CHAPTER 9: RENEWAL | PART I

  GARLAND HEIGHTS, CITY HALL—OCTOBER 17th, 1992 | EVENING

  ?

  “I must say, Leroy, you are cutting it close today.”

  He sat opposite of Leroy behind a large mahogany desk. It was old and well-polished, like the prized possession of the most obnoxious antiquarian you'd ever have the displeasure of meeting.

  The kind of desk Leroy suspected was worth more than the salary of the minister's receptionist, who, on his way into city hall, had delayed Leroy’s arrival to the minister's office with the usual questions. Do you have an appointment? What is the purpose of your visit? So on and so forth. He answered yes and declined to answer the second question, and the woman, Sally, her name was, decided not to pursue him. She’d seen him plenty of times over the years to know that he didn’t have the patience for her bureaucratic-speak, something he only barely tolerated for the man in front of him.

  Minister Rostavich wore a gray suit, a gray dress shirt, and a dull red tie, and was classically handsome in the way that statues in museums were. Squared jaw, prominent brow ridge, clean-cut salt and pepper tufts without even an iota of thinning to speak of. He fit the image of what most people likely thought of when they pictured the leader of the Commonwealth. Thin rectangular glasses made his amber eyes seem larger than they were, made them look all-knowing and ever-suspicious. Leroy couldn’t stand to look at him directly for more than a few seconds at the time, and opted to look out of the large window behind him, overlooking the central square of Garland Heights.

  “Leroy?” asked Minister Rostavich.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Look, Mikel, can we be quick about this?”

  Minister Rostavich held Leroy’s arbiter’s license in his hands. “You are well aware, Leroy, that I cannot make exceptions to the rule. You are liable to the same yearly assessment as all other arbiters. It is a matter of fairness, you see. How would the other arbiters feel if I were to, say, simply stamp your renewal and call it a day?”

  “Ecstatic, I’ll bet,” huffed Leroy.

  Minister Rostavich smiled at that. “How are you doing?”

  “What?” asked Leroy, leaning back in the armchair he’d been sitting in.

  “It has been a while since we’ve last spoken. It was my hope that we would have met earlier in the year, on an occasion not so.. formal.”

  “Been busy, Mikel. There’s what, eight arbiters in the city? Four boroughs, 650,000 people in the Commonwealth? We’ve got our work cut out for us. Tell you what. Get rid of the renewal requirements, and you’ll have twice the arbiters, and I’ll have enough spare time to take you up on the drinks that you owe me. Fair?”

  Mikel laughed and allowed himself a small half-smile. “Glad to see you still have a sense of humor. For a long time, I wondered what she saw in you, but I dare say, Leroy, it’s moments like these where I begin to see the fuller picture.”

  Leroy shrunk in his chair. “Yeah.”

  “Do you..” Minister Rostavich placed the license onto the table, and for a moment, the practiced cadence of his voice stilled into something lower and unguarded. “Do you think of her often, Leroy?”

  “Mikel.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You know I do. But I’m not here to talk about her.”

  “No,” Minister Rostavich admitted, clearing his throat. “No, you are right. I’m sorry, Leroy. You’ll have to forgive my prying, it’s just, few people truly knew her, not like you and I did, and it is on days like these, slow and uneventful days, that I cannot help but think of her, and what might have happened if—”

  Leroy leaned forward in his chair. “The assessment, Mikel. Let’s get on with it.”

  Minister Rostavich adjusted his glasses in some small effort to take attention away from the embarrassment that washed over his face. He opened up his drawer and removed something from his desk. First, a quill, alongside a vat of ink, and second, an old tome, barely held together, brandishing itself with the appearance of ceremony and a storied past. The Ledger. On its cover was the seal of the Commonwealth of Brinehaven: a crow grabbing hold of an anchor, which was encompassed by both a rope and a snake. Behind it was a pentagram, and around said seal were the words civitas non secreta—city of no secrets, established 1712.

  “Yes, yes. I.. I apologize, Leroy. Let us continue, as you said. We will begin, then, with a preliminary approximation of the total arbitration notes you have fulfilled within the last calendar year. About how many have you—”

  “119.”

  “Excellent,” Minister Rostavich noted. “And, by your personal accounts, what is the number of individuals you have put to rest—as specifically outlined by said arbitration notes?”

  “37, or 40, I think,” answered Leroy, sounding less confident in his answer.

  “Work related casualties, not specifically included by said arbitration notes?”

