Something Wikkid This Way Comes

  Something Wikkid This Way Comes

  Nicole Peeler

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  Something Wikkid This Way Comes

  A priest and a shape-shifter walk into an office” might be a good premise for a joke, but it’s alarming when it happens in real life. Especially when the priest is a real human priest; the shape-shifter is my own father; and the office is that of my company, Triptych.

  I’m partly so surprised because, while I’m expecting my dad, he’s not usually in the company of human religious leaders. Triptych rents space in a building in downtown Borealis, Illinois, where humans use all the other offices. That way we know when someone magical comes in. Unlike my human mother, my father’s a pureblooded nahual, or shape-shifter, and he takes his power from the Earth. As soon as he steps into our building, he always shows a tiny flair of his Earth magic against my sensors. He’s foresworn using his real magic for decades now, but he always “knocks” out of politeness: a familiar, gentle brush against my shields, compared to the gauzy texture of Shar’s succubus magic and the raging power of Moo’s Alfar mojo. So I knew my dad was on his way up, but I’d assumed he was alone.

  Keeping any surprise off of my face, I stand to greet our guests, as do Shar and Moo. They’d been sitting on the floor, using our battered couch as a backrest and playing a card game. Moo looks as calm as always, but Shar actively ogles the priest. Men of the cloth are like catnip to a succubus, and part-human succubus halflings are no exception to that rule.

  “Dad,” I say, walking out from behind the desk where I’ve been balancing our rather in-the-red accounts. He greets me with a hug and a kiss, and then turns to our guest.

  “Father Christopher Matthews, my daughter, Capitola Jones.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the priest says, taking the hand I’ve extended. A bead of sweat traces down his bald pate, and his fingers feel limp and damp in mine. He’s as nervous about being here as I’m nervous having him. I turn to my friends.

  “Father, this is my partner Emuishere.” Moo extends a long-fingered hand and the priest accepts it, their skin tones a study in contrasts. He’s so pale he could be mistaken for albino, while Moo’s flesh is like polished jet.

  “Father.” Shar interrupts the handshake by jostling Moo out of the way. “I’m Shar, the other partner.” Shar beams her succu-tastic grin and the priest’s eyes widen in rapture. Moo pokes Shar in the ribs with her elbow so I don’t have to.

  “Together, we’re Triptych,” I say, pulling the priest’s attention away from the succubus and back toward me. He appears both begrudging and relieved.

  I gesture toward the couch, and my dad steers the priest to it as Shar, Moo, and I pull chairs forward. We sit as we normally do: I’m in the center, flanked by Moo and Shar. Father Matthews blinks at us owlishly from behind his thick horn-rimmed glasses.

  To be fair, I reckon we are quite a sight. Luckily, Shar’s dressed rather conservatively today, although her stretch denim jeans hug every inch of her short, curvy body. She bats her enormous chocolate-brown eyes at Father Matthews, her fingers swirling a lock of her black hair like she’s considering using it to lasso the man. Shar’s half succubus, which means she doesn’t get her power directly from the elements like Moo and I do. Instead, she feeds off what we call “essence.” Humans make it in their bodies—it’s all the elemental magic they otherwise can’t process, and normally it would pass out of their systems without them ever knowing. But succubi can harvest that unused magic from humans by creating a powerful emotion—lust—and extracting the essence from humans’ bodily fluids. That connection between essence, lust, and sexual fluids led to the legends of incubi and succubi amongst human cultures, but extracting essence doesn’t actually hurt anyone involved.

  Moo, meanwhile, is all cool arrogance. She’s lost none of the poise learned from her Alfar father, who’d set himself up as a deity in Ancient Egypt. Her long, lithe frame could be carved from marble as she assesses the priest, and her power thumps like a familiar heartbeat against my weak shields. What I lack in magical strength, Moo makes up for, and then some. As an Alfar, Moo harnesses the power of all four elements. Most of our different magical species, or factions, can use only one element, although there are a few creatures that can double dip. But only the Alfar can use all four, which means they usually rule. Moo’s mother was human, however—a slave of her father’s. So she’s considered a halfling, like Shar and I, rather than a “real” Alfar.

