Deatras cradled the egg in the palm of his hand, the outer shell still warm, like it had been when first removed from its mother’s nest. Its source of warmth was now an incubator.
He had watched with big eyes, his dark eyes alight with a curious gleam as his father relocated the egg to a new home. It was a welcome change after the adult birds’ lifeless bodies had been removed from the cage. Deatras’ father had not hidden the death of the mated pair of kites from his son. When the male grew ill and suddenly perished, it was Deatras who had discovered it and quickly realized that the frail, grey bird would not wake again.
And when the female died, after several days and nights of full-throated distressed calls and refusing to attend to her egg, his father brought Deatras to watch as a servant wearing rubber gloves lifted the body and tossed it in a plastic bag.
“Deatras. What did I tell you about handling the egg?”
The young boy turned with the egg in hand and a smile on his face. “I can help, Father!”
His father ran his hand through his lank brown hair and managed a weary smile. But it was a smile that was not reflected in his hollow, shadowed eyes. He crouched down to look at the small, speckled egg. It had been weeks now since the death of the two birds and there was still no sign of a chick.
With a frown, the man reached out and touched the shell. “It’s cold, Deatras.”
“Oh!” The boy turned and put the egg back in its incubator.
“Deatras…” his father started. The boy looked up expectantly, black hair falling into his eyes. “The chick inside the egg… it probably died a while ago.”
Deatras crossed his arms and frowned. “How do you know?”
“I…” the man stopped and rose to his feet with a deep sigh. He walked over to the incubator and unplugged the cord.
“Father!”
The man glanced down at his son. “It’s dead, Deatras.”
He strode away before he could see the boy’s heartbroken expression.
Slowly, Deatras turned back to the egg. Glancing at the smooth surface of the shell, he imagined the young bird inside- trapped and unable to break through.
He clasped the egg in his hands, turning it over and over. Then, he squeezed ever so slightly.
Deatras’ father found the boy later that night, sitting on the floor with pieces of egg shell scattered all around him. He was bent over something cupped in the palm of his hand, every modicum of his attention focused on what he held.
“What…? Deatras, what do you have?”
The boy’s head jerked up, and he opened his hands.
Inside was a small, wet and bedraggled chick, which twitched and parted its beak. A weak chirp came from its tiny pink mouth.
“But… it was dead,” his father stammered, unable to quell his surprise.
Deatras shook his head slowly. “No. It was just stuck and needed help.”
The man glanced at the empty shell and its fragments. Had Deatras… pried the bird out of its casing himself? He imagined those small fingers punching through the fragile shell and gently picking through the remnants of protective yolk to reach the fragile, curled body inside, and tried to contain himself in front of his son.
“Father? It’s alive, so we can keep it, right?”
“Y-yes of course,” the man smiled, helpless to voice his thoughts- the thought that if the even survived its first few days of life, it was destined to live out its life in a cage. And, the thought that maybe it would have been better for it to have remained dead.

Between his training as an exorcist and his care of the young bird, an already fierce tempered kite that was growing fast and always demanding of his attention, the young Deatras was constantly occupied. But, the boy didn’t mind. The chick was a welcome distraction from the arduous physical and mental tasks assigned by his father.
His daily exercises would’ve been more bearable if his father was the one showing him the right gesture to make or the type of energy he should be detecting. It was difficult no matter who was teaching him, but with his father almost always out on a job, Deatras was left to be supervised by Organization experts and the odd exorcist or two.
It made him anxious and more than a tad bit scared. Their watchful gazes sent pins and needles down his arms, causing him to stutter and stumble over the rite he was supposed to be muttering under his breathe. He knew they were watching him for reasons beyond what he could comprehend.
The ever expressionless research members from the Organization used quick precise language and spidery movements while they jotted down notes and made adjustments to Deatras’ progress. Deatras pushed himself to impress them. They would be giving him grades just as Leon received while he was at school.
Although Deatras was excited at first by the thought of an experienced exorcist teaching him, he soon realized that they weren’t much better than the Organization scientists. They always arrived sour-faced, looking as if they had been ambushed and bullied into coming down to teach him. Deatras guessed that they must’ve been unlucky enough to be reporting to the compound at the time.
He improved under their suggestions, but Deatras made constant mistakes, perturbed by their dead-looking eyes and defeated postures. Where the Organization people lacked emotion, the exorcists lacked life.
Deatras gradually understood that his father was absent because his skills as an exorcist were so in demand, just as he connected the oddity of having an exorcist at his training classes with their similarly demanding duties.
Exorcists are rare. That was the first lesson his father taught him. And, like many rare things, exorcists were considered valuable for many. That was the reason why everyone rich, powerful and paranoid in this city and in other branches around the world wanted to have their own exorcist to use for their own purposes.
As a young boy, that was all Deatras needed to explain the constant presence of men in crisp black suits and shiny black shoes--- observing, always observing.
They were shadows, always silent and often faceless. They set his father on edge, as did the clients they escorted through the house. His father always donned a blank, neutral mask when speaking to a potential client. Deatras learned fear from that expression and his father’s uneasy and tense posture. The source of the fear was not from the malevolent spirits his father and he were meant to exorcise, but rather it emanated from the men who were infinitely times more possessive and more coniving.
The second lesson was one that Deatras could only learn through experience, and as he grew it became ever more apparent.
The first time he saw an exorcism performed was in the basement of a countryside mansion owned by a priest who wore a self-satisfied smile. That smirk became a painful grimace upon realizing that his only son was plagued with a persistent, mischievous spirit. Exorcists were the only ones who could drive away a spirit at a severe stage of possession and the calls came in daily for one service or another.
More often than not, it was the suited men supporting their family who decided which jobs would be accepted and who was worth saving. In many cases, if the spirits occupying a living human weren’t exorcised soon, the possessed would almost always go mad, die, or some gruesome combination of both.
At the tender age of six, Deatras was too young to perform an exorcism, but old enough to begin learning the trade. His father was as stoic as ever as he followed the priest and his two bodyguards down the flight of stairs with Deatras at his heels.
The priest refused to go farther than the foot of the stairs, staring ahead into the depths of the sprawling basement with anxiety, disturbance and disgust in his eyes. Deatras remembered that too, the disgust their client inherently displayed. It grew to frustration as his father turned and spent precious moments convincing the priest to proceed and accompany him down the stairs.
His son would need him. It was vital the priest be present to help lessen the spirit’s hold on his heir. Deatras had watched with fascination, as the priest finally, reluctantly agreed.
What followed next was a textbook exorcism. Deatras’ father had explained it to him in great detail before and it proceeded almost too perfectly.
