Forty Two
6 February, 2002, Los Angeles
Wethrin sat in his office, thoroughly pleased with himself. He had been given ample warning of what was coming. Those he worked for —like any decent employers— were rightfully concerned with their employees’ welfare.
And so Father Wethrin was not at all surprised as a long haired man in a white silk shirt materialized before his desk. “Can I help you, my son,” he said in his gentlest, most patronizing voice.
Loki raised an eyebrow. He considered the fact, as his headache began to lessen, that this young priest had just witnessed someone appear out of nowhere in front of him. “I think I’m looking for you,” the conjurer said easily.
Wethrin offered, with a hand, the chair across the desk from himself and with a gracious nod, Loki sat. “What service can I provide a specter as powerful as Loki?”
Loki raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Does my reputation precede my yet again?”
Wethrin made an apologetic shrug. “The description of your shirt precedes you.”
Loki nodded, silently. “You are no stranger, then, to the arts— be they dark or... darker?”
Wethrin cocked his head at this dance of theirs. “I am, shall we say, versed in the occult.” He leaned forward slightly and folded his hands on the desk. “In this city, I have found it is very useful to know the difference between a vampire and a Gentleman.”
“Quite so, quite so,” Loki said absently, reminiscing of his own encounters with the Gentlemen. He then began to examine the priest from every angle, as if inspecting a sculpture. “Quite a nice job, too, I must say. You would have fooled me.”
Wethrin shrugged. “It is not my intention to make a fool out of anyone. I simply find camouflage... practical.”
“As does a praying mantis, I expect,” Loki answered, calmly.
The priest made a wry grin. “And apt analogy, perhaps — and I forgive your pun.”
“I did not come here for forgiveness,” Loki raised an eyebrow. Wethrin was silent. Let the dance continue. “How old are you?” Loki asked, studying the priest’s face carefully. “I mean, how old is this costume you wear?”
Wethrin smiled. “This ‘costume’ will celebrate it’s eleventh year a week from now. Eleven years since I found my calling.” He pondered the specter. “And how old are you?”
Loki’s face became distant. “Forty nine,” he said, realizing how old that sounded in his own ears. Fourteen years since... since he found his calling.
“And yet you don’t look a day over forty,” the priest replied, politely.
Loki was pulled from the distance and shrugged. “That’s odd. The last time I checked, I didn’t look a day over thirty five. It must be all the magic.” He sighed. “Teleportation really takes its toll.”
Wethrin nodded, sympathetically. “I imagine it would. I assume it is intrinsic?”
Loki nodded, vigorously. “I can’t stand potions and powders. Even words are a nuisance. Wouldn’t you say so?”
Wethrin almost laughed out loud. “You continue to assume I have some sort of power, beyond my familiarity with the occult. What do you think I am? Some sort of demon?”
Loki raised an eyebrow, perplexed. “Some sort of demon, yes. What kind, I’m not sure. But you said you were eleven years old, and there’s no taking that back, my demonic friend.”
“Oh, but you misunderstood me,” Wethrin said, concerned. Isn’t this dance fun? his eyes seemed to say. “I meant it would be eleven years since my ordination: since I was born into the world as a man of the cloth. The interpretation was entirely your own.”
Loki ground his teeth. “Well then, Man of Cloth, shall we proceed in the fine tradition of your institution’s Great Inquisition? I threaten to kill you unless you admit to being evil, and when you do: I kill you for being evil.”
Wethrin raised a cautioning finger. “But then you would never find what you’re looking for.”
Loki frowned. This dance was becoming tedious. “Which is?” he prompted.
Wethrin ginned, enjoying the moves too much to stop now. “Besides absolution, you mean?”
“That sort of goes without saying, doesn’t it?” Loki replied.
“You want what every specter wants —whether they know it or not— and you think I know where it is.”
Loki’s face showed very little amusement now. “It’s not a thing.”
Wethrin shrugged, innocently. “What’s not a thing?”
Loki shook his head gently. “You weren’t... ordained until two years after I became a specter. You don’t have what I want.”
Wethrin leaned back in his chair, causing it to let out a creak of protest. The priest steepled his fingers. “Then why did you come here?”
Now Loki leaned back, scratching his eyebrow distractedly. “Rack told me where to find you,” he surreptitiously studied the priest for any reaction. “And Indris told me where to find him.”
Wethrin was now losing patience for this dance. “Am I supposed to know who these people are?” the priest asked, leaning farther back in his chair.
“I expect you’re disturbed to know they gave you up to a conjurer, even under... duress. It’s not a good employer who isn’t concerned with his employees’ welfare...”
Now Wethrin was disturbed. He had to work hard to hide it. He made a sort of contemptuous chuckle. “What makes you think I work for them?”
