CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
After their night at the Jenny Wren, they had expanded their investigation.
The complaint against Bright Renewal Academy was tabled – officially – for the foreseeable future, but that didn’t stopped them from pursuing the lead discreetly.
Under the guise of their murder case, they began questioning the residents of Otherside whose children had supposedly run away, though in their official reports they were careful not to mention Bright Renewal by name, referring to it obliquely only as “the school,” which could just as easily have meant Clementine or the public school.
The subterfuge kept Dewey off their backs for the most part, though he did grumble about them wasting time on useless hunches, saying that the link between Sister Catarine and the missing children – who were most likely runaways – was tenuous at best. But Hero had argued that every avenue needed to be explored, every thread tugged to see what might unravel.
So far, they had learned depressingly little.
Some of the kids turned out to be actual runaways, now returned home with little good to say about Bright Renewal but nothing truly nefarious to report outside of unusual methods of discipline and instruction.
Most seemed to have only vague memories of the time they’d spent behind those walls.
None of the children they’d spoken to – the ones who’d run away and returned home eventually, and those who’d graduated from the Academy – were of demonic heritage either.
Hero had finally had a chance to question Kellan too.
Despite her initial suspicion of the priest, she had to admit that Keen was right: he wasn’t their man.
She’d left him sobbing in his lonely cell more than once, to no avail – his story didn’t change.
She couldn’t break him, even with the threat of Hell.
Perhaps he wasn’t the white knight Sister Catarine might have believed he was, but he wasn’t a brutal killer who’d handed his girlfriend over to a demon-summoning cabal either.
He was just a grieving man, racked with guilt for failing to save his lover.
Handling all the new interviews as well as researching the money side of Bright Renewal Academy was more than she and Keen could manage alone, so they’d asked for help from the rank-and-file PKs.
Dewey had agreed immediately, offering up a half dozen or so underlings eager to advance in rank.
The murder of Sister Catarine was still the top priority of the entire squad, thankfully.
Keen had been right – the enchantment was a strong one, but it had limits.
Dewey was much more amenable to their needs when they kept the focus on finding the murderer.
Even so, after several days of endless questioning, they’d arrived at the consensus that Bright Renewal Academy was a venerated institution whose sole mission was saving wayward children, but also a dark stain on Havenside which preyed on desperate parents and their troubled children for financial gain – depending on who you asked, of course.
But everyone agreed it had been up there on its high hill for as long as they could remember.
What became clear after talking to dozens of individuals was that all knowledge of Bright Renewal was surface-level only, hearsay and gossip.
Even the parents with children enrolled there, paying exorbitant tuition fees in the hopes of getting their kids on the right path, had no clue about the actual day-to-day operations of the Academy.
They received letters from their children, of course, but these were consistently vague missives extolling the virtues of their new school or filled with complaints about scratchy uniforms and lack of freedom – hardly damning.
All this information led Hero to the certainty that Bright Renewal Academy sat hunched at the center of their investigation like a fat spider in its web.
Its influence touched everything in Havenside.
Even the glowing compliments carried an undercurrent of fear.
The more effusive the praise, the more obvious the anxiety.
The wealthiest of its donors refused to meet with the PKs outright, further reinforcing Hero’s increasing suspicions.
Many were profiting off of Bright Renewal, including the esteemed Madam Primm and half the Grantham House set.
They had no desire to see it exposed as a fraud or, worse, as a looming threat.
Hero didn’t lay out her concerns at the squad house, especially about wealthy benefactors. Grumblings from the town elite would end their investigation faster than anything.
“We need to bring in the headmistress,” she murmured as she surveyed the array of pictures and notes and red string she and Keen had put together in her apartment.
A crackling blaze sat in the hearth, warming the small living room – perhaps a bit too much, as Keen had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
But Hero liked the warmth, basking in it like a satisfied lizard.
“She is of the Shield Order. She would know demon blood when she saw it, no matter how buried or well hidden.”
“To the station?” Keen said, eyebrows lifting.
“Of course to the station. We’ve already interviewed her twice, but always on school grounds, on her turf. She controlled every conversation, steered and directed us like a fucking pro.”
Memories of her time at the Abbey stuck in her mind, stirred up by her encounter with the revered mother.
Having to sit in seats made for children, the miserable woman looking down at them from behind her raised desk like a queen.
Being disciplined by the abbess was a regular occurrence for Hero, who couldn’t seem to avoid committing infractions – failing to keep her eyes covered properly, to recite the daily devotions.
Such a stubborn, obstinate, devious child.
