Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (28 page)

Baba had made it clear their powers were to remain a secret. The Alchemic Order would dig too deeply. Part of her regretted it, that they couldn't tap into Azure resources, but the other part of her couldn't help but feel relieved. While surviving was more important than her pride, she hadn't reconciled enough of her disgust for Azures to be counted among them. It was something she needed to work on eventually, but right now, they just needed to earn money. She re-adjusted Manja on her back and continued on.

Two more weeks had passed, and still nothing from Mama or Baba. With each barter Zeika made, their inventory at the Forge was dwindling down to just one product: the hardware. She was trying to avoid gun smithing, but every time she went into the cellar she found fewer things to trade. So every day, she went out scavenging for metal and for fabric of any kind. With her powers, it didn't matter which. She just needed to be ready to sell arms again, no matter how uncomfortable she felt about it.

Manja's arms tightened around her neck, and she leaned in close. Zeika grabbed the girl's ungloved hands and blew her breath on them before breaking out into a jog. If she was going to agonize over their lack of options, she could at least do it someplace warm. Time to head back.

En route to the Guild, they passed the Lobon Inn, where they saw their waitress from the other day. She was outside smoking a
cigarette, shaking the sticky ice from her bouncy golden hair and digging her flats into the snow. When she saw them walk by, her face brightened.

"Hey, you two! Are you coming in for a bit? We got a breakfast special going on today!"

Zeika readjusted Manja on her back. "Sorry, miss. The other day was a one-shot deal. We don't have money like that."

"You don't need it! That detective left a tab open for you guys."

Her eyes widened. "A tab?"

"Yeah! He opened a house account just for you. Said you could eat as much as you wanted, whenever you wanted. I'm surprised he didn't tell you."

Warmth flooded Zeika's cheeks.

"You two come on and eat now, ya hear?" The waitress twittered as she opened the door and waved them in. "You look like walking tree branches you're so thin!"

Still numb with shock, Zeika shuffled in, and the waitress showed them a booth. Manja bounced with excitement and ordered her usual chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, but for a few minutes, Zeika could only just sit there and stare at the tabletop.

"Miss?" The waitress leaned in.

"Oh. Sorry!" Zeika shook herself, forcing a smile.

She ordered an omelette with about every kind of meat and vegetable in the world, a coffee, and a fruit platter. The fruit was mostly for the kid; she needed as much Vitamin C as she could get to help with blood clotting.

They ate better than they had in years, and Zeika ordered a couple of sandwiches for later too. She chased her omelette down with a steaming coffee and then ordered another one, extra strong. The cold shrivels of her stomach relaxed beneath the sudden warmth. But why was he doing this?

"Man these pancakes are sure happy to see me!" Manja beamed, digging in.

In spite of herself, Zeika smiled. She hadn't seen Manja this cheerful in days. No Azure had ever treated them with such kindness, at least not without asking for something depraved or illicit in return. Caleb, he had asked for nothing.
 

Yet.

Without her input, the warmth in her cooled, as though steel walls had shot up around the hearth in her belly.
Be careful, Zeika. Even the Devil an Angel once was, sitting at God's right hand,
Baba had said once.
It was his warning about trust. She had grown up with the words, and when Manja was born, Baba had repeated them like a daily prayer.

Zeika nodded firmly, knowing that her first priority was protecting Manja from harm. They'd eat, they'd thank Caleb, and they'd observe. The detective would reveal his true motives soon enough. Everyone did. She'd be ready for whatever came--
 
and yet, her father's words couldn't completely erase the small and shining hope, a certainty even, that she and Manja were no longer alone.

Caleb couldn't take it. He had left the debrief early because he couldn't stomach what he'd been hearing and seeing. Ten million dollars-- Azure dollars-- and Sal was just willing to give it to their precinct. But only if they signed the fat stacks of papers in his hand, petitions to repeal the Articles39.

Sal had spewed some pseudo-poetic garbage about how Koa was using "poor innocent children" to dupe and disarm the police. That Demesne Five would be safer from terrorist attacks and raids if they could just stop and frisk at will. That people who were truly innocent had nothing to hide, children least of all. The APs ate it up, and Caleb watched with disgust as Bly, Kenji, and many others swooped onto Sal, practically giving his palm a hand job. Sal was their new savior, the only one who truly understood their plight as underpaid, misunderstood, and overworked.

But not Caleb. This was the same garbage he'd heard all throughout his childhood from the racists and classists inside the Alchemic Order who wanted to justify their treatment of Civilians. So when Sal's petition made its way to his side of the room, Caleb had signed it with a literal "Fuck You" and passed it along. Luckily, he wasn't alone. Jake, Captain Palmer, and a few other APs, surprisingly, thought the motion was barbaric. Palmer himself had actually balled up the main page of the petitions and spat on it, which caused a ruckus.
 

From there, the entire debrief had gone to hell. All while Sal stood there, taking in the chaos with an uncanny serenity. Caleb had regained some respect for Palmer and for some of the officers, but not even that could keep him hanging around. Besides, he had more important things to do.

When he got back to his office, he set three boxes of case files on his desk. It hadn't taken that long to locate the files of the missing ghosts in the cold room, but with each one he now unloaded onto his desk, his anger rose.
 

Not only were these poor kids probably already dead, but Kenji's accusations about his motives still bothered him. These were
kids
,
for Crissakes. His status had nothing to do with his basic humanity. Besides, he hadn't asked for his life. His upbringing wasn't his choice. It wasn't that he hadn't appreciated every minute of it; it's true that he'd been pampered pretty much the whole way. He'd never known a cold or hungry day. He'd always had clothes on his back, nice ones. Top schools, personal training as an Alchemist since the age of four, he even had political immunity because of his family name. He had it all... but whether they believed it or not, he loved cop work and had busted his ass to make Detective and Proficient Druidic Alchemist, right along with the other Dilettantes.
 

