The Exorcist's Final Year

Unlikely Partners

The air in the lobby was thick with the scent of ozone and stale parchment. Raka stood his ground, though his knees felt like they might give way. He had seen the way Nikolai moved, the effortless, almost insulting grace of a man who treated combat like a minor annoyance.

"Master Nikolai," Raka said, his voice trembling only slightly. "I didn't come here to cause trouble. I came because you're the only one who can identify the mark on my teacher’s chest."

Nikolai took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, the liquid swirling like ink. He didn't look at Raka; he looked at the ceiling as if counting the cracks in the plaster. "You’re an interesting creature, aren't you? Most people who crawl into my presence have the good sense to be terrified. You, on the other hand, are just loud."

"I don't have time for your condescension," Raka snapped, his frustration overriding his fear. "He’s dying. The curse is geometric, and it’s accelerating. If you're as good as the rumors say, you've seen it before."

Nikolai finally turned his head, his eyes sweeping over Raka with the clinical detachment of a butcher eyeing a slab of meat. He let out a low, mocking hum. "A geometric corruption? My dear boy, that’s not a curse. That’s a signature. It suggests someone went to an awful lot of trouble to turn your master into a ticking time bomb. Why on earth would I want to get my hands dirty for a charity case like that?"

"Because he’s the only one who taught me how to survive in a place like this!" Raka stepped forward, ignoring the way the other exorcists in the room began to murmur. "I have no money, no status, but I have a debt. If you help him, I’ll..."

"You’ll what?" Nikolai cut him off, his voice dripping with amusement. "Scrub my floors? Organize my files? I have a hundred disciples who would kill for the privilege of being my doormat, and they’re all leagues more talented than you. Look at you. Your spiritual pressure is so faint I can barely feel it. You’re not an exorcist; you’re an ember that’s about to go out."

Raka felt the sting of the words, but he forced his hands to unclench. "I might be weak, but I’m here. And I’m going to save him, whether you help me or not."

Nikolai sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "Bravery is just another word for stupidity in this line of work. Run along, kid. You’re boring me."

"Wait..."

Before Raka could argue further, the atmosphere in the lobby shifted. The ambient, steady glow of the lanterns lining the walls sputtered and turned a sickly, translucent green. A high-pitched, discordant shriek tore through the air, vibrating against the marrow of Raka’s teeth.

From the shadows behind the intake desk, a mass of jagged, smoky tentacles erupted, coalescing into a shifting, multi-eyed apparition. It was a Void-Wraith, a low-level scavenger attracted to the stagnant misery of the lobby.

The clerks screamed, scattering like frightened birds. Raka instinctively braced himself, his hands beginning to glow with that pathetic, flickering golden light.

"Oh, marvelous," Nikolai drawled, not moving an inch. "The pests have arrived. Arthur, keep your eyes on the paperwork, would you? This shouldn't take long."

The Wraith lunged, a blade-like shadow whipping toward the clerk.

"Look out!" Raka shouted. He didn't think; he moved. He threw himself to the left, slamming his shoulder into the clerk and dragging him out of the path of the encroaching darkness. The shadow-tendril missed them by a hair, carving a deep, smoking gouge into the mahogany desk.

"You're making a mess," Nikolai complained, though he finally set his glass down on the marble pillar.

"Are you going to do something or just critique the destruction?" Raka yelled, rolling to his feet. He saw the Wraith preparing for a second strike, its multiple eyes fixated on him now.

"I'm observing, boy. I want to see if you have even a shred of tactical instinct," Nikolai said. His voice was calm, conversational, as if he were discussing the weather.

The Wraith shrieked again, lunging at Raka. Raka didn't have the power to blast it back, but he understood the rhythm of its movement. It reacted to energy; it surged toward the highest concentration of light.

Raka realized the trick. He channeled his meager, flickering golden aura into his palms, but instead of throwing it at the beast, he held it, cupping it against his own chest. He sprinted toward the far side of the lobby, drawing the Wraith’s attention.

"Hey! Over here, you shadow-stain!" Raka shouted, weaving between the heavy lobby furniture.

The Wraith swerved, its mass fluid and rapid. It surged toward him, eager to consume the concentrated light.

"Now, Nikolai!" Raka screamed, sliding across the polished stone floor and rolling beneath a heavy bench.

The moment Raka cut off his own aura, the Wraith was left surging into the open space where Raka had stood a second before. It paused, confused, its form momentarily destabilized by the sudden vacuum of energy.

That half-second was all Nikolai needed.

"How tedious," Nikolai whispered.

He didn't move his feet. He simply flicked his wrist. A razor-thin arc of pure, white-silver light sliced through the air. It wasn't loud, and it wasn't flashy; it was the precision of a guillotine. The arc passed directly through the center of the Wraith’s flickering mass.

The creature didn't even have time to shriek. It shattered, dissolving into harmless black soot that drifted to the floor like ash.

Silence reclaimed the lobby. The green light in the lanterns flickered and returned to their steady, warm glow.

Raka climbed out from under the bench, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath hitching. He looked at the spot where the beast had been, then looked at Nikolai.

Nikolai picked up his glass again, wiped a stray speck of ash off his sleeve, and offered Raka a long, appraising look. His expression hadn't changed, but there was a flicker of genuine interest in his silver eyes.

"Not entirely useless, then," Nikolai said, his voice quiet. "You have the spatial awareness of a stray cat, and you’re reckless as a burning fuse, but you know how to draw a target."

Raka walked over, wiping sweat from his forehead. "So? Does that make you interested in the curse?"

Nikolai took another sip of his drink, his gaze lingering on Raka’s hands. "You understand that if I go to your sanctuary and find out you’re wasting my time, I’ll likely add your head to my collection of souvenirs, yes?"

Raka didn't blink. "I’m counting on it. I’d rather die by your hand than watch my master rot away because you were too arrogant to look."

Nikolai let out a short, dry laugh. He set his glass down on the desk with a sharp clack. "Arrogant. I like that. It’s been a while since someone spoke to me like I wasn't a god."

He turned and began to walk toward the heavy mahogany doors, his trench coat swirling behind him. He didn't look back to see if Raka was following.

"Well? Are you coming, or do you intend to stand there admiring the scenery?" Nikolai called out, his tone already returning to its bored, detached cadence. "If the curse is as nasty as you say, we’re going to need light, and I don't mean that pathetic glow-worm aura of yours. Move, boy. Time is the one thing we’re currently short on."

Raka exhaled, a ragged, relieved sound that felt like letting go of a cliff edge. He scrambled to follow, his boots clattering against the marble as he kept pace with the man who might be his master’s only hope, or his own executioner.