Chapter Text
The world, or something like it, spins around her.
Fire rains down in blistering, spinning sparks, sending her sodden clothes up in clouds of steam.
It is dark. It is hazy. Her head, at once heavy and fragile, pounds with a pain so sharp it makes her sick, threatens to recall a breakfast she doesn’t remember eating.
She is running.
She cannot control her body.
She is running.
Why is she running?
She must, she must, she mustn't be left behind, she mustn't be caught, she—
No, that’s not right. She isn’t running from something, she—
—she’s running to something.
A shout ahead.
Someone. She’s running to someone.
She bursts through the haze into a clearing, though to call it a ‘clearing’ would be generous—it, too, is thick with shifting, undulating shadow and mist. It is so thick as to have body, moving as it is in lightning-fast rings. And there, at the center of it all, flashes of light. Movement.
A snarl.
A face.
A woman.
There is a woman whirling like a furious storm, slashing with a blade and with erratic pulses of warm, yellow light that light her from the inside out. They appear to be doing equal damage, or what passes for it, as the creature made of shadow—for it is a creature, there can be no doubt about it—ripples and shudders backwards.
A look of triumph flits across the woman’s face as she earns herself more room to swing her sword. But it is fleeting, for there is no one at her back, and the shadows there gather, bulge, rise. They begin to swallow her without her realizing. There is no one to warn her, except…
She is shouting she is shouting she is shouting
Nothing. It is too late, or she doesn’t hear her.
The mists descend. They tear like teeth.
And she—
Wakes.
“Fuck,” Beatrice breathes.
For a moment, there is a twisting sort of disorientation. Her room is as dark as the forest she ran in, save for the light coming from her alarm clock. 4:27 a.m. She could be in that forest but she is not on fire and there are no alarm clocks in the forest. She is out of breath still, but nightmares do that, don’t they? They trick you.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t.
She is awake and real, and she did not leave a woman to die.
If only she could tell her body that.
“Right,” Beatrice says to herself, and swings her legs over the side of her mattress. “Gym it is.”
—
It is habit and then necessity that sees Beatrice awake by dawn most days. Today, it has the benefit of allowing her to greet the arrival of those most recently out on mission. Or it would, if she could find the one face she’s looking for. Sisters stream by her, returning her nods with tired smiles, and then the hallway is mostly empty.
Beatrice twists. “Has anyone seen Mary?”
A figure leans out of a nearby doorway. Yasmine. “A mission, Sister.”
“Another one?” Beatrice frowns. “She just got back.”
“I’m sure Mother Superion wouldn’t send her out again if she wasn’t needed,” the other nun offers, stepping out all the way into the hallway. She and Beatrice share a commiserating look. There was always a need, these days. And if there wasn’t, Mary would find one. Beatrice can’t say she’s coping much better. For the others, for newcomers like Sister Yasmine, though, she tries.
Someone has to. Some days it feels like she is the only one left.
“Never mind that,” Beatrice says after a moment, forcibly reorienting her focus to the present. “I’ve been meaning to catch you, too. How have you been holding up? I’m sure this isn’t what you expected when you originally came to us.”
“It’s necessary work,” Yasmine says. No point in demurring, though she ends up shrugging. A youthful gesture, casual and inviting cheer. It’s welcome, as it usually is, in these echoing stone halls. “Especially now, with the rumors of possessions and cults going around. Did you hear? Eldest Children, or something equally creepy. I don’t know. They’ve been popping up more.”
“Rumors?” Beatrice turns in place a little in invitation, and Yasmine catches on, beginning to walk past Beatrice so that they might continue together down the hall. “We haven’t confirmed this?”
“Possession is something to confirm?” Yasmine clarifies incredulously, looking at Beatrice with wide eyes.
“You believe in God,” Beatrice points out, “and you believe in demons. Surely possession can’t be beyond belief?”
“No, right, right,” Yasmine says. She sighs. “That’s—that’s what you’re all doing, isn’t it? When you go out on missions?”
Beatrice nods, then says, “I had assumed you knew. I apologize.”
Yasmine shakes her own head in response. “That one’s on me. When I heard, ‘secret order of butt-kicking nuns,’ I was picturing more of the human variety butt.”
“There’s occasional overlap,” Beatrice replies. “Sometimes the possessed could use a little…extra assistance…exiting their hosts.”
“You punch them until the demons leave?” Yasmine asks. She laughs, then says, sobering, “Where do they go? What happens if they want to possess one of us?”
“Normally,” Beatrice says, then pauses. Clearing her throat, Beatrice tries again: “Normally, the Warrior Nun would dispatch any lingering wraiths. They’re able to see them, you know.”
“Oh, wow,” Yasmine says. “Okay. What if you were possessed right now and I didn’t even know?”
Beatrice smiles over at her. “You could always punch me and find out.”
“No, thanks,” Yasmine says, smiling back. “I’m a scholar, not a fighter. I couldn’t land one on you if I tried.” She sighs suddenly. “I’m just sorry I can’t be of more help on that front. It’s really good that they have you.”
“We have all had to step up in unexpected ways,” Beatrice replies, “yourself included.”
“I don’t feel like I’m doing enough,” says Yasmine, mouth twisting.
Beatrice pauses in place, then considers her response as Yasmine stops and turns towards her. “You are certainly not alone in that regard.”
“Thank you for saying so, Sister Beatrice.”
Beatrice inclines her head. “I know we haven’t had time to properly speak, but if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. We—” Suddenly, Yasmine’s head jerks, eyes going wide again.
