives to institutions, Karrin. Those institutions chase ideals, worthy ideals. But just like human beings, institutions can fail." He took in a breath. "I fear that the church has failed you, Karrin. I've spent many years trying to reconcile that with the dedication and trust that I've placed in it myself." He paused heavily. "I've come to a conclusion. It's not a very satisfying one."

I straightened up slowly. "What's that?" I asked.

"I believe in my work," Forthill said. "I believe it's important, and that the church ultimately allows me to do more good than I could do on my own. But at the end of the day, I fear I hold a few beliefs that are… incompatible with doctrine. I think it's best that I confront that and accept it." He sighed. "I believe that God loves us, Karrin. There are reams of apologetics written on why it is He doesn't always help us when we need it. But at the end of the day, I can't know which of those is true. I want to believe that He wants to help. That whatever the reason is that He doesn't, it's a good one."

I stayed quiet. I wasn't sure why, but the revelation of the Father's own troubles had soothed my misery just a little bit. The idea that I hadn't been the only one struggling all this time was a strange relief.

"I know this may not help you, Karrin. But I believe that God speaks to all of us. Scripture is a rough and unreliable translation sometimes, because human words weren't meant to capture His voice." Forthill leaned his head back into the wall. "He speaks with love. That need you have to do the right thing, to help others — that's God, whispering in your ear. I've spent the last few decades of my life learning how to listen to Him. Which is why… why I have done some things that some would say I should not have done."

My nose touched the screen. I hadn't realized I was leaning forward.

"On the day of your father's funeral, I heard God's voice in my heart," Forthill told me softly. "Your father wasn't weak, Karrin. He died of real injuries — wounds he received in the worthiest fight of them all. I knew that God wouldn't find it in Him to punish someone like that. So I must confess to you that I consecrated his grave after all, in direct contravention of everything I was taught."

I heard the words, but somehow they didn't fully penetrate. I had to replay them over and over in my mind, parsing them slowly.

There were tears on my face. I didn't know how they'd gotten there. In between moments, they'd just… appeared.

"I hope you can forgive me for not telling you sooner," Forthill said. He sounded genuinely anguished. "I was conflicted about my actions for a very long time. But perhaps, if I had told you sooner, it might have provided you some small measure of comfort when you most needed it."

Tears dripped down my chin. It wasn't a demure, pretty sort of crying, I knew. When I got out of that booth, I was going to be red-faced, snot-nosed sobbing. But I heaved in a breath.

"Thank you," I whispered. I barely managed to form the words. "Thank you."

I felt something in that moment. A tiny little blossom in my chest, unfolding outward. It was, I realized, the most miniscule shred of hope restored.

I'd been right to trust Father Forthill, once upon a time. The revelation that I could still trust him took such a shocking weight off my shoulders.

I saw the Father wipe at his eyes. "I should have told you sooner," he said, this time more firmly. "Now that I have, I… I know that I did the right thing."

"I don't care if it was right," I choked. "I'd thank you anyway." I rubbed at my face. "I don't know if I believe in God, Father. But I can believe in you. That's a damned good start."

Forthill laughed weakly. "I don't know that I approve of that idea," he said. "But for now… if it brings you any solace, I'll take it."

0-0-0-0

I spent some time in the bathroom, washing down my face and trying to dispel the shakes that still plagued me. I was weak and spent, but the feeling was better than it had been. I'd found a little bit of ground on which to stand. I wanted to believe I could find a way to climb my way out of the gutter using that starting point, given time.

Father Forthill looked a bit more hale and steady when I came out. He smiled hesitantly at me, and I moved to hug him tightly.

It was a good feeling. I think we both needed it.

"Karrin," he said carefully. "Are you—"

"Yeah," I said. "Feeling better. A little, at least." I pulled back and took a long breath. "I've got some complicated questions I've got to answer. Probably some apologies to make. Definitely a killer to find."

Forthill nodded. A hint of relief crossed his face. He left his hand on my shoulder. "I'm here for you, Karrin," he said. "I hope you'll consider coming back more often, even just to talk."

I nodded slowly. "I think… yeah. I'm starting to get the impression I should have been talking more up till now. Everything kind of… crept up on me."

The priest smiled wryly. "It's a common affliction," he said. "I seem to have fallen prey to it myself."

My phone made a pathetic little whining sound in my pocket. It took me a second to realize it was trying to ring. I frowned, and dug it out. The screen still flickered and spat, but I could just barely make out a number. I didn't recognize it, but that didn't mean much. I'd given a lot of people my number over the years.

"Sorry," I said to Forthill. "I'll just… make it quick."

He nodded, and I stepped away to answer. "Hello?"

"Detective Murphy?" The voice on the phone was furtive, but familiar.

I frowned. "Monica?" I said. "Hey, is something wrong?"

"You said to call you. If I needed anything." She paused. "You said no cops."

I straightened my posture abruptly. "Yeah, I did say that. I meant it. What do you need?"

"I need you to… to take the kids. Somewhere safe." Her voice sounded frightened. I pressed my lips together. I didn't like that tone.

"Are you in danger?" I asked.

"Not right now," Monica said. "But I need you to come soon. Now. During… during the day, while he's gone. Can you do that?"

I took a deep breath. "Yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you. I… thank you. Just please hurry."

The phone call cut out.

I shook my head, trying to think quickly. I couldn't move Monica and her kids on my motorcycle, let alone any necessities they might feel the need to pack. Frankly, I shouldn't have been driving at all, but I was hardly going to tell Monica to wait for another day.

A thought occurred to me. I turned back toward Forthill.

"Hey," I said slowly. "You mind if I borrow the church van for a good cause?"