Immortal From Hell

by Gene Doucette

  Immortal From Hell

  Gene Doucette

  Immortal From Hell

  By Gene Doucette

  GeneDoucette.me

  Copyright © 2018 Gene Doucette

  All rights reserved

  Cover by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs

  This book may not be reproduced by any means including but not limited to photocopy, digital, auditory, and/or in print.

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Interlude (1)

  Chapter 3

  Interlude (2)

  Chapter 4

  Interlude (3)

  Chapter 5

  Transcript (1)

  Chapter 6

  Interlude (4)

  Chapter 7

  Transcript (2)

  Chapter 8

  Interlude (5)

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About the Author

  Also by Gene Doucette

  Part I

  The Old World, and the New

  1

  I’m sort of fond of Paris.

  This is a hard-won conclusion, because I don’t care all that much for cities a lot of the time. I mean that kind of literally. I loved Constantinople for a couple of centuries but never liked it as Istanbul. I enjoyed London from approximately 1500 to 1600 and again for about fifty years in the 1800’s, but not much since. And I’ve only ever liked parts of New York City.

  Paris in the time of the Sun King was kind of awesome, got a lot less interesting after that— through the French Revolution and all the other revolutions—and then got really interesting again. I’m not sure why it never fell into disfavor with me. Maybe it’s just that I wasn’t there for la Terreur (although I lost a lot of friends, because while I was never royalty, nearly all the people I thought of as interesting were) so I had no opportunity to sour on the city.

  It’s also a great place to go if you need to hold a meeting with someone unsavory. I’m not sure why this is so, but it is. If you happen to be in the European theater, and you need to sit down with a person who specializes in the non-legal kind of merchandising opportunities that have existed since the word ‘legal’ was invented, your best bet is to hold that meeting in a Parisian café.

  It makes no sense, because everybody knows this, and they still do it all the time. Possibly, there are too many cafés for the gendarmes to keep an eye on. Or maybe they’re cool with it as long as nobody commits acts of violence right out in public. Or, they just don’t care, which is probably the most likely explanation.

  Anyway, as you may have guessed, I was sitting in a Parisian café while awaiting the arrival of someone unsavory. At least two other people in the café were doing the same thing, so far as I could tell.

  I was alone at the table, but not alone in the café—Mirella was at a patio table near the door. She would signal when our man arrived, and also come to my rescue if someone went after me with a knife while I was sitting there. This wasn’t a realistic possibility, but it was nice to know if the waiter went from normal-French-rude to rare-French-psychopath, she was ready.

  I like to think I can handle myself just fine, but it’s also pretty awesome having a girlfriend who can kill a man ten different ways in about two seconds. This is especially true if you derive endless fascination out of discovering hidden knives on your date, as I appear to.

  We’d already been there two hours. The man we were meeting—astonishingly, his name was Jacques, which made this entire meeting so cliché it probably sounds like I’m making it up—was evidently based in a different time zone.

  Or, he wasn’t going to show.

  Clandestine meetings need some kind of standardized rule, akin to the one American schools supposedly have, wherein after fifteen minutes, if the teacher doesn’t show, everyone can leave. Something like, if it’s been more than two hours, assume you’re blown or the contact is dead. Maybe we could add some nicer options, like so-and-so just forgot, didn’t mark it in his calendar, or turned up at the wrong café.

  These were the things I was considering as we entered the third hour. The excellent coffee I was getting a steady supply of had already turned my stomach into an improperly functioning organ, and my kidneys were extremely displeased as well. The seats were also of the sort that were designed to be comfortable for only about thirty minutes. Anybody paying a bit of attention had to have figured out by then that Mirella and I were there together, since we were the only two tables that hadn’t turned over all afternoon. The waiter already made a joke about combining the bills, twice.

  Finally, Mirella gave the signal.

  Neither of us had ever met Jacques; she was going on a crude physical description that fit roughly one in every ten people in the city, so I had no idea how she knew, but I trusted that she did. I shifted in the chair to get some blood back to my feet in case I had to move quickly.

  Jacques was a white guy with unmanageably thick black hair that looked windswept on a day without any wind. He had a thin mustache, and coffee teeth, and lots of body hair. He was about five-foot-ten and looked like he could handle himself pretty well in a fight if it ever came to that. (Note that if someone had given me that much detail, I’d have picked him out just fine, but all we were told was five-ten, white guy, black hair.) He was one of those people who just radiated bad body odor that could be discerned even from a safe olfactory remove.

  He signaled the waiter for attention, pulled out the chair opposite mine, and sat.

  “You are Randall,” he said, in French. “I am Jacques.”