  “19. Maybe 20. No,” Leroy paused. "21."

  “I see,” Minister Rostavich said, dipping his quill in the ink. He placed it elsewhere on the ledger, but did not yet write anything. “And on the subject of any entities slain while conducting your work. Demons, specters, accursed, and or any creatures classified under the broad spectrum of fiend, such as lycans, ghouls, feral upir, or otherwise anomalous creatures?”

  “15.”

  “Excellent,” noted Minister Rostavich. “Though compared to last year, looking at the numbers, it seems your overall efficacy has decreased.”

  “Getting old, Mikel. These knees aren’t what they used to be,” Leroy said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, which brings me to my final question, though this is not something that I will be noting in the Ledger. Do you have any plans of taking on an underarbiter?”

  “No,” Leroy answered curtly.

  “May I ask why?” asked Minister Rostavich.

  “Never saw any reason to. Still don’t.”

  “Yes, Leroy, but you must understand, as the Minister of the Commonwealth, I am bound by edict. I can only appoint a fixed number of arbiters while maintaining my seat, and—”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “And the only way Brinehaven gets more is if current arbiters take on underarbiters. I know, Mikel, you don’t need to rehearse your lines with me, and I know you ran out of licenses to distribute three years ago. But I’m not your guy. Ask someone else.”

  “I am afraid I cannot,” the Minister explained.

  “What?”

  “Of the eight arbiters currently active, each of them, excluding you, have taken it upon themselves to work with an underarbiter. As you know, it is a personal goal of mine—no, a promise—that I made to my constituents to increase the total number of arbiters within this city. As I’m sure you must have heard, the Special Response Unit is often overburdened—”

  “Christ, Mikel, then appoint more! Work with the Commonwealth Council or whoever-the-fuck to rewrite the edicts, do what you have to, I don't care. Look,” Leroy stood up, and his tone shifted into one of unconstrained annoyance. “I could give less of a fuck. Now, you scribbled in your little notes, punched your numbers in. Tell me where it is that I need to go for the assessment.”

  “It is not that simple. You know as well as I that success rates upon the initial assessment are low, and that underarbiters have a higher percentage of passing—”

  Leroy stepped away from the minister's desk.

  “Wait! Wait, wait,” exclaimed Minister Rostavich. “Please, Leroy, wait. Wait. I will tell you.”

  Leroy turned.

  “St. Catherine’s Cathedral. This year’s renewal assessment awaits you in the basement. Simply show your license to Bishop Hargreeves, and he will lead the way.”

  Before Leroy could make for the door, Minister Rostavich opened another drawer, the same one the Ledger was in, and produced something similar in size and shape to a checkbook, but as old and important-looking as the Ledger. He flipped through its pages and ripped a slip out, and handed it to Leroy. “Upon completion,” continued the Minister, “have Bishop Hargreeves sign this notary slip and stamp it with his seal.”

  As Leroy opened the door to finalize his exit, Minister Rostavich cleared his throat to garner his attention. “Leroy? Do be careful.”

  ?

  He parked his black SUV behind St. Catherine’s Cathedral in a sparsely populated parking lot. Given the hour, the lack of cars made sense. He didn’t imagine anyone was pious enough to find their ways to the pews in the dead of night. The walk to the front of the building was brief, but in those passing moments, Leroy took note of Garland Heights and all of its prim and proper beauty. The central borough of the city stood in stark contrast to the South End.

  Skyscrapers had sprouted up between the city's original colonial-style brick houses at the eve of the Second World War and continued to emerge well after that, flashing their advertisements on big screens and wide fliers. In the distance loomed Godfrey Tower, the commercial monolith of Brinehaven, grand and imposing and taller than anything else in the city.

  Most of the grid surrounded Leroy, however, was made up of the balconied brownstones of the early 1890s, the commercial and luxury apartment complexes of the 1970s, and the occasional tuft of greenery, where American elm trees and oaks tried and failed to filter out the incessant fog rolling in from the Gulf of Maine. Garland Heights was fashioned in the spirit of Boston, or Providence, or Montreal: urbanity steeped in the foundations of a distant past.

  And more distant than anything was St. Catherine’s Cathedral. If Godfrey Tower was the tallest structure in the borough, St. Catherine’s was a close second. As Leroy turned the corner, he looked up at its magnificence, at the Renaissance-revivalist stonemasonry, at the gargoyle statues, at the many steps that lead up to its wide doors, at the craftsmanship of its arches and columns.