The priest’s son displayed all the telltale signs of possession. His eyes rolled around wildly, his fists clenched and unclenched, his protruding veins were electric blue on his face, neck and hands. He writhed on the floor in the handcuffs that were intended to prevent him from hurting himself and others.
A dark red aura shimmered at the boy’s center, where the spirit had delved in deep, taking over both the mind and body. This last symptom was one only exorcists like Deatras and his father could see.
Deatras had seen similar auras before, riding on people’s shoulders and lurking in murky corners and under park benches. But they were lighter, almost translucent, and nowhere near as angry as the spirit that tormented this boy who was perhaps only a few years older than Deatras himself.
His father proceeded with the exorcism. It caused the spirit- and the boy- obvious pain, but it was unavoidable Deatras did not protest and neither did the priest- even as his son began frothing at the mouth and his eyes ran pink with tears and blood.
Deatras found himself absorbed by the priest almost as much by the exorcism itself. When his father recounted tales of his previous jobs, he never failed to mention the sorrow, fear and despair of the possessed person’s family members. Why then did this priest display none of these emotions?
All Deatras could read on the priest’s face was complete and utter disgust as he watched the end of the exorcism unfold before his eyes. He looked upon his own son with disgust even as the spirit was forced to flee its host and was then incinerated with a single murmur by the exorcist.
The boy slumped forward, exhausted and spent and Deatras’ father rose and turned to speak with the priest’s bodyguards.
Then, the priest looked down his hooked nose at Deatras and suddenly that contempt was aimed at him. He stared back, both confused and curious.
The priest muttered, “Filthy exorcists!”
He practically ran back up the stairs, away from what he had seen and into the ignorant belly of his own wealth and good fortune.
His expression and words did not stick with Deatras because of any hurt that came with it. Rather, it remained because it was part of that second lesson.
Exorcists are used, not appreciated.

“What are you doing, Griffith?! Kill them!”
The man kept his arms spread out, his body between the young mother, who clutched her crying boy close. “You can’t do this! They’re innocent!”
“They’re the cause of the deterioration of a multi-million dollar company! As if the CEO’s death wasn’t enough and just look at them! They reek of spirits!” another man, sporting a crew cut and a pulsing vein in his neck, spat. Behind him a sleek, tall man brought out a handkerchief from the chest pocket of his navy suit to brush blood off the skin around his collar.
Griffith’s eyes narrowed. “Possession can hardly be blamed on the surviving family. You told me I would be exorcising the CEO, not slaughtering women and children!”
“Family?” a suit in the background laughed. “His mistress and bastard son? Their existence is at the very heart of the problem-!”
The man in the navy suit, Dominic Connery, who was also a high ranking officer of the Organization, lifted a hand, stopping his companion short.
“Griffith has a point, Alexander.”
The suit who had been laughing reluctantly stepped back.
Griffith tensed, watching the Organization branch head suspiciously, not daring to breathe a breath of relief until it was over.
“The downfall of the company is not directly a cause, nor is it any concern of ours.” His gaze looked past Griffith to the woman holding her child, who shrunk back in due fear. “However, we cannot overlook their involvement in the summoning of the spirits which subsequently killed our client.”
The man smirked, knowing he had Griffith pinned.
His hands trembled, but he held firm.
“I will not kill them! I exorcise spirits not people!”
The Organization head frowned, the eyes behind his glasses abruptly hardening. “You are an exorcist, Mr. Griffith and I am your superior. You will do as told… unless you want your boy to suffer as a result.”
The man froze, his breath rattling in his chest. His hand began to rise, seemingly in surrender; when he struck it through the air violently.
“No! Not even by your orders, Connery.”
Connery snapped his fingers. “Get him.”
Four suited men emerged from the shadows, converging on the exorcist. He struggled, but was eventually overcome.
“Grab the woman and boy as well.”
Griffith was restrained and brought to knees before Connery, who bent over, grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. “Look at me, Mr. Griffith.”
The man looked up, only to smile and rear back to ram Connery in the face with his head. The man fell back with a cry, and the suits struggled to get Griffith back under control. He kicked one man in the shins, only to be elbowed in the stomach.
He stumbled, and several papers fluttered to the floor.
Rubbing his cut and bruised lip, Connery reached down and picked up the papers. His darting eyes read them as his employees continued to bear down on Griffith.
“Stop.”
The men paused in kicking the exorcist and dragged him back over to their superior.
Connery glanced down at Griffith and smirked when he saw the steely eyes that peered right back. “Yes, I like those eyes.” He waved the papers in his hand. “What do we have here, Mr. Exorcist?”
Griffith glanced at the papers with no recognition and the branch head laughed.
He perused the papers once more. “Hmm, tickets, registration forms and a passport… Making plans to travel out of country, Griffith?” The man merely gritted his teeth. “Or perhaps… you were planning to escape with your son?”
He took the exorcist’s silence as a yes.
“I see. I see.” He smiled. “You are a foolish man, Griffith. What? Did you think that you would succeed?”
Griffith spat blood at the branch head’s feet and hissed, “If not for myself, at least my son could have the chance to live free of all of you monstrous, evil, money-grubbing pawns of the Organization!”
Crack!
Griffith let out a pained cry as one of the burly men twisted his arm back cruelly, snapping his forearm and leaving it dangling limply at his side.
Connery took one last look at the exorcist. “You and your kind are bound to your blood. There’s no help for you, or your son.”
He turned to the man on his right. “Kill him.”
“Yes sir.” He unlocked the safety on his gun and strode forward.
From the shadows, Connery heard the sharp gunshot, piercing the silence.
“Don’t leave any loose strings,” he remarked offhandedly and turned his back on the scene.
The screams of the mother and the sobs of her child were cut short by a twin pair of blasts.
Connery brought out his handkerchief again to dab at his lower lip, sighing, “Those damn exorcists, losing their lives over such petty things. Ah, there’s blood on the collar. I’ll need to have a new suit tailored after all...”
Deatras was spending another afternoon playing outside in the small garden at the edge of the complex, the only place he was allowed to go that wasn’t within the cold metal and stone walls of the building he called home. And, there was no one around today to nag him to go back inside to practice his rites or memorize a new series of hand signs.
“Deatras!”
He turned from the earwig he had found to see Leon running his way. The small boy was all legs, his blonde hair flopping in the wind reminding Deatras of the big golden dog he had seen in passing once.
“Leon? Is school over today already?”
“Yup!” the boy replied brightly, plopping down in the grass next to Deatras. “I had training to do here so I was let out early!”
Deatras let out a humming sound and turned back to the earwig whose getaway had not nearly been fast enough. He grasped the squirming creature between his thumb and forefinger.
“Deatras?”