“I don’t think the mother knows anything,” Keen said distractedly, standing in front of the wall with their case splattered across it.
Hero was sprawled on the rug, her bare feet propped on a velvet-wrapped settee.
Keen threw her naked appendages looks now and again, perhaps disturbed by the nails which so resembled stubby claws.
She would wiggle them enticingly when she noticed his glances. Some men fancied her toes.
“I think she lies like she breathes,” Hero muttered, but she didn’t press the point. This was one area where they vehemently disagreed. Her partner really had to get over his worship of nuns. They were people, just like the rest of them.
Well, except her.
Suddenly, Keen straightened. “I knew it! Look. The chapel at Clementine, the one connected to the convent. You can draw a straight line from the apse to Bright Renewal. I mean, straight as an arrow.”
She didn’t appreciate the change in subject but went to take a look for herself, rolling catlike to her feet and sauntering over.
The detailed schematics they’d requested from city hall showed a network of streets and the underlying sewer system, as well as several catacombs located beneath area churches.
A place like Havenside had a dozen or so churches dedicated to the Goddess or to the Branch.
They were a saintly lot, this den of murderers.
It wasn’t the proximity or location of the chapel to Bright Renewal that suddenly caught her eye – although Keen was right: the two points aligned as if they had been planned that way.
“The catacombs,” she murmured, tapping a finger on the rendering.
The lines demarcating the underground crypts were faint and faded away at the edges.
From what she knew about catacombs, most were built atop each other, graves on top of graves, stretching out from beneath the home church in meandering corridors.
Each generation added more and more tunnels and crypts as needed for their dead.
This made it very difficult to map them accurately, and very few city officials cared to spend the time doing it.
These days, following a shift to green-space cemeteries, the catacombs were mainly defunct. Too grim, most had decided.
Personally, Hero liked them: silent and dismal, pitch black without a lantern, cramped and labyrinthine – the perfect hiding place for a half demon.
She’d made her home in plenty of them over the years, so she knew how far they tended to stretch beyond the church above them, and how easy it was to traverse them in complete concealment.
“Right. The catacombs.” Keen sounded exceedingly satisfied, as if that was what he’d wanted her to see all along.
“Look closely, Inspector. And keep in mind, the map only shows a fraction of the corridors. The spot where Bright Renewal currently resides once held a church. See the outline on the city map? It’s long gone, of course – it’s just a pile of bricks now – but beneath it, like all area churches, are its catacombs.
Ancient, vast, perhaps extending into newer crypts. ”
“What if they’ve been excavated by now?”
He scoffed. “A church may fall to disrepair, but no one would dare desecrate graves. They would have been left intact, leading… well, who knows where?”
She gave him a raised eyebrow, recalling how horrified he’d been when she’d suggested using more creative means to enter the school. “Are you suggesting we try and get into Bright Renewal Academy through Clementine Prep’s catacombs, DH Keen? Because that would be decidedly illegal.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t think you’d have a problem with that,” he admitted with obvious embarrassment, “considering–”
“Considering I burned down an entire convent?” His silence made her grin. “I’m just messing with you, Keen. I already told you we had to get creative. Sometimes it’s necessary to work outside the law to bring criminals to justice. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He went for his gin, left warming above the hearth, and turned to her, lifting the glass in a salute. “I am a demonhunter. It’s sometimes necessary to work outside the law.”
“Yes, I’m well aware,” she replied flatly.
He at least looked somewhat abashed by her comment, but he didn’t try and stammer out an apology.
She wouldn’t have believed him anyway. Turning back to the board, she studied it a moment longer.
“We might be able to go under their shield,” she mused, “but we wouldn’t be able to use any evidence we find. ”
“If there is a demon at work, Inspector, we won’t need evidence. We’ll just deal with it ourselves, yes?”
She nodded, her mood lifting as Keen tossed back the rest of his gin, and settled her empty glass on the coffee table.
They had gotten into the habit of sharing an evening drink while they perused their evidence.
She’d had to buy gin especially for him as she preferred whiskey or bourbon.
The alcohol softened his edges a bit, which was a decided benefit, but their evening ritual, as nascent as it was, accomplished much more.
As far as they were aware, they were the only two people in the entire town not under some sort of demonic influence, and it had helped to form a tenuous bond between them – a good thing for a couple of detectives trying to solve a life-and-death case.
If there came a time when they were forced into danger together, they would be able to put their lives in each other’s hands without hesitation.
Of course, encountering that kind of situation grew more likely the further they proceeded.
Hero dropped to the sofa and reached for her rolled-up stockings on the end table. It was time to get to work.