Loki held up a cautioning finger of his own. “But I never made that distinction. I may have meant that you were not concerned with their welfare, considering I was quite rough on poor Rack. But now I know which way the paychecks go, don’t I?”
“Interpret it how you will,” Wethrin shrugged, “it makes no difference to me.”
Loki smiled. “It should make all the difference, my friend. Now that I know that they work for you, I can hold you personally responsibly for the death of one Knight of Byzantium, who was working for me.”
Wethrin made a small nod. “Ah, you see, now that I can admit to. He was hunting me —he tried to kill me— so I believe I was justified in hiring that vampire to kill him.”
Loki let the grin spread across his face. “He was hunting you,” the conjurer said softly. “Then you are the soul-trader demon.”
Wethrin thought about this, then finally let a smile spread across his own face. He cocked his head in a mock bow. “You caught me.”
Loki nodded his head in turn. “I’m a very good dancer. But you still deny having what I want?”
Wethrin shrugged. “I’m not a soul-keeper, and I must say, I apologize for underestimating you. I would have been very insulted if I were you.”
Loki nodded, patiently. “I’m a forgiving guy. But that doesn’t mean I won’t kill you.”
Wethrin shrugged. “I admit, I would be insulted if I were you, but I wouldn’t attempt something so stupid as to kill me.”
Loki laughed ironically. “Let me guess: You’re a player and you can’t be killed. Did Aberjian say that?” Loki shook his head. “Quite the mouth on that one.”
Whistler frowned. “It seems I continue to underestimate you. Now I really wish your reputation had preceded you. That way I could have killed you before you sat down.”
Loki looked almost surprised. “Quite the violent Man of Cloth, aren’t you? But it hardly matters. You see, I can’t be killed either.” He held up a hand. “No, not prophecy — I still haven’t quite pinned it down, but it’s powerful... and it’s on my side.”
Wethrin nodded decisively. “I see. Well, at the risk of giving me too much credit; it’s not really as though I can’t be killed, I simply feel it is in the city’s best interest to keep me alive.”
Loki cocked his head, taken by surprise. “Oh? Why’s that?”
Wethrin tapped his black shoe on the floor for emphasis. “Beneath our feet... well, beneath and quite a bit farther down still, is a great cavernous stronghold, filled with all manner of demons and vampires and monsters. The church, you see, was constructed on this particular lot as a sort of half measure against their emergence to the surface. Consecrated ground and all. They have several access routes up into the city on this property, all of which I keep sealed with a dead-man’s switch spell.” Wethrin smiled proudly. “If I die, the spell vanishes, and all hell breaks loose. Literally.”
Loki raised an eyebrow, impressed. “An insurance policy.”
Wethrin nodded. “Exactly. A fanged, clawed, bloodthirsty, ten thousand strong insurance policy, set up by my lawyers to keep my business running smoothly.”
“You have lawyers?” Loki raised an eyebrow.
The priest scoffed. “Of course. Don’t you? My employers insist we keep all our bases covered.”
Loki held up a finger. “So you do have bosses.”
Wethrin shrugged. “We all have bosses. The only thing worse than being evil is being evil and unemployed.”
“Who do you work for?” The question came so fast that Loki bit his tongue in regret.
Wethrin merely shook his head. “I don’t think so. Considering you can’t kill me... or more accurately, you won’t kill me, any information I provide is voluntary... and unlike the worthless scum who worked for me, I value my job and fear my employers.”
“So they’re powerful,” Loki nodded, flaunting what the priest was giving away for free. “Go on,” he insisted.
Wethrin shook his head with a smile. “Nice try. I would have told you they were powerful for the asking. I expect even if you knew who they were, you wouldn’t be any closer to finding what you’re looking for. I can’t imagine it’s still in this reality any more. Personally, I don’t recommend you get any deeper into this city than you already are.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Loki nodded, then leaned closed to the priest. “Now here’s one of my own: Someday, sometime, I’m going to find a way around your dead-man’s spell. That day, I won’t tell you that your insurance policy has run out — so you won’t ever know if you’re covered. And eventually, when I get down to you on my list, I’ll be back, and I will kill you.” His face was polite and gentle, but his eyes were cold and as hard as diamonds.
Wethrin merely shrugged casually. “If you screw up and trigger the switch, I hope you have good lawyers, because everyone in Los Angeles will be after your head. And if you kill me, my bosses will bleed you dry, either literally or legally, for murdering a priest.”
“What kind of demon are you?” Loki asked, ignoring the threats.
Wethrin shrugged. “I wasn’t lying to you before: I’m not a demon at all. Just a priest with a particular talent. A human being whom the law holds tight in its embrace.”
“And your bosses have good lawyers, do they?” Loki said scornfully, secretly probing.
If Wethrin caught on, he didn’t let on, for he merely smiled. “My bosses are good lawyers.”
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