“Don’t you have more classes to get to?” the dark-haired boy muttered, his back still to Leon.
Leon scooted closer, unwilling to let Deatras’ standoffishness faze him.
“I have time before the teacher misses me! Besides, I’m your… your…”
“…Bodyguard?”
“Yeah! I’m your bodyguard, so I’m supposed to be with you!”
“Hmm…”
Leon frowned. “But… I don’t play with you ‘cause I have to. I like it! It’s fun!”
The earwig twisted and pinched Deatras thumb and he dropped it with a wince. “Aw, Leon, look at what you made me do!”
He glared at Leon, who managed to look heartbroken and confused at the same time. After a pause, both boys burst out laughing, bodyguard and exorcist, Organization and family bloodline. For these carefree moments, they could be blissfully unaware of their predetermined fates.
Leon would faithfully find time between his lessons to visit Deatras and tell him about what he had learned (or hadn’t learned because he was sleeping again). Deatras, who wasn’t allowed to attend regular school for even part of the time as Leon was, listened attentively to these snippets of daily life for normal people. He did not feel the loss of a normal childhood, a normal life, so acutely as he did during these conversations with Leon. He knew that it was out of reach for him, but, sometimes, when he was alone and couldn’t fall asleep at night, he would think of all the new experiences he would like to have and the new people he would like to meet.
Even without Deatras telling him, Leon seemed to understand how much his friend valued his visits and had taken many scolding and dozens of lashes in order to make the exorcist-in-training that much less isolated.
Deatras trusted Leon as a result. The short, bright-faced boy was the only person in the entire complex that treated Deatras as, how he assumed, one would treat an ordinary person. Leon didn’t care that Deatras had the blood of exorcists coursing strongly through his veins or that he could chant powerful protections against smaller spirits under his father’s careful guidance. With Leon, Deatras could be just another six- year- old boy, and Deatras took advantage of it, plundering the camellias for insects and fighting with twigs on such a warm and clear afternoon.
The footsteps of several people jolted the boys’ out of their play. Standing there blocking the sun and the picturesque view, were several men, the grass crushed underfoot by the soles of their shiny black shoes. Deatras only recognized the nervous man, his caretaker or supervisor of sorts, Mr. Riley, who was wringing hands as he always did when something was wrong.
The man in the lead was stern faced, with slick black hair and slanted eyes. Deatras immediately disliked him.
Those snake-like eyes landed on Deatras and the man spoke in a whispery voice, “You are the boy, Deatras?”
Deatras just blinked, tilting his head as he appraised the man. His voice was no more trustworthy than his face. He was one of many around Deatras who did not care for what was right or what was wrong.
Leon jumped in front of Deatras, pushing him to the side in an uncharacteristically brave and impulsive action.
“W-what do you want with D-Deatras?” he demanded, though his confidence was betrayed by the tremble in his small voice.
The snake man turned to Mr. Riley, “Who is this other boy?”
Mr. Riley wrung his hands even more desperately and kept his gaze pointed down.
“A child of an Organization member and the boy’s future guard, no one of consequence I assure you!”
“Hmm,” the man glanced at Leon, and then, unexpectantly turned to the third man.
He was a short, but sturdy person, dressed in black velvet suit and a crimson tie, with a white bud nodding in his breast pocket. His salt and paper hair was combed to either side of his receding hairline and he appeared, for all his obvious wealth, to be a worldly and wise person.
When he spoke, it was in rich, bell-like tones, “It’s fine, Johann. This will do.”
The snake man, Johann, nodded and accepted a slip of paper the older man passed him.
He read the paper’s contents aloud with little inflection as Deatras and Leon stood in the dying light of day, their shadows growing longer and taller behind them.
“Exorcist Mr. Griffith of the Kite family bloodline has recently responded to a request for an exorcism of very important terms, both financially and internationally. Unforeseen circumstances arose while Mr. Griffith was carrying out the exorcism and both the client and the exorcist were lost along with several civilian casualties. We regret to inform his surviving son, Deatras, that this “exorcism gone wrong” has claimed the life of his father and he will not be returning.” Johann folded the letter and handed it back to the gentleman beside him. “There ends the report.”
Silence followed for several heartbeats, until Mr. Riley suddenly stepped forward.
“Mr. Johann, Mr. Xavier! Sirs! He is just a child! He could not understand such a… such a cold account of this tragedy!”
“Oh?” Johann raised an eyebrow and his hand crept to a bulge underneath his suit jacket.
A hand stopped him and the older man, Mr. Xavier, smiled, “I’ll handle it, Johann. Thank you.”
He continued with that kindly smile on his face. “You are right, Mr. Riley. That was by no means a clear message for a boy of… how old is Deatras?”
Mr. Riley ducked his head, once again meek and afraid. “Six, sir. They both are.”
“Ah, yes, yes. That was much too complicated for a boy of six. So let me help.”
The older gentleman strode forward until he was a mere step from where Deatras and Leon still stood, overcome by the shadows of the adult world.
Deatras instinctively took a step back, his small fingers curled into fists at his sides.
They were wrong.
Mr. Xavier crouched down, still wearing the mask of a gentle, understanding man- the mask of a friend.
Deatras scarcely felt Leon’s presence at his side, his entire body felt numb.
They were wrong.
“Deatras,” Mr. Xavier called and the boy was compelled to look up into the man’s face.
His lips moved, thin and wet, his eyes glinted, cunning and the mask slipped to reveal nothing but a complete and total disregard for the plight and emotions of others.
“Your father is dead, Deatras. You are alone, poor boy.”
Mr. Xavier was not a kind person, or even a decent one. His smile was curdled and behind it was a cold, hard ruthlessness. He never cared, no one had ever cared.
As Deatras back-pedaled in his desire to run away, to deny what had already happened, he stumbled and fell into the grass. He couldn’t look away, even as his vision blurred and his nails cut into the fleshy skin of his palms.
When he gazed upon the evil truth, it only grasped him tighter, laughing in his face and dragging him under.

Years had passed yet it was still cold. Even though Deatras had long since become accustomed to the frigid touch of spirits, at the back of his mind he always took note of the way they always leeched all the warmth out of the surrounding air.
His father had explained that it was because of their lack of internal heat that spirits tended to seek out the inherent warmth of living things, the older, stronger and more depraved ones actually feeding upon the life force of another.
Deatras swiped his arm through the air, cutting several archaic symbols while murmuring the accompanying words under his breath. An inexperienced exorcist wouldn’t dare speak commandments in the presence of spirits in anything but loud, imperial barks. But, after the head of the family passed on to him, it had become apparent that he would become one of the best.
