The Quiet Judge Arrives

Posted for Bastenji

This occurs after the Father’s Rolls was…decommissioned.

Bastanji, Grace, Ida, and Renfield — The Night the Car Is Claimed

Chelsea Auto District, 12:41 AM

Rain slid down the warehouse windows in silver ribbons, blurring the neon reflection of a crooked “ProDrive Customs” sign. Inside, the shop was quiet, the mechanic long gone, except for two men standing in a pool of low, amber light.

Renfield held a clipboard like it was a holy relic.
His hair was still damp from the storm, and he smelled faintly of gasoline, incense, and Father Callahan’s cigarettes.

“You, uh… sure this is the right one?” he asked, voice reedy but earnest.

Bastanji didn’t answer, because the car answered for him.

The  Mercedes-Maybach sat on the shop floor like a waiting predator: blacked-out windows,
matte graphite paint, lowered stance, aftermarket wheels like obsidian rings. A machine that neither demanded attention nor tolerated disrespect.

Renfield cleared his throat.
“I mean… don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful. Just very… ‘don’t talk to me till I’ve killed someone.’”

Bastanji stepped closer. The shadows stretched toward him, drawn like thread. Grace’s voice echoed across the shop as the door banged open behind them.

Grace Arrives

“Did someone say killed someone? Because I can already tell you this thing eats other cars for breakfast.” Grace stalked across the floor, sneakers squeaking on wet concrete.
She whistled low.

“Daaaamn. This is peak Bastanji aesthetic. Dark, broody, aggressively quiet. If this car wore eyeliner, it’d be illegal.”

Renfield blinked. “Uh… hi, Grace.”

Grace smirked. “Hey Renfield. You smell like you fell into a holy water vat.”

Renfield grimaced. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

Ida Arrives

Ida stepped in last; umbrella closed neatly beside her. She wore a soft cream sweater and dark jeans, simple, functional, but the way she held herself made her look like she belonged in a cathedral.

She approached the car slowly, reverently, brushing fingers with the rosary in her pocket.

“It’s… beautiful,” she whispered. Then, smiling softly: “Like midnight standing still.”

Grace nudged her. “Right? I told Bastanji he bought a vampire Batmobile.” Ida giggled, a soft, shy sound. “I think it’s more elegant than bat-like.” She drifted closer, whispering a quiet Spanish prayer under her breath — half blessing, half instinct. The car almost seemed to hum in response.

The First Touch

Bastanji placed his hand on the roof.

A subtle vibration traveled beneath his palm, the engine off, the machine still choosing to greet him.

It wasn’t supernatural. Not exactly. Just tuned silence. Coiled potential. Something perfectly made for a man who moved between worlds.

Renfield fidgeted.
“So… do you want me to go over the features? Because the dealership guy tried, but he kept getting nervous around you.”

Grace cackled, “Imagine that.”

Renfield flipped back to the clipboard. “So, there’s a manual override for all electronics if Father Callahan gets… you know.” He wiggled his fingers ominously. “Shadowy.”

Ida murmured, “He means the aura, yes.”

“Yeah!” Renfield brightened. “The aura. That thing. The car’s got insulation, grounding, all that ‘don’t fry the engine’ stuff.”

Grace leaned inside the driver’s door like she owned it. “You got a cup holder for knives?”

Bastanji gave her a look. She grinned wider. Renfield continued nervously.
“There are, uh… compartments. Hidden ones. And the windows are all, um—”

“Bullet resistant?” Grace offered.

Renfield nodded. “And then some.”

The Blessing

Ida stepped fully into the driver’s side doorway. “May I?”, she asked.

Bastanji nodded once.

She placed her hand on the steering wheel, closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer — gentle, melodic, almost like a lullaby. Grace leaned in, suddenly quieter. Renfield bowed his head unconsciously. When Ida finished, she opened her eyes. The cabin smelled faintly of coconut and incense. “I prayed for safety,” she said. “For all of us.” Bastanji looked at her, his expression unreadable… but softened at the edges. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

Ignition

Bastanji slid into the driver’s seat. No sound. Not even the rustle of fabric. He fit into the space like he’d been carved for it. Grace and Ida ducked into the backseat, pressing their faces to the cool leather like excited kids. Renfield approached the window. “I, uh… cleaned it out myself. Put in that thing you asked for. In the console.” Bastanji opened the compartment. Inside, sitting neatly on black felt:

A single rosary, black beads, silver crucifix.

Grace looked between them. “Did Ida give you that? Or did you steal it from the church like a weirdo?”

Renfield blushed. “It— it was Father Liam’s idea. Said it might… steady him.”

Ida gently folded her hands. “That was kind of him.”

Bastanji closed the compartment. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It was.”

The First Drive

He pressed the start button.

The  Maybach came alive with a whisper, not a hum, not a growl, just a soft exhale,
like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath. Grace exhaled. “Holy crap. We’re gonna get into so much trouble in this thing.” Ida clasped her hands primly. “I hope not.” Renfield stepped back as the headlights flared briefly. Bastanji eased the car forward, moving like a shadow gliding across glass. The warehouse lights flickered as they passed.

Outside, in the Rain

Renfield watched the Lexus disappear down the street: silent, elegant, predatory. He rubbed his arms.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “That’s definitely a Bastanji car.”

And somewhere deep in Harlem the night shifted its weight to make room
for the Quiet Judge’s new chariot.