“Is that Cardinal Duretti?” Yasmine asks, interrupting Beatrice. Unbothered by the interruption, but surprised by the observation, Beatrice glances around to see, in fact, the man himself some distance away, by the wrought iron gates. “I interviewed him once,” Yasmine says absently. He appears to be on his way off the grounds, and has been escorted by Father Vincent. The two men speak in hushed but heated tones, stone-faced, before the Cardinal departs. The nuns watch in silence as Father Vincent sees off the train of glossy black SUVs.
Beatrice glances at Yasmine. “Did you learn what you needed?”
“At the interview? Or right now?”
Beatrice says, “Whichever.”
“Oh,” Yasmine replies. “Yes. Well, in a roundabout way, I learned that the OCS existed, and now I’m here.”
“And now?”
Yasmine smiles, the curve of her mouth a pleased little thing. “He said, ‘Your numbers are low. It doesn’t have to stay that way.’”
Beatrice nods. “Well done.”
A figure in black eases into their peripherals. Yasmine jumps bodily. “Perhaps your lip reading can be practiced on a less…powerful individual,” Mother Superion suggests blandly.
“Mother,” Beatrice greets. A diamond couldn’t crack her placid expression.
“Sister Beatrice. Sister Yasmine.” Mother Superion rests both of her hands atop the curved handle of her cane. “Breakfast grows cold.”
“Yes, Mother,” Yasmine says, inclining her head. She fidgets in place, glancing at Beatrice and then to Mother Superion. She noticeably does not take the suggestion and leave.
“Speak, then,” Mother Superion says, though not unkindly, her gaze fastened to the slowly approaching figure of Father Vincent. “Quickly.”
“We’ve not had any new girls in months,” Yasmine says, speaking quickly as requested. She has also lowered her voice. “Is that—that’s not normal, is it?”
“Officially, the OCS does not do any of our own recruiting,” Mother Superion replies. Her eyes slide over to Yasmine. “We compile files, we investigate, we invite, but the Church approves.”
“Or disapproves,” Yasmine says softly.
Mother Superion says nothing.
Sister Yasmine Amunet of the longstanding secret sect of Egyptian Coptic Nuns, intrepid journalist and PhD candidate, did not get to where she is, standing in the breezeway of another secret sect of warrior nuns, by smothering her curiosity. So she asks, “Has the Church been disapproving of many recruits, Mother?”
Mother Superion says nothing more on the matter. At least, not to them. Instead: “A surprise visit, Father?”
Meanwhile, Yasmine is gazing at Mother Superion with something like dawning horror. “Mother, did I—they’re not punishing us because of what I said to the Cardinal, are they?”
Mother Superion’s eyes move back to Yasmine, then away. “Ah. The interview. No, the Cardinal has other things on his mind, I assure you.”
“The Cardinal was here on urgent business, else I would have called for you,” Father Vincent says, stepping up to them. “I know you two have grown close.” He says it mildly, as is his way, but the two sisters watch as Mother Superion’s eyes narrow slightly.
“He understands the need for the Order,” Mother Superion replies. It is the same flat cadence as her usual speech, except in how it feels like a rug about to be pulled from under their feet. A warning, in place of a threat. “Now, more than ever. We understand each other in that regard.”
“As you say, as you say.” His gaze flickers between the three of them. “A conversation best reserved for another day.”
Taking the hint, Beatrice draws Yasmine away, and they continue towards the dining hall. After a minute of silence, Yasmine says, “That was weird. That was weird, right?”
“It was certainly something,” Beatrice replies noncommittally, occupied as she is with her own thoughts.
“Are Mom and Dad fighting?”
Unexpectedly, Beatrice smiles at this. She pulls herself together a second later but Yasmine grins, pleased at having pulled a reaction out of her. “Tensions are high. We’re in unprecedented times.”
“Possessions and cults and conspiracies, oh my,” Yasmine says.
“And all before noon,” Beatrice adds, bone-dry.
Shaking her head, Yasmine says, “Strange things are afoot.”
On this, Beatrice can agree.
—
Life at Cat’s Cradle is an exercise in adaptability. There is routine, of course—mealtimes and training being the two activities that occur at regular times every day—but the rest of the days are largely her own. So Beatrice sets her own routines and tries to stick to them. But sometimes she gets pulled for missions, or for planning sessions.
Today, Mother Superion has called upon her and a couple other sisters who have experience in stealth runs to help design mission parameters for their current cohort of trainees. It will test their ability to slip through crowds and shadow alike, to sneak and to subterfuge. They will be asked to locate and liberate an item on each team member’s person, without any of them realizing. It is perhaps one of her more favorite duties, were she inclined to name them, and so when the missive comes across her desk she doesn't mind slipping from the library and into Mother Superion’s office.
Beatrice is the last to arrive, the others gathered near Mother Superion’s desk. She gets a round of nods and smiles and steps forward to greet them.
“The door, Beatrice,” Mother Superion prompts.
Beatrice’s steps hesitate on flagstone, the slightest of pauses, before she smoothly pivots. The door is, in fact, open. Far more than a crack, where she might excuse missing the door not latching properly.
(But she’s certain she heard the latch.)
The door is open enough for a body to slip through.
Unease slips around her throat. Slowly, slowly it tightens. Surely she had just forgotten…?
In short order, she tucks those thoughts away and closes the door. There can be no room for that here. “My apologies,” Beatrice says, turning back towards Mother. She clasps her hands. “Where were we?”
There is a glass case in Mother Superion’s office. It holds a small collection of historical artifacts pertinent to the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Some old, some new, all remnants of women long dead. Beatrice would know without looking where they are all placed—she helped arrange them.
She would know that the sword should not be glowing. Certainly not a dull blue, brightening then fading a moment after she passes it. The Cruciform Sword reacts to divinium, wraiths and one ancient holy artifact.
And the Halo went missing the day Shannon died.