The organization which backed their branch of the exorcist bloodline was pleased. They had watched Deatras’ progress with growing fervor, sending him on exorcisms accompanied with an older exorcist at the age of twelve and sending him alone by the time he was fifteen.
Deatras had grown up strong, of both mind and body. He had needed to. Tall and slender, he was 22 now, an adult, yet far from free of the covetous, omnipresent hands of the organization. He was managed and given assignments carefully and that made Deatras even more cautious in turn.
With another slice of his hand, Deatras sent a minor spirit under his control after another. The two fought briefly before Deatras’ spirit gained the upper hand.
Both of the spirits flared into ashes as he snapped his fingers.
Deatras had learned a few tricks to keep himself as separate as he could from the men and women pulling the strings behind the scenes. If he could not abandon his duty, then he was cunning enough to keep them from understanding the full extent of his abilities.
“Mr. Deatras! Are you down there again?” a querulous voice called from the top of the stairs.
He spread his hands and then, with practiced and swift control, curled them into fists. The last wisps of the dark spirits curled in on themselves with a pitiful cry.
If only experienced exorcists ordered spirits in a soft, commanding voice, only the most gifted did so with merely a thought.
Deatras sighed. It was pathetic, but he trusted spirits more than he trusted those craven worms of the organization.
“Mr. Deatras!”
He brushed his hands of the remnants of ashes from the exorcism and made his way back upstairs.
“What is it, Leon? Another job?” Deatras stepped out onto the landing to greet a young, bright-eyed, blonde boy in an ill- fitting suit and tie.
Deatras ran his hand through the back of his hair. He had allowed it to grow out from its usual closely shaved style, since the black strands were unruly no matter what their length.
The boy, Leon, usually so happy-go-lucky, wrung his hands and glanced to the side, “Not exactly…”
Deatras glanced at him sharply. “Did the Organization rebuke you again? If so, I can talk to them and tell them it was by my orders.”
“No, no, Mr. Deatras!” His pale blue eyes widened considerably. His hands came up in the anxious way they did whenever the Organization was mentioned.
The exorcist sighed, “I thought I told you that you can drop the ‘mister’? No one else is around other than us.”
“Y-yes,” Leon stammered, following along as Deatras strode down the corridor.
Deatras had known Leon for years, since before his father had died in fact, and he still found it hard to believe that he worked for the organization that manipulated the few exorcist families that remained. Despite being one of their many suited servants, Leon treated Deatras as a human instead of a rare specimen to be groomed and tamed. His original duty was to watch over Deatras as a sort of guard dog, but in that time he had become the one and only person Deatras could trust in this place.
“I should tell you, Mr- sorry- Deatras… that the branch manager isn’t too happy that you’re spending so much time in the lower rooms. He says they’re to keep dangerous spirits, not for… well, you know…” He looked away.
He was ashamed, Deatras could tell. Unfortunately Leon was as trapped in this cage as he was. “A message huh? But, I bet that wasn’t the only reason he’s unhappy.”
Leon let out a sigh of relief. “You always know what’s going on. They’re murmuring about that new group of investigators that’s been working in the area. What were they called…? CUI-?”
“SIU.” Deatras had stopped walking and stood before a tall, wire cage. He took off the latch and reached inside. “The Special Investigations Unit, they deal with criminal cases involving people possessed by spirits.”
When he pulled out his arm, a medium- sized bird was perched at the crook of his elbow, the tops of its wings crowned with black feathers among all its grey plumage. He turned to face Leon with the bird on hand.
“I assume they’re worried about losing clients?”
Leon had frozen for a second, and finally blinked. The bird’s deep red eyes stared at him along with Deatras. “Something along those lines… even though you are more like a private detective and they are a separate police unit.” He blushed at that, and Deatras smiled slightly.
Private detective… well the way he (they) took clients based on money and other conditions; he could see why Leon had made the comparison. Even if a more accurate description of his occupation would’ve been something like a mercenary…
“Yes, that’s true. I work in a completely different way.” Deatras found himself unable to keep a trace of bitterness from creeping into his voice. He offered a morsel of meat to the bird on his arm and continued, “Maybe the old men are more worried that this new police unit will catch on to exactly what kind of research they’re up to…”
Leon gulped and had to resist the urge not to look behind his shoulder. There were definitely deals and experimentation going on beyond keeping a few measly exorcists under control as an extra insurance. That’s how those with too much and nothing to do with all their wealth appeased their boredom after all.
Abruptly desperate to change the subject, Leon inched closer to Deatras and the menacing looking bird.
“Ah, that bird is a symbol of your family.”
Deatras stroked the bird’s head and it leaned into his familiar touch, clicking its tongue in its black raptor’s beak. “Yes. Each exorcist family has a bird that represents them. Ours… mine, is the kite.”
Emboldened by the positive reaction the fierce-eyed kite had to Deatras, Leon stretched out a tentative figure to stroke its black feathered shoulder. The bird ruffled its wings and let out a sharp complaint.
Leon retreated with blood welling up from a fresh cut on his finger where the sharp edge of the bird’s beak had caught him.
“Come now, Lazarus,” Deatras clucked at the bird reprovingly even as it hopped further from Leon to perch precariously on the exorcist’s hand.
“Lazarus? I thought you weren’t religious.”
Deatras’ back was turned to Leon, but the boy still noticed the sudden tension in his posture.
“I’m not,” he replied, voice devoid of emotion. “It simply seemed appropriate. There were two others before him, a mated pair. Soon after laying her egg, the female grew sick and died. And, only days following her death, the male also died. He was perfectly healthy.”
Leon usually wouldn’t have found a tale of birds anything but dull, yet there was something about the way Deatras spoke that made him curious. “Maybe it died from grief?”
Deatras glanced at him and then shook his head in agreement ever so slightly. “Kites are interesting because they choose a mate for life, but still… I don’t understand why they would go to such lengths for one another.”
He stared off into the distance, dark eyes unreadable.
“And Lazarus?” Leon prompted.
“He never hatched. We incubated the egg, but when too much time passed, we eventually peeled back the shell ourselves. It seemed as if the chick had died, and for a little over a day it was- by all rights- dead. But, then, he came back to life, just like the story, or so I’m told.”
Leon chuckled. “He’s a miracle bird!”
Deatras stared down at the bird on his arm, now preening the undersides of its wings.
“No. He just wanted to live.”
He opened the door to the bird cage and lowered Lazarus back into it.
“Mr. Deatras...” Leon started and raised his hand to grab his shoulder, when the thunder of many footsteps broke the silence.
The exorcist latched the cage shut as five men in suits and one distinguished looking older man came to a stop before them.
Lazarus glared at them from the corner of one red eye and tittered ill-naturedly.
Deatras ignored the irritated kite to face the group of men with startling composure.
