Story Three: Cabal of the Phoenix (1 of 8)

Sebastian and Cortland

A small wave of light danced across Sebastian's face, illuminating his dark features, as the flame of the Zippo lit his cigarette. The sharp glare of the fire died away, replaced by the glowing ember on the tip of his cigarette. A stream of smoke escaped his lips, accompanied by a larger, if not more nebulous, cloud of breath, expelled and visible in the cold night air. Assured by that first hard drag that his cigarette was lit, Sebastian put away the lighter and pulled up the collar around his black leather jacket. He had an undershirt and a thick navy blue turtleneck on underneath, but he was still freezing. It was not the most pleasant night to be standing in the shallow confines of the bus stop—especially since he was not intending to get on a bus anytime soon. The small glass alcove offered little protection from the biting wind and icy cold, yet the cold was not what made him shiver or his heart quicken.

Behind him, sitting just outside the perimeter of the light cast by the streetlight was Sebastian's partner, Cortland. He was a big, bulky man, with crew cut dark brown hair. Underneath the heavy jacket and baggy jeans he wore, thick muscles tensed and clenched in the cold—but all that was unobvious to the casual observer. And that was exactly the point. To anyone who was not looking specifically for anything else, they appeared to be any two men, who for all anyone else knew, might have been strangers, waiting for a late bus.

"That's a filthy habit, Sebastian. You really should quit," Corland said.

"What's da point, mon ami? Ah enjoy it," Sebastian said, his eyes glazed, looking straight ahead, and not at his friend.

"You should know that smoking will kill you, Sebastian"

"Dat's what Life's for, Cortlan'."

Cortland shook his head. “Hmph.”

Sebastian glanced at his pocketwatch, its silver casing gently reflecting the urban incandescence of the streetlight. He was already getting antsy. His other teammates had plenty of time to go before he and Cortland moved, yet as leader of the operation, and of the team, he wanted—he needed—to know what was going on; every moment he did not, his entire being chafed.

What's goin' on, Lee? Sebastian thought, allowing himself into the mindlink his other teammate had set up for the operation.

Not much, Sebastian. They're still moving towards the heart of the construct.

Everyting goin' down smooth? Sebastian thought.

You bet.

Good. I'll get back ta you.

With that, he dropped his conscious mind out of the link, and glanced at the watch again, before going back to the cigarette: taking it out of his mouth for a moment. "Dis should be a cakewalk," he said, exhaling more smoke. "Le's hope it don' go no diff’rent."

"Have faith, Sebastian. Trust in the Lord."

Sebastian slowly turned his head toward Cortland, his head dipped, his dark eyes staring out of the tops of his eyes. "He never done help me befo’."

Cortland, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, shook his head as if amused and glanced at Sebastian with an almost knowing look. "Perhaps you only say that because you dwell upon the tragedies you've suffered in your life instead of celebrating the good things. That’s a bad habit too."

“Yeah, well,” Sebastian muttered, turning his gaze back to the street, examining his cigarette. “Ah’m full of ‘em.”

“That’s nothing to be proud of,” Cortland said.

"Ah don' need no lectures right now, Cort." Sebastian pointed at Cortland, the cigarette between his index and middle fingers, as if to emphasize his point. "Ah tol' you before an’ Ah tell you 'gain: whatevah Ah got in dis life ain't 'cause Providence dumped it in my lap, but 'cause Ah tore it out of fate's grasp myself an' made it mine."

"How do you know that it was not God ‘s hand that guided your actions?" Cortland asked.

"Now, that's jus' rhetorical nonsense. You could say dat 'bout anyting. 'Sides, Ah've forsaken him a long time ago," Sebastian said, slowly enunciating the last sentence.

"The prodigal son -- " Cortland laughed.

"Cortlan' . . . "

" -- will return."

Silence overtook the two men for several minutes, the gravity of the conversation weighing on them as they simultaneously realized that now was not the time to let down their guard with such a discourse. Instead, they waited in rapt silence for the two other men on the inside to do what they had to do.

Even still, Cortland felt that the imperative of his message finally out-weighed the need for extreme vigilance, and so began again vocalizing his thoughts.

"There was a time when I was young and bitter at the world and I too cried for justice, for right to be done. My father told me to take the Bible into my hands and to look to it for solace. Seeing no other feasible alternative besides sulking, I did so. I opened right up to the middle of the book, sure that I would find nothing but the jargon of an archaic prophet. The very first pages I looked upon were that of the Book of Proverbs—and to this day I remember the words I first saw—verses twenty-six and twenty-seven. The former said this: 'Do you want justice? Don't fawn on the judge, but ask the Lord for it!' I couldn't believe my eyes. Here were the very words I looked for. I said out loud, 'Well then, Lord, give me justice.' I read the next verse and saw: 'The good hate the badness of the wicked. The wicked hate the goodness of the good.' It was then that I saw what I must do. Not hate the world or those that caused me trouble, instead I hated the trouble that they spawned. I made myself the destroyer of that evil."

"Ah tought vengeance was the Lord's," Sebastian said.

Cortland let out a hardy, but soft chuckle. "So it is. And I am the Lord's."

"Whatevah tickles your fancy."

Sebastian's raspy, Cajun voice was uncommonly cynical that night, and Cortland, for all his confidence, was not sure if that boded well. In almost any given situation, Sebastian was the most optimistic and confident among them.

Cortland reclined again on the hard seat behind him. When he had leaned forward, his sharp features had been illuminated in the streetlight, now he was again cloaked in shadows. Overhead, the sharp cry of a bird rang through the city night. Had anyone realized that it was a falcon, they might have been suspicious; but no one could see it in the dark night, even if their senses had taken the time to notice it in the first place. Further, few other than supernaturals like themselves would have been able to realize that it was Cortland's familiar: an intelligent creature linked to his essence.

Anything from above, friend? Cortland thought to his familiar, utilizing their telepathic bond.

No. Things quiet. The cry of the bird rang out again. I'm ready. Tell me when.

Good, Cortland thought. I will

Cortland loved the bird as if it were his own blood brother and it may as well have been. The bird had been with him for years; it was nearly as intelligent as he and did him great service. Cortland rarely went anywhere without it and especially never went into battle without it.

Sebastian tossed aside his cigarette, knowing all he had to do was wait, but for him that was the hardest. That had also been what his father had told him about Vietnam—that the hardest thing was the waiting. Sometimes Sebastian felt like he was fighting his own Vietnam, fighting against a powerful and often invisible foe, one who held a great power in the land it was entrenched in—which unfortunately in his case was the entire world—and like his father’s forces, Sebastian was faced with a combination of hubris and incompetence in his own ranks: amongst both his immediate allies and the Traditions. He felt as if for every gain he made, that someone either ruined it for their own selfish cause or that he was simply plugging one hole in the dike, while three others popped open. Sometimes if felt for him as if there was no winning. Yet what he fought for, what he dreamed about, was that all of that was going to change some day. Maybe he could not do it all by himself, but he would be damned if he did not at least get the ball rolling. And while Sebastian was no gloryhound, perhaps the most frustrating thing about it all was that no one seemed to realize all that he had done and won for the Traditions and the world; yet each and every one of his failures seemed to stand out bright and tall through the bitter fog that was their World of Darkness.