  We’re all inspecting the priest, waiting as Moo scans him thoroughly to make sure he’s not hiding any magical secrets. Revealing his discomfort, his gaze darts from face to face—from Shar’s terrifying interest to Moo’s chilly nonchalance. His watery brown eyes finally meet my green, but he’s not comfortable there, either. So he looks up, his gaze finally resting on my chestnut Afro.

  My hair is very big. It’s a safe choice.

  Satisfied, Moo nods. I get down to business.

  “To what do we owe this honor?”

  The priest begins to answer but stops, instead slowly turning his body to stare at Shar like a lemming on the edge of the abyss. I kick my foot to the right, connecting hard with Shar’s shin. She grunts but dims her succubus mojo. My father steps in.

  “Father Matthews here has a problem. He’s from Springfield, and he was told about Triptych. That you three help people find things, and that you might help him.”

  “And who was nice enough to suggest that?” I ask, my voice dry. Our firm, Triptych, deals with supernatural problems plaguing supernatural folks. We almost never take humans as clients, especially when they’re human priests.

  “Tom Woods.” I frown at my father’s response. Tom is an old halfling friend of my family’s, going way back. He should know better. We use too much mojo to explain our methods, and if we start taking human cases—especially high profile ones that involve the police—how will we explain any seemingly miraculous results? Especially if they happen a lot?

  “And you agree with Tom?” asks Moo of my father in her cool voice. The priest’s eyes dart toward my friend, then flinch back. He can’t know Moo is an Alfar halfling, but even he can sense her power and the steel at her core.

  “Yes. I do, actually,” says my father, and I sigh internally. After all, my father is, sort of, our boss, since he’s the leader of the supernatural community of Borealis, our little western suburb of Chicago. He’s a democratically elected leader—something unheard of in most of supernatural society—but he’s our leader nonetheless. There’s also the fact he’s my dad, and I trust his judgment. But that doesn’t mean I have to like taking a human case, and a human priest’s case at that.

  “So, what’s the situation?” I ask, gesturing for Shar to take notes. She reaches over to grab her iPad off the desk, and then nods at the priest to start. His voice is low and melodious—a preacher’s voice. I bet he’s a talker.

  “Like your father said, I’m part of a diocese in Springfield. Specifically, I’m the principal of a Catholic private girls’ school. It’s a boarding school, and a lot of state legislators send their kids there, since they spend so much time in the capital anyway.”

  “And?” I know I’m being rude, but we need to get to business.

  “And girls have been disappearing. One about every three months.”

  “Abducted?”

  “We don’t think so,” the priest says, looking one part uncomfortable and one part zealous. “Well, at least not in the human definition of the word. We think they’ve fallen prey to Satan.”


  Silence sets its heavy paw over the room. Shar and Moo watch me, waiting for my reaction. I keep it neutral.

  “The Satan? As in, Lucifer? Beelzebub? The Prince of Darkness?”

  “Yes. That Satan.”

  I glance over at my father. He shrugs, helpful as always.

  “What makes you think it’s Satan?”

  “These are good girls. God-fearing girls. Girls who’ve known the blessings of the Lord all their lives.” Father Matthews’s voice falls reflexively into a very priestly cadence. “And yet they’ve chosen to leave their Godly lives to band together and commit…acts.”

  “Acts?”

  “Yes, acts. Of perversion.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific, sir.”

  Shar shifts her body forward, perking up at his words. She’s all about the acts of perversion.

  “Public nudity. Unnatural sex. Destroying property. Sacrifice…”

  “Human?” I ask sharply.

  “Animal,” he says. Not much of a relief, but some.

  “Are you saying they’ve joined a cult?”

  The priest nods. “A sex cult. Led by Satan.”