  When he pushed open the doors he cursed under his breath, preparing himself for his inevitable encounter with Bishop Hargreeves. He caught wind of the man who sat under the effigy of Jesus Christ, and Leroy soured at the emaciated depiction of humanity’s supposed lord and savior. If he ever had the chance to meet the guy—an impossibility, given Yaerzul’s ownership over his soul—he’d ask him in earnest why his old man created half of the things he did.

  “Leroy Waters!” He held his ear at the sound of the bishop's voice, which, already low, was made lower and louder by way of the echo inside of the cathedral.

  Leroy passed through the center of its rows of pews, taking note of the many, many candles and lanterns. Even the large chandelier towards the front lacked electricity, basking the velvet carpets, drapery, and stained glass windows in a warm, soothing light by way of large trapped lanterns. It was all too archaic, even by the standards of a cathedral. Beautiful, certainly, but too dated and dreary for Leroy’s liking.

  Bishop Hargreeves was an exceptionally tall man, who, in all likelihood, probably had his priestly robes made to order. He was a certifiable goliath, unfortunate enough to be wearing the skin of a human man. He had an assistive crutch on one side of his body, due to one of his legs having been longer than the other, and a large head that made him look more like one of the gargoyles on the outside of the cathedral. But his eyes were kind. Soft. A brooch was on his collar: an exorcist’s golden crucifix.

  Bishop Hargreeves held onto his rosary, and held out a hand to Leroy. The mark of the stigmata was visible on his inside palm. “Care to pray?”

  Do not let him touch you.

  Yaerzul’s sudden interruption made Leroy wince. He’d been whispering at Leroy non-stop since they entered the place, harassing him with the usual dissonant whispers that made the inside of his head swell up in pain.

  “Maybe another time. Here for the renewal assessment. Mikel send me to the right place?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” nodded the Bishop Hargreeves, slowly working his way towards one side of the atrium. “Right this way, if it pleases you, Leroy.”

  “What’s he got in store for me?” asked Leroy.

  “A delivery, from the Order of the Wardens,” chimed Bishop Hargreeves.

  Order of the Wardens. The bishop need not say more than that.

  He led Leroy to a locked door, bearing a sigil on the front of it. Sigilmasonry. It was only through the key attached to his hip, marked with a sigil of its own, that the bishop was able to open it. Bishop Hargreeves pushed open the door with his good side and held it open for Leroy. It opened up to a stairwell, lit by torches on either side of the wall, and Leroy exhaled sharply as he took his first step down.

  With each step, he heard the bishop's assistive crutch clank against the cobblestone stairs. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairwell, another set of doors awaited them, marked with the same sigils as the prior one. Three times over, Bishop Hargreeves twisted his key into the locks, and it was only after the third and final one that they entered a vast underground atrium, equal in size to that of the cathedral’s worship space just above them, lit only by the large flames of cast-iron braziers dispersed around the room.

  Leroy heard it before he saw it—the deep and uncompromising bellow, a scratchy and dread-inducing noise of layered voices that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in alert.

  Something on the far end of the room was covered in hefty cloth, strapped in place by leather straps, bearing large metal stakes that skewered through it. It was the size of three large men joined together, and equally as wide, with a silhouette that was only vaguely humanoid. Around it was an chalk-written array laden with symbols of power that Leroy only vaguely recognized, and could never hope to replicate. Behind it, four people were shackled to the walls with bags covering their heads. From the center of their chests, an ethereal and dark miasma, like burning cinders, tethered them to whatever was trapped within the circle.

  Bishop Hargreeves took a seat on a stone bench close to the door they had just exited, removing the cusp of the assistive crutch so that he could lay both hands on top of it, nodding to himself in quiet contentment.

  Two men emerged from the archways closest to the covered creature, donned in black and priestly robes. One carried a semi-automatic rifle, and the other had a broom.

  “Its name. Has it said it yet?” Leroy asked.

  He slowly unzipped his brown leather jacket, revealing a long-sleeved black turtleneck beneath. A gun harness gave his hefty handgun a home, and three waterskins were secured by a similar strap on the opposite side of his torso. Along his belt, normally covered by his large jacket, were three bullet magazines.

  “No,” answered Bishop Hargeeves.

  Leroy adjusted his checked flat cap. “Shouldn’t take me too long then.”

  LEROY WATERS

  MINISTER ROSTAVICH

  BISHOP HARGREEVES

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