“Which one of you came from the source of the trouble?”
The older gentleman started, “P-pardon?”
“Not you,” Deatras scowled. He glanced at the five remaining men until his stern gaze paused on a slight man with a hawkish nose who was sweating profusely. “You.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
Abruptly Deatras lunged forward, his hand stopping like a knife centimeters from the poor man’s throat. He squeaked in fright, but Deatras still leaned in.
He whispered three words.
“Don’t cross me.”
Then, as the man cowered and feared for his life he sliced the air and, for a mere moment, they all saw the air above the man’s head shudder and then move out in a sudden frigid draft.
Deatras muttered something under his breath and then shook his hand.
“You’ve been letting in too many spirits lately, Mr. Branch Head.”
The older man appeared to recover his wits, although his subordinate was still collapsed on the floor, quivering from his intimate encounter with a spirit.
“I expect you to perform your duties, Deatras and this is an emergency. Follow me!” He turned sharply on his heel and his guards, except for the one, obediently followed suit.
Leon shot a nervous glance at Deatras before hurrying after them.
Deatras slipped a pack of pills to the poor man on the floor and decided to see what chaos had erupted so close to home.
As they marched down the corridor and into the forefront of the sprawling complex, the branch manager, Champlain Junier, otherwise known as Champ-ju, spoke briskly about what had transpired.
Like Deatras, he had been trained to stay calm in even the most strenuous of situations. But even he seemed to be cracking, his salt and pepper hair visibly sticking to the back of his sweaty neck.
“It appears some of the spirits we knew of in the area had been cultivating in the recesses of the manor where one of our donors Mr. Xavier dwells. There has been an… accident and a power outage resulted in the freeing of several… darker creatures.”
Deatras, and even Leon, noted the pauses, a careful avoidance of certain words and phrases.
“And now Mr. Xavier is in danger of having his mind and body devoured by hungry, tormented spirits,” Deatras finished. Though, he was well aware that these spirits may have easily been under the experimentation of the elder wealthy beneficiaries of the Organization.
Champ-ju coughed and suddenly picked up his pace. “Yes, as you so delicately put it. Mr. Xavier is currently trapped in his home and is in need of your assistance in particular.”
“Is he protected? I know he has several security measures in place.”
The man hesitated and then gestured at a suit to his right who quickly broke away. “Ah no… we have- ahem- lost contact with anyone inside.”
Now, Deatras’ general disinterest in the situation evaporated. His head snapped up sharply and he stepped in stride with Champ-ju.
“Didn’t you send in some exorcists before me?”
There was just a tight-lipped silence.
Deatras felt his patience beginning to crack. “Are you saying that a mass of spirits has been left unattended? It will only take minutes for them to spread out and then more lives than Mr. Xavier’s will be at risk.”
The branch head whirled on him. “We did send in help! Four exorcists. Four. But they haven’t come out, and neither has Mr. Xavier. Of course, none of them were of your level, Deatras, but no one was alerted that you had returned from your previous job until Leon here let it slip you were fooling around again!” He looked at Leon and the boy shrunk under the furious gazes of both him and Deatras.
“We have not been idle,” Champ-ju hissed.
Deatras stared back, resisting the urge to shoot back a scathing retort, and then the mask of disinterest returned. “How long has it been?”
“Twenty minutes. Fifteen since we sent the others in. The alarms that should’ve gone off immediately were jammed from the inside.”
“Cunning devils,” Deatras remarked. “Do I have permission to use my full blood, Mr. Branch Head?”
He tilted his head, watching the older man’s reaction underneath half-lidded eyes.
An expression of distaste twitched on his face, before he forced out, “Yes. Do as you must.”
Deatras nodded, hiding a small smirk of his own. Leon watched on fearfully as he snapped his fingers and slid a pair of shadowy weapons into the waistband of his pants.
“Then, I believe it’s about time I paid Mr. Xavier a visit.”

The outside of the sprawling mansion where one of the Organization’s most… generous donors dwelled was crawling with suits- whether they were from the branch or from the outside. Even the police- local members who knew the true identity of the place- had completely cordoned off the area, keeping away any spectators who might happen upon this unfortunate scene.
Deatras had never been comfortable with large crowds, and luckily his duties were secretive enough that he usually didn’t have to deal with them. The fringe location of the complex and the surrounding estate of this branch also insured that their supernatural activities stayed as separate from the public as possible.
With the branch head, his entourage and Leon fending off the flurry of uniforms rushing to aid in whatever way they could the exorcist made it to the front door of Mr. Xavier’s residence without incident.
When he grasped the handle he discovered it was unlocked and the door swung wide open. A sound of surprise escaped from Leon, but Deatras had expected as much. He proceeded forward into the inky depths of the house.
“Umph!”
Deatras glanced over his shoulder to see Leon pressed against what was seemingly nothing but air, unable to cross the threshold.
“You can’t follow, Leon. It’s too dangerous.”
“Oof!” he tested the invisible wall with his fists to no avail. “What is this?”
“It’s a barrier. There are enough spirits with enough power to erect one around this entire place.” He turned to Champ-ju, who lingered reluctantly on the front steps. “That’s why only exorcists could be sent in, correct?”
He nodded stiffly.
He looked at Leon and then back at the branch head. “Make sure no one tries to get near the house while I’m inside. There may be some fluctuations in energy. And, keep an eye on Leon.”
Deatras held Champ-ju’s eyes just long enough to make sure his point got across. He trusted the man as much as he trusted a poisonous spider and that trust could scarcely fill a thimble. But, he knew, as he knew with most people he met who were aware of who he was and what he was capable of, that Champ-ju viewed him, not as a fellow human being, but as a barely tamed monster.
And, he would never cross a monster, especially if he realized just how little their tricks had quenched Deatras’ own spirit.
It was only through that last gaze, that Deatras was certain that he could turn his back on his boyish, vulnerable bodyguard and face this house reeking of malevolence.
Deatras was immediately struck by the density of the spiritual energy as he entered the front hall. As he appraised his surroundings, gradually allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark, he noted the auras of several masses of spirits inhabiting parts of the house, and they were growing more active by the moment.
Their combined power was stifling, more so than the barrier he had gotten past with no trouble. Perhaps if they had been working together dealing with the barrier would have been a different story, but spirits hardly cooperated with anyone… or anything.
His hands went to the metal bars at his sides, hidden underneath his fleece jacket. They were exorcism weapons-- an addition to his arsenal that he rarely used due to their difficult nature and the exceptional power they exuded.
Even if the spirits weren’t fully aware of each other, there would be no doubt that he would be attacked from several sides at once. But first, he had to find Mr. Xavier.