  “You are late,” I said, also in French. This was all I’d been speaking since our arrival in Paris, except when talking to Mirella, who wasn’t good with the language. I’m fluent in all the European tongues—including the dead ones—because that’s what happens when you live through the invention of verbal communication.

  Randall was just the name I was currently traveling under. I wasn’t fond of it, and planned to change it at the nearest opportunity. The problem was that when we left home, there were only a couple of aliases available for my use.

  I have to adopt a fake identity to travel anywhere, because my real name—going back to the first one I ever used—looks like a computer glitch, and I was given it before there were borders.

  I usually go by Adam, or I have for the past several years. No reason, I just like the name.

  “I am late, yes,” Jacques said.

  The waiter came over with a cappuccino for Jacques, which was a pretty good indication my new friend was a regular in this establishment. Not because that’s a drink reserved for regulars, but because all he did to get that cappuccino was wave to the waiter.

  “I apologize,” he added. “I have been watching from the building across the way for some time.”

  “Were you waiting to see if I could endure three hours in this chair?”

  It hadn’t been three straight hours. I got up a few times to use the bathroom.

  “No.”

  He sipped his cappuccino and either paused to carefully formulate the next words, or because he was enjoying the drama. I was mostly annoyed that we hadn’t decided to do this in a bar instead, because I would have much preferred spending the afternoon with a bottle of alcohol in my hand.

  “This request,” he said, “it is quite extraordinary. Not for what was asked but for who asked. If I may, who are you, sir? I know only that the name I am to use with you is Randall, and that you travel with the lethal woman on the patio. I also know she is not a wom
an, in the common vernacular.”

  “She’s uncommon in many ways,” I agreed.

  Mirella is a goblin. He could have been referencing her uncommon beauty just as easily, but he wasn’t.

  It wasn’t a big surprise that he recognized her for what she was, even though he was human, and I’m human, and everyone else in the shop was human so far as I could tell. Goblins don’t appear non-human to the untrained eye, but Jacques took orders from elves so he would know what to look for. (Long story, but elves and goblins are basically the same species, it’s just that neither of them want to admit to that.)

  “Is knowing more about me required?” I asked. “Before the fulfillment of our request?”

  “It is not.”

  He took a pack of cigarettes out and waved to the waiter again, who presented an ashtray. There were parts of Europe that hadn’t gotten the memo yet about smoking in public places.

  “You must understand, Randall, that the request I fulfill came to me as if on high, from God himself. And when your God tells you to do a thing, it is reasonable to ask—if only to oneself—why is this so important? Why are you so important?”

  “We just wanted a particular bit of information,” I said. “If someone asked you to sacrifice your firstborn on an altar, it didn’t come from us.”

  He laughed.

  “No, I’ll allow, the request is not so extreme as that. Complicated, yes, but nobody is threatening the lives of my immediate family. That’s an assumed consequence of non-compliance, but this is the case for all such demands-from-on-high, wouldn’t you say? Irrespective of my great interest regarding whom you and the lovely lady outside might be, I do have what you asked for.”

  He pulled a scrap of paper from an inner pocket and held it up as if it were a communion wafer.

  “This simple thing was exceedingly challenging to obtain. I had to burn a number of resources. I say this because I want for you—and for my god, assuming you are in the position of reporting my value upward—to understand what was involved. Corporate espionage can be lucrative, but it is also expensive.”

  “My benefactor will compensate you, I’m told.”

  “This is so. But human intelligence is difficult to put a price tag on.”

  “I’m sure you can arrive at a number. May I see it?”

  He handed the paper across the table.

  “I hope this satisfies your needs, and concludes our business.”

  He moved to stand.

  “Hang on,” I said, before looking at the paper. “I’m going to have some more traditional requirements shortly. Don’t go anywhere.”

  There was an address written on the scrap, belonging to a commercial establishment in Chicago. That was the extent of the information we’d requested, so I shouldn’t have been surprised by it. I was a little disappointed anyway that this was all he had. It was a necessary breadcrumb, but not a very large one.

  My new friend Jacques remained in his seat. Only his eyebrow had gotten up.

  “So?” he asked.

  “I’m going to need some new travel papers, new ID’s, and maybe some cash. I’ll make a call; Dimitri will compensate you richly, I promise.”

  “Very well. But do both of us a favor and never again say his name aloud.”

  The version of Dimitri Romanov that existed in my head and the one that existed in Jacques’ head were quite different, clearly. I thought of Dimitri as a pretty cool guy (well, elf) who also happened to be one of the most important mafia figures in the East. Jacques perhaps emphasized the second part more than the first.