  I ignore him. “For a cult, the three-month cycle would make sense. Pick a target, brainwash her, reel her in, then pick another target. Strange they’re all from the same place, though.” Shar and Moo nod, acknowledging my unspoken subtext that there’s something fishy at that school. I turn back to the priest. “You’ve seen the girls committing some of these acts?”

  “No, I’ve never seen them. But there are reports of them dancing or appearing—dressed in all manner of lewd attire—in the streets or on the trail behind our school or in the cornfields. Then they disappear. But not before they defile property or make sacrifices or seduce strangers…men and women alike.”

  “And what exactly are these sacrifices?”

  “Birds, mostly. Some rats. One unfortunate poodle.”

  “Poor poodle,” coos Shar. Moo rolls her eyes, unimpressed. She remembers a time when people took sacrifice a hell of a lot more seriously, killing entire palaces of staff to serve in the afterlife.

  I sit back, steepling my fingers in front of my face as I assess Father Matthews.

  “So what do you want from Triptych?”

  He pauses, gathering himself. Then he confesses.

  “We’re at a loss. Springfield is overrun with FBI, police, special investigators, private eyes. These girls are the daughters of important men. Rich men. But no one can find anything. Because they’re looking for the wrong thing.”

  “They are?”

  “They’re looking for men. For mortals. But Satan is at the heart of this. We need someone who understands Satan exists and that his powers are vast. We need someone who believes. Tom said you were those people.”

  “Wouldn’t the Church be a more appropriate place to seek help?” Moo asks.

  The priest looks distinctly uncomfortable. “I’ve sought help, and the church has sent it. But whomever they send falls prey to the evil. While at the school, seeing the damage that we see, they agree it’s a force of evil that cannot exist without the power of Satan compelling it. And yet, as soon as they leave the school, they insist I’m incompetent and that nothing else is wrong. My superiors know the girls are disappearing, and they’re being blamed, but all fingers eventually are pointed at me.”

  “Oh, they’re hanging you out to dry,” Shar says, oozing sympathy. I wince.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Father Matthews replies hastily. “The Church just doesn’t have the manpower in our area that it used to, and our congregations are disheartened, eager to blame the spiritual home they once adored. Whatever is in that school is so evil, so powerful, that it sways the minds of even our best exorcists. My diocese is at its wits end. But then I talked to Tom, who told me about you. And he assured me that you were actually better suited to our problem than anyone the church could offer. And that you are believers.”

  A tiny smile plays over my father’s features. If Tom has sent this priest to us, it isn’t because we believe in God or Satan. It means supernaturals, like us, are involved.

  Which means Triptych is about to have itself a priest for a client.

  The only time we take on human problems, after all, is when they’re not entirely human. But that doesn’t mean I have to let Father Matthews know I’m on board…at least not until the fee’s negotiated.

  For while Triptych has played the part of the Good Samaritan in the past, we aren’t averse to fleecing the occasional fatted calf, or whatever the appropriate religious metaphor may be.

  “I don’t know,” I say after a pregnant pause. “We are, as you say, believers. But how will we work, with all of those other agencies in the way? The fact is, I’m not sure we can be of service if you’ve already got a hundred people running around the scene.”

  “I’ve thought that through. Most of the agencies have given up on the school itself. They have put up minimal surveillance, but that shouldn’t be an issue. And while there are night patrols, there’s no one actually in the school during the day—parents don’t want to panic the students. So I thought you can go undercover!” Father Matthews is very pleased with himself.

  How very “21 Jump Street,” I think. But I keep my expression flat.

  “If we do this, and I mean if, we’d ask you to keep our involvement secret from those other agencies. They’re not going to be happy having another fox in the chicken coop, and they’ll work to hinder our investigation. We’re especially vulnerable if you want us to work undercover. One ‘accidental’ slip from a member of a competing agency, and we’re dead in the water. For us, this secrecy is non-negotiable.”