Like most people Deatras knew had ties to the wealthy who collected exorcists as one would exotic species of flora and fauna, Mr. Xavier was not a favorite of his. He didn’t pretend otherwise and he certainly wouldn’t be making any sacrifices on the old man’s behalf.
But, despite all this, Deatras’ traitorous blood thrummed underneath his skin- quickly growing colder by the minute- and his honed instincts eventually focused on a different form past the winding grand staircase. Swiftly, he made his way past several closed doors and a row of Roman busts of ancient gods and arrogant emperors watching him through empty eyes.
Another room, what appeared to be a study and a library, opened up before him. It was filled with the shadowy vestiges of furniture and occupied by a single person, squirming and twisting on the ornamental rug. Deatras took another cautious step forward, his senses testing and tasting the cloying atmosphere hanging over the mansion.
A shadowy shape flicked and curled out of sight, but it was enough for Deatras to stop at the threshold of the adjoining chamber, his back to the staircase, the door and possibly their only escape.
This room was deeply tainted by spirits.
Any doubts he had were only confirmed when the human shadow on the carpet twisted onto its stomach and a wrinkled face, spectacles cracked and crooked upon the nose, stared up at him.
Mr. Xavier opened his black spotted lips, reached out one arm steadily dripping a viscous liquid and gasped, “Help… me!”
Several spirits peered out of his body, their mouth less forms echoing the elderly man’s cries. Deatras pulled out a sheet of paper and clasped his hand around it, furiously muttering unintelligible words.
When he was finished he cast it into the air and it exploded into pieces with a brilliant white light. The walls and ceilings undulated as black shapes shrieked and scurried away from the light. A few unlucky spirits evaporated when the brightness touched them.
Deatras cursed, not because the attack had had little effect on the spirits other than to make them fall back temporarily, but because the light had revealed what he had feared the most. There were too many spirits thirsty for the warmth of the living here. As the exorcist’s sharp eyes returned to the man writhing on the floor, it was evident that Mr. Xavier had already become a feast for the many corrupted souls.
“What are you doing?” the elder screamed through the blood and black grit hardening at the corners of his mouth. “Save me!”
“Keep moving about so much and you will only die that much faster, Mr. Xavier.”
The man’s eyes bulged, whether from fear, pain or anger, one could hardly tell the difference. “You’re an exorcist, aren’t you? Then, you have to do as you’re told! Help me… NOW!”
Deatras made a rapid series of hand gestures and sent a handful of nearby oozing spirits into oblivion. “There should have been four others who came in here before me. Have you seen them?”
He pivoted and managed to move close enough to Mr. Xavier to act as a shield from still more spirits. “And don’t act like you can’t speak. You were talking just fine a moment ago.”
Mr. Xavier coughed. “Oh, you mean those four?” Deatras turned his head to look at the man- a mistake on his part. A slavering mass of spirits merged into one rose up through the floor and he barely had time to raise his arm and utter a hasty command. The icy shreds of the dying spirit left bloody scratches in his arm. He winced, but it was nothing compared to the pain that gripped his heart when he saw the expression on Mr. Xavier’s face.
The older man was still smiling through a mouthful of bloody teeth when Deatras rose from his crouch and shook the blood from his wounded arm. Where droplets hit the ground, the wood sizzled.
“I hope you’re better than them. These creatures made short work of those pathetic, wretched, worthless excuses for exorcists.”
Mr. Xavier’s words were cut short when a thin blade suddenly pressed against his vulnerable throat.
Deatras stared down at him through narrowed eyes. The metal bars he hadn’t used until now were visibly wicked sharp, and equipped with a double layered blade.
“What did you say? It’s becoming hard to hear you through all that blood and taint.” Deatras flicked the blade upwards and a new cut blossomed along the man’s jawline. His sagging cheeks were pocketed with red and black sores as the spirits in and around him spread their shadowy tendrils.
“P-please! Help me! T-that’s why you came here, right?” Mr. Xavier looked up hopefully, pitifully-- his eyes shining with tears.
“I don’t know, Mr. Xavier. I would say that the spirits have already mostly possessed you and begun to devour you. The only chance to exorcise them successfully at this stage would probably kill the host as well.” Deatras watched as the elderly man seemed to process his words, but still fell short of the final solution.
“B-but, there is a way!”
Deatras shook his head slowly. “Mr. Xavier, don’t you understand? The host will die and the host is you.”
He released the blade on his weapon’s twin and brought the two together. Deatras was prepared to slice through the spirits and the man with them, when a strangely familiar voice halted his action.
“Mr. Deatras, don’t!”
Only half-believing his own senses, Deatras turned on his heel to see none other but Leon racing past the staircase and heading straight towards them.
“How…?” he asked, lowering his blades.
When he came to a stop, Leon explained in gasping breaths, “The barrier! It’s disappeared! Spiritual energy is already leaking out and affecting the compound and surrounding area!”
Deatras realized the reason why the barrier was gone as soon as the young bodyguard relayed the situation.
Reacting to the presence of Deatras, and perhaps even the other exorcists before him, the spirits had switched their strength to counterattacking and spreading further rather than keeping ordinary humans out. This strength had gathered significantly as their malicious intents ricocheted and fed off one another.
It was too risky now to treat this mission as just another exorcism. And Deatras suddenly had another person to worry about.
Deatras felt a giant patch of frigid shadow rise up behind them and he swiveled around, blades bared and a word of power on the tip of his tongue.
“Leon! You have to get out!”
“What about you and Mr. Xavier?” the boy asked eyes wide with fear and confusion.
The exorcist barked a guttural curse at the shadow. “Now!”
But it was too late.
Deatras disintegrated the tail of the cold vortex, but it was determined- too bloated with hunger and hatred. It fell upon Leon and the boy staggered and then collapsed in a heap underneath the staircase.
“Leon!” Deatras raced to the boy’s side, wincing as inky fingers shot out of the carpet underneath him, already melting into Leon’s prone form.
With an angry swipe, he cast away the smaller spirits nipping at Leon’s hair. The force of his action cracked into the wood banisters, leaving them blackened and burned. Deatras ignored the groan of the house as the spirits bucked and hissed.
Rolling Leon over on his side, he felt for the boy’s pulse. It still beat underneath the pressure of his two fingers, strong and sure. But Deatras could hear his breath quickening, growing ever shallower by the second.
Muttering and making a hurried series of gestures, he glanced at Leon again. For a moment the color rose in cheeks and his eyes shifted underneath the lids, but as soon as Deatras dared to breathe a sigh of relief, the boy’s skin turned pale and sallow-looking.
Leon’s body spasmed, and he let out a weak groan of pain.
