The Sign of Raphael (Rough Draft Novella)

Chapter 2

Anthony stopped at an alleyway, noting the sign of Raphael on the wall to his left. His coat barely kept the torrential rain from soaking through to his bones, and the wound on his thigh was beginning to bleed more profusely as he ran; he had to hide here or his pursuers would overtake him. He ducked into the darkness, away from the streetlights. He heard boots tramping past him, occasionally splashing into a puddle. For a second, a shadow darkened the glistening pavement in the alley, and Anthony found himself catching a glimpse of the dark figure from the street, taller than a man should be, and wider, with arms like telephone poles. He slid down a little against the wall, but the visage continued without searching into the alley. Safe, for now. That was what his body told him, as it relaxed into the subtle ache following an adrenaline rush. The warm blood flowing down his leg reminded him otherwise.
A woman spoke from a doorway right next to him him.

"Honesta turpitudo est pro causa bona." He turned to face his fellow Raphaelite. The sawn-off shotgun she had been holding in the shadows came to light in an instant, and Anthony instinctively flinched at the sight of the brutal weapon, even as his own hand moved to its partner.

"This is not the time for violence, there's too many of them." Anthony tipped his head back to the street, indicating the outsiders. Creatures from outside our world are not to be dealt with lightly.

"Just be glad none saw you enter the alley. Let's get going, Peter wants to see you." He limped on with his companion, keeping his pains to himself and relying on the charm hanging on around his neck to protect him from the blood-loss.

They arrived at the run-down motel room and ignored the growing rust on the metal railing as she shoved the door open for him. "Peter?"

The current Peter, a figure as mysterious as he was revered, looked at them despite the heavy sackcloth covering over his eyes.

"Good. You're back." He rose, pulling his long [sic: vestment? robe? coat?] up off the ground as he stood.

"It's not safe here any more, as Anthony has discovered. I was waiting for you to return before I could leave this place."

Picking up his cane, he eschewed his blindfold for a pair of opaque sunglasses.

"My leg."

Anthony gestured to find it already healed by Peter's miracles. "Never-mind that, let's go."

The government's slogan played over the loudspeakers installed on every street corner, blaring over the corpse of a city.

"For there to be no laws, there can be no injustice.

"For there to be no rulers, there can be no tyrants."

"To the car?"

"Yes, it should not be tracked by occult means, and I trust your discretion in getting it here."

The three moved quickly, out to their awaiting car. The inconspicuous gray sedan had been sitting there for about a week now, since the last time Anthony went out for reconnaissance. Going on foot was more risky, but with a curfew it was the only way to avoid the patrols. The key turned in the ignition with a sputtering of the engine. "It's gone." Peter was unerring in his judgments, and they abandoned the sabotaged vehicle. "We'll have to go on foot. I recommend we avoid the subway, but utilize above-ground public transit." The woman nodded in agreement, and the three figures set out into the rain, rushing to the nearest bus stop.

Peter looked down at the ground aimlessly, already knowing what was around him. "Anthony, you're going to have to go alone. They know your face and there's three infiltrators coming up the street. They're still a few minutes out, but this bus won't be here until they are." The man nodded, pulled his coat across his body to hide the blood on his torn pant leg and fled into the night.

***

The trouble had all started with his most recent investigation. The Raphaelites had been sent to East Seattle to try to find any evidence of occult activity, but they quickly discovered that the city was a hotbed of all sorts of potential threats. It was not long before an attack on Great Falls just a few weeks over had been traced to a cell of cultists operating in the flooded part of the city, but of greater concern was an arcane inscription that had been made in the eastern sewers and had the potential to be used in a dark ritual that would destroy the whole city. Raphaelite wards were capable of disrupting the rune, but the perpetrator remained unknown. They would have to be found before they realized their spell was gone, or they would escape judgment.

Anthony felt a chill run through him. The ward had triggered when a demon-host came too close to him. He swiveled quickly, and saw a man coming at him with a sledgehammer. He dropped to his knees reflexively, avoiding the first horizontal swing. The demon hadn't expected his victim to be warded, and the combination of the surprise and the ward sapping his power caused him to swing high and miss, as his victim dodged sideways, clumsily hitting the wall but quickly struggling to his feet.

The need for action was punctuated when the demon gave another swing at the man. Something had to be done-Anthony was in good shape, but not enough to outrun a demon-host, at least not once the ward was penetrated or wore off due to distance. But the host was not to be killed. At worst he was an innocent victim, at best a cultist who could be convinced to betray his friends. A quick glance put him at about two hundred pounds, mostly muscle, with only about an inch or so of height on his shorter victim. Probably not a cultist, he looked more like a longshoreman, but one could never be sure. The sledgehammer raised again, and Anthony sprung into action. Grabbing the sledgehammer he tried to pry it free of the demon's grip, leveraging the unexpected weakness of his assailant to deflect the blow as the two wrestled. That was the only way to take down the host without serious injury, since if a weapon remained in the fray it would wind up being used by one side or another.

A quick kick to the leg caused the demon to be distracted, and Anthony seized control of the weapon. He threw it as far as he could, launching it into the street. It landed with a thud as Anthony went to grapple with the demon. If he could get a handhold, he could begin the incantation to remove the demon. Anthony was a traditionalist, favoring the Roman Ritual, so he started up his incantation in Latin, beginning with the Lord's Prayer for strength before moving into the exorcism itself.

"Pater noster qui in caelis es..."

The process was lengthy, with the two grappling for almost a half-hour, the demon clutching at the ward on the man's chest while Anthony kept him at bay. When the ritual was halfway complete, the demon tried to flee, but Anthony was able to force him to the ground and keep him in a hold. Curfew had begun an hour ago, so the streets were empty until he was able to finish. The subtle red glow on the host told Anthony that his incantation had been successful. The man began to cough up water, gasping for breath. A torrent of saltwater sprayed out onto the street as the host struggled to clear his lungs. A sudden strike from his exorcist drove the rest of the water out, sending it onto the sidewalk with a splash.

"Where am I?" The man croaked in pain after realizing that the blow had shattered bone even as it saved his life, and he doubled over on the sidewalk. Anthony grabbed the man and ran.

"No time to explain, it's after curfew. Come with me, I must speak with you later. For now all you need to know is that my name's Anthony and something horrible has happened to you."