  The priest nods. “Tom warned me that you’d ask for my silence in this matter. And while I don’t know you, I’ve known Tom all my life, and I trust him. If he vouches for you, I’ll accept that. And I can understand your reasoning. Meanwhile the other agencies have gotten nowhere, and it’s been over a year since the first girls disappeared. Will you help me? I mean, help the girls?” the priest says eagerly. Too eagerly. I can see just how much he wants us, how big an embarrassment this is for him.

  I wonder how deep the Vatican’s coffers run, and if the priest has access to them. Hoping that dollar signs aren’t swirling behind my eyes, I say, “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to waste our time. Maybe the girls are too far gone? Maybe there’s a reason everyone else has failed to get them back? I’m not sure the case is worth it.”

  A cunning look passes over the good father’s face. He recognizes my language and knows what I want to hear.

  “I understand completely, Miss Jones,” he says. “May I call you Capitola?”

  I nod. If Father Matthews is opening his wallet, he can call me Bipsy.

  “Capitola, this problem is serious. We’re not just saving these girls, we’re saving their souls.”

  And your job, I think, but I keep silent.

  “You’d be doing God’s work. That’s priceless.”

  I cock an eyebrow at the good father to let him know that, in fact, there definitely is a price.

  And I’m thinking of one.

  After a little more proselytizing, we cut to the chase. I name a figure; Father Matthews accepts. I curse, internally, wishing I’d asked for more, even as my mind’s eye pushes our budget’s little red line firmly up into the black.

  * * *

  “Eat shit and die, God luvin’ scum” may not be the most original bit of vandalism but, when written in permanent marker, it is definitely hard to get off the porous tile lining the hallway of Holy Trinity Academy for Girls.

  Shar, Moo, and I have been at the school for a week now. Father Matthews is as good as his word, and he hasn’t told anyone about our involvement. He does avoid us like the plague, but that’s fine, as he seems incapable of acting normal when we’re around. Not having him breathing down our necks also means we get more done and are able to sink deeper into our covers. I’m posing as a janitor n
amed Grace, which gives me access to the entire building. It also means my coveralls uniform makes me virtually invisible, since nobody pays attention to the janitor. Moo’s posing as the new guidance counselor, Ms. Summers, granting her access to student records and the ability to bring students in to talk at any point. But Shar’s got the most important job. Because she looks the youngest of us, she’s posing as “Starr,” new student extraordinaire. Unfortunately, despite infiltrating the school successfully, we’ve uncovered bubkes.

  I am, however, earning my keep as a janitor. Girls are filthy in a sneaky way, not to mention that almost all of the mysterious cult’s vandalism seems to occur at the school, where I get to clean it up.

  “Working hard there, Grace!” says a cheerful voice from down the hall. I close my eyes for a second, searching hard for my happy place, before turning around.

  Walking toward me is the head librarian, Frank McEachern, or Frankly McCreepPerv, as we’ve dubbed him. As usual, he’s accompanied by his mousy fiancée, Stacey. Stacey supposedly works at a local library, but she’s almost always on campus with Frank. It’s more than weird, although no one makes a big deal about it.

  Stacey gives me her most insipid smile, and I resist the urge to shove her. She’s just so frail that I can’t help but react to her with violence. Next to my six-foot, strapping build, she makes me feel like Godzilla.

  “Yes, Mr. McEachern. More vandalism,” I add, scanning their faces for any reaction.

  But Stacey’s big blue eyes blink vapidly at me, completely void of any incriminating possibilities. McCreepPerv, for his part, keeps his eyes latched on my breasts, as they normally are. I look down, wondering if my janitor’s navy blue coveralls are stained, or zipped too low, or anything else to warrant such undivided attention. But no. The uniform is clean and modest, if a little strained across the girls.

  Quiet descends as we all three study my breasts. Even Stacey’s joined in, although her expression betrays confusion rather than jealousy, as if she’s not entirely sure what game we’re playing. I’m desperate to move the conversation forward when I hear the sharp clicking of heels on the tiled floor. Those militant strides can only belong to Moo, posing as Ms. Summers, the hard-assed, tough-as-nails guidance counselor. The role isn’t a stretch.