“Damn it!” Deatras cursed. He cast a barrier around Leon, but it would only be temporary.
There was no point in trying to exorcise individual spirits from anyone while the entire mansion reeked of their corrupted energy. As soon as he exorcised one, another would be sure to possess Leon again.
The only way to save him was to get him out of the mansion before the spirits devoured too much and left Deatras with nothing to save.
Deatras bent down and was draping Leon’s arm around his neck when an unearthly wail shattered the whispers of the spirits and the creaking of the old house.
Leon was knocked from his grasp and Deatras slid back, instinctually drawing the two slender bars. His narrowed gaze focused on none other but a slumped over, gasping Mr. Xavier.
When the elderly man raised his head, his eyes were bloodshot, black fluid leaking from the ravaged tear ducts. His face and hands were covered in shadowy taint and weeping sores.
“You said you’d… help me…” he rasped, blood dribbling from his lower lip. He took a shuffling step towards Deatras and keeled forward, hacking and struggling for air.
Deatras hesitated, but didn’t lower his weapons. He knew the man was thoroughly possessed, yet it seemed as though his abrasive, stubborn personality was still intact.
He looked up from his kneeling position. “You said you’d help me… so save me.”
Deatras tried to quell his rising frustration.
“Mr. Xavier, I tried to tell you that there is no way to help you.”
Suddenly, the old man lunged forward, and Deatras barely managed to sidestep and avoid his clumsy attack. Mr. Xavier then turned ponderously to grasp at Deatras’ leg.
“I saw you! I saw what you were doing with that boy!” Deatras froze for a moment. Leon. Just past the old man, the boy laid, crumpled and completely exposed.
Claw like fingers grabbed his leg and Deatras saw the wretched thing that Mr. Xavier had become, or maybe he- maybe all of them- had always been so horrific.
“Forget the boy!” Mr. Xavier snarled with disgust through his twisted and sagging mouth. “He’s just another dispensable tool not worth saving! Save me! I’m the one you should be saving-!”
Deatras saw red then. He struck out, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction as his fist connected with the man’s nose, shattering it into several small pieces of bone and cartilage. Mr. Xavier fell back onto the floor, clutching his broken and bleeding nose.
His small, bloodshot eyes widened behind his cracked spectacles and he yelped, “Please! Please don’t hurt me! I’ll do anything, I promise! Just get me out of here and-“
Deatras released the blades on one of his weapons. They slid out of the bar, deadly to spirits, extremely painful to humans. He lifted his foot and stepped on Mr. Xavier’s leg. Hard.
It cracked and the man let out a short scream of pain.
“You never give up do you?” Deatras looked down at him. Looking down as so many of Mr. Xavier’s kind had done to him and his father before. The young exorcist’s visible disinterest in the affairs of others had entirely vanished. His eyes shone with a new emotion as he continued to press down on the man’s right leg. “Look at yourself, Mr. Xavier. Your body is ravaged by spirits. Even now they’re devouring you from the inside out. And as soon as I walked in here, I knew they had possessed you too completely.”
He waited for a moment and the man only emitted a terrified squeak. Deatras leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You deserve it. You tormented these lost souls in your petty experiments. Yes, I knew about those, everyone did. But, everyone turned a blind eye didn’t they? Because it’s you, Mr. Xavier.”
The man seemed to have lost all his wits. Deatras was impressed that he had still been coherent after being so tainted, but now he burst out, “You’re a damned exorcist aren’t you?! Exorcists kill spirits, not people, you son of a-!”
Deatras tightened his grip on the blade in his right hand, fighting his muscles that so badly wanted to carve through this… thing’s, face.
Not yet, he told himself.
Instead, he tilted his head back and let out a short laugh. “Yes! That’s how it should be shouldn’t it?” He lifted his weapon and examined the glinting edge of the double layered blade. He flicked it around and pointed it right at Mr. Xavier’s eye. “But, do you know what I detest more than spirits right now?” He paused for a moment. “You.”
“Devil!” Mr. Xavier howled.
“Maybe.” Deatras shrugged and then twitched. The barrier around Leon wouldn’t last much longer. “But it was more than just spirits that killed my father. It was people like you. People who treated us as, how’d you put it? ‘Dispensable tools who don’t deserve to be saved.’”
“Your… father?” the man blinked, ducked his head and then what sounded like chuckles came from his pink-red mouth. “Ah, that’s it… that’s it! You were the boy whose poor father died in an exorcism gone wrong. I never expected to see you again or to see you so… competent.”
Deatras hand lowered and he stared hard at Mr. Xavier. The man spoke of not being able to recognize him, but Deatras was no better. The blood and taint, as well as age, had marred the broad, worn face, yet now he understood why the older man’s voice was familiar.
“You… you’re one of the people who were there that day?”
Mr. Xavier threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, you remember! The aftermath of a tragedy, having to break the news to a mere child…” He shook his head slowly, strands of hair falling out of his scalp as he did. “But, look at you now! You’ve become so powerful, so well-honed, so… cold.”
His smirk made the exorcist’s insides shrivel, and his hands clutching his weapons remained.
“Deatras, do you still not know?” Mr. Xavier suddenly asked.
The young man’s head jerked up. “Know what? What else is there to know?”
Mr. Xavier shrugged. “Maybe you are too different now. Back then, I thought you knew the truth.”
“The… truth?” Deatras mouthed. His eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the loathsome face of the unscrupulous man, a privileged donor who also possessed deep connections with the Organization.
Hadn’t Deatras, said it himself?
Deatras voice trembled, “No… it wasn’t any spirit after all. You… you killed him!”
Mr. Xavier cringed away from the blade that abruptly twitched back to life in the exorcist’s hand.
“Me? I merely advised to have him executed for his treason. I was never directly involved; at the most, I simply knew the truth of that day.” He smiled then, despite the danger lurking before him. “But, you’ve known all along haven’t you Deatras?”
His hand sliced upwards then, the quivering blade biting into the skin of Mr. Xavier’s sallow cheek. “I should’ve known! That your kind would create such a story to cover-up what really happened!”
“Deatras,” Mr. Xavier’s voice suddenly turned serious. He lifted his hand to grab the blade hovering by his face and tilted it down. “Isn’t this anger just a mask to hide your own guilt? We may have fed you that story, but you were the one who believed it. You believed that your father was capable of making a fatal mistake during an exorcism, even as you had your suspicions. Now, how would Daddy feel if he knew his own son had doubted his abilities?”
The young exorcist winced, his rage cracking as Mr. Xavier’s words snaked their way into his thoughts, into what he saw as reality or myth, truth or lie. He took a step back, instinctively trying to get away from the man- just as he had as a little kid.
Deatras froze. A kid? Was that all he was? After struggling every day for the past 16 years to strengthen himself, to keep his identity and to survive the devices of everyone who sought to control him?
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What was that?” Mr. Xavier paused.
Deatras locked eyes with the contemptible man. “I said… It. Doesn’t. Matter!”
“What?!” the man shrieked. “It doesn’t matter? You have lost yourself despite all your pitiful efforts! You forsook your own flesh and blood, and became a weapon of the Organization just like all the rest! Would your father… would Griffith want to see you in such a degraded state?!”
Deatras’ hand shot forward and Mr. Xavier’s head slammed against the wall, knocking a stone bust to the ground to shatter into a dozen pieces and causing plaster to rain down in white specks. He wrapped his hand around the man’s throat as he struggled feebly. His eyes gleamed in the dim light of the hallway.
“Don’t you ever speak his name.”
Mr. Xavier coughed, blood pouring down his chin. “Ack, those eyes… they prove it. You’ve lost your humanity. You, those four exorcists, your father… you’re no better than the things you slay!”
The exorcist turned his blade, his shadowed eyes watching the old man, possessed now, but also possessed then.
“My father…” he said. “… He wouldn’t want any of this. But, my father is dead. By people who couldn’t handle their pets developing a will of their own and disobeying their orders. So, because of that, I like to think that he would approve of whatever I decide is necessary.”
Mr. Xavier’s eyes were wide and wild, his cunning had fled and the spirits had nearly finished their feast. “No, no! Killing me… you’re all monsters, every last one of you!”
Deatras shifted his weight and raised one hand dripping with blood- his blood from the scratches on his arm. “You’re wrong. It means we’re no better than any other human.”
He swept his blood covered hand in front of Mr. Xavier, droplets splattering on the man’s face. Then, he lunged, both blades unsheathed.
He felt the lurch as the spirits inside the elder wailed, tried to flee and were torn to shreds by the touch of the protected blades. He felt the last bit of life force propelling the man leave with the spirits that had been possessing him. And he felt the steady pump of blood flow out and over his hands as the body crumbled without support. Even without the spirits, the elderly man had been deemed wicked enough for the bite of the silver, steel and shadow.
Deatras caught the man’s eyes in his last moment and whispered, “You, Mr. Xavier, are beyond saving.”

Leon was barely breathing when Deatras walked out of the mansion with the icy boy in his arms. Paramedics immediately rushed forward, Champ-ju at their side, who, for once, ignored the disobedience Deatras had shown and instead proceeded to bark orders at the scattered ranks of officials and branch members.
As Leon was rushed off the scene to the nearest medical facility, Deatras took charge of cordoning off the spirit-filled mansion. With the careful monitoring of suits with sleek technology, he began a complete exorcism of the house and grounds.
It was a taxing process, requiring lengthy passages banishing the spirits and cleansing the land paired with meticulous hand movements. Even with objects from inside the house infused with power and placed at each corner of the property, effectively sealing off any rampant spiritual energy, there was still the chance that some spirits would remain lurking under the house’s foundation or turn to possessing objects.
Because of that concern, Champ-ju’s loud assertion that Mr. Xavier’s body had to be recovered or there would be even more hell to pay and Deatras’ own need to eradicate all that had happened inside the mansion, Deatras imbued his words with even more power than necessary, his each stroke swift and relentless.
Finally, at the end, he pulled out one of his metal bars, released the blade and sliced his palm open. With a last cry to exorcise all the tormented spirits within the house, Damian lifted the bladed weapon over his head and then thrust it in the ground with so much force the ground trembled.
He watched his own blood drip down the handle and blade and then leaned his head back, and listened to the death throes of the already deceased.

The four exorcists which had been sent in before Deatras were eventually found after the house was cleansed and the spirits incinerated. After, the affair with Mr. Xavier, the discovery by a team of medics seemed to only have a numbing effect on those living in the complex and dealing with the aftermath of the incident.
Their bodies were hardly recognizable as human, much less with evidence of the actual identities of what had once been three men and one woman. The theory was that their own incompetence had led to them being overcome by the things they were supposed to kill. But, of course, with the exorcists already dead, the blame shifted to the management. The unlucky four had simply been undertrained and forced into the field far too early.
Amidst all their lies, this was the only piece of truth Deatras picked out of the whispers going about inside the building. But, Deatras knew that the problem lay beyond training and rested upon the exorcists’ blood, which had become diluted over many years and lost its potency. It was a common issue as the members of each surviving generation of exorcists grew fewer and fewer.
Losing four exorcists at once was a significant loss, and Mr. Xavier’s subsequent demise only aggravated the already impatient Organization.
As Deatras wandered the corridors, going through new problems with clientele in his head, he knew that the branch heads could easily decide that he had failed in his duty. His job this time had been to save their important donor, and instead he had come out of that shadowy building with a mere bodyguard in hand.
But, Deatras also knew that they would not punish him; at least, not in the true sense of the word.
He would undergo careful surveillance and his jobs would be thoroughly reviewed for low risk factors, his clients would always be those who had the most money and the most influence to gain.
But, most importantly, they could not punish him.
Deatras found himself by the bird cage with Lazarus inside, one of the kite’s red eyes aimed on a spot on the opposite wall.
As his father had taught him, exorcists were an exotic and nearly extinct line- and because of that they were both blessed and cursed. They were blessed with the blood to exorcise malicious spirits and when spirits and humans clashed, they were the only ones who could free the possessed. Yet, their bloodline destined those who inherited the taint to be used and controlled by the dangerous and powerful, and anyone who coveted such abilities.
One does not tend to harm unique, exotic birds, but they do tend to beep them restricted and close at hand.
Deatras reached out his hand to stroke the kite’s head. The bird let out a sudden shriek and flapped its wings, buffeting the bars of the cage.
A shadow slid in and out of the patch of light behind Deatras and he sighed.
Slipping his other hand out of his pocket, he muttered:
“My blood gives me my duty. My duty is to my blood.”
He did what he had to do, but his blood demanded more. Even if he could not escape his blood, could not escape his duty, he could use it according to his own will, not someone else’s. He flicked his wrist.
The stray spirit let out a pitiful squeak and shadow fractured into light.
As Deatras back was turned, the red-eyed kite had settled down, but its gaze remained unnaturally focused on the bars that trapped it.
Deatras’ hands curled into fists.
The lock on the bird cage trembled ever so slightly. Deatras inhaled deeply and with the release of breathe the worn lock fell open.
A flutter of wings and only the cage stood as a sentinel, its skeletal metal door still swinging in the half-lit shadows. Deatras did not look back as he swiveled on his heel and left behind the departed bird and the empty shell.