He'd had to earn the respect of his fellow officers and colleagues in the Fifty-Second, earn the trust of the people, earn the right to enforce justice, to protect. It was like finally winning the love of a woman who'd never noticed you, but whom you loved your entire lifetime. It was why he pushed longer hours than most, and gladly. He loved what his job stood for, and he loved it enough to not let it-- and the people he was supposed to protect-- be soiled by dirty money and politics. So Kenji and the rest of them could kiss his privileged ass.

Caleb tossed the now-empty cardboard boxes to the side and looked over the case files. One hundred and forty-six reports had been filed for missing children, all between the ages of two and eighteen, all in the last ten years. Forty-five of them had been filed in this year alone. Which was insane... they were only in the middle of April.
 

Each smiling photo he pulled out of the box deepened his angst. Why the hell had no one been looking into these? Professional detachment was one thing, but these were kids. Who cared if they were Azure or Civilian?
 

"They're barely even human."

Caleb looked up to see a tall man standing in his doorway, and he felt a surge of disgust. The lean body, the leathery smirk, the long gray whiskers. Alyosius Persaud, his former Vassal. Apparently, today was the march of the assholes.

"Human or not, they're cold cases," Caleb said. "I'm reopening them. It's well within my jurisdiction."

"You're going to waste precious manpower on finding Civilians? That doesn't sound professionally wise. Your Druidic constitution seems to be wavering."

"That stopped being your concern two years ago."

Persaud smiled and shook his head. "No lowering of the eyes, no prostration to your superiors. I thought you would have learned the consequences of insubordination after your little-- incident in the Fifty-Second."
Caleb set his jaw. "Why are you here?"

"Well... where is it?"

Pure fiendish pleasure spread a slow smile across Caleb's face. He half-expected tango music to start playing as it begun. The dance. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

Darkness fluttered through Persaud's gaze, and he took a step forward. "You test me, Proficient. Very unwise. Were it not for your station, I would have had you publicly disciplined from the beginning. You would have never made it past the rank of a Dilettante."

"Pissed that a mutt exceeded your expectations?"

"Exceeded? Not quite."

Persaud's fingers budged, and the pain in Caleb's diaphragm spiked up from its low hum. He doubled over beneath slow tear of his muscles.

"Sonofabitch..." The words barely made it out through the foam in Caleb's cheeks.

Persaud smiled. "Having fun yet, Proficient?"
His hand relaxed, and so did his invisible grip.
 

Caleb swallowed down gulps of air. Sweat beaded on his brow as he pulled himself upright, clutching his abs. "This seal on my powers won't last," he seethed.

"Oh, it will. And you have no one to blame but yourself. Now, that is just a taste of what I'll do if you don't tell me. Where is the Black Matter Glaive?"

"I don't have to tell you shit. It doesn't belong to you."

"But you do, I'm afraid. Unfortunate for the both of us. The trainer is only as good as the dog, after all, and you've been pissing on my floor."

"So what?" He leaned against the desk, breathing hard, still feeling the pull. "You came to put me down?"

"No. You've already robbed me of my prize student. I would not now rob myself of another."

"Robbed you? You know what happened to Sairen. And as much as you can't believe it, he bequeathed the Glaive to me. It was his estate to give, and nothing you or Father say can change his last wish."

"Fascinating. I wonder if you think that this--" Persaud motioned to the squalor around him. "--was also what Sairen wished for you?"

Caleb scowled and turned back to his files.

"Look at you, Caleb. You are in fugitive, serving the wills of bottom-feeders when you could be sitting on the throne next to your family, where you belong."

"This conversation is over, Persaud. Get out."

"Sadly, like most other Alchemists, I am still bound to both my duty and my lord. So while I loathe being here more than you, I cannot leave. I am here by your father's order alone. He wants assurance that you won't cause him anymore embarrassment."

"Knock yourself out. Just don't expect me to accommodate you. Your betrayal lost you that privilege."

"Do as you will, Highness. But remember that no matter what you do for these peasants, you are still an Azure. You are still subject to our laws, to your vassalage, and to the tenets of the Silver Pact. If I catch you in a moment of the slightest impropriety or insubordination, I will drag you back to the Fifty-Second. No closed file will be able to save you."

"Sairen's closed file didn't seem to save him, either. So I guess I have nothing to fear."

"I admire your passion. It has always been your saving grace. But you do know what the original meaning of 'passion' is, do you not, Proficient?" Persaud said, smiling. "Suffering."

The Vassal left just as quietly as he'd come, and Caleb breathed out, long and slow. The pain in his abs finally subsided, and looking for further relief, he cast a glance at his bookshelf. An old picture was tacked to one of the shelves. Three boys, all different ages, were crowded into the frame. Caleb was one of them, at a ripe and dirty 18 years old. The boy on the right was eight, bookish and serious-eyed. And smack in the middle was the oldest. He'd been in his late twenties then, porcelain-faced, long hair, dark sloping gaze. His cocky smirk balanced an unlit cigarette. Sairen.

He was rustling Caleb's hair with one hand, and with the other, he yoked the pre-teen up by his suspenders. The whole scene had caused Caleb to scrunch his face in annoyance right as Mom had snapped the photo.
 

You always were an asshole, Sairen.
 

And to his surprise, he felt a sting at his eyes. He tore his gaze away, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a box of Wren Silvers. Sairen's favorite. He put one in between his lips and lit it, taking a long draft before he picked up a file for a missing ghost, all the while wondering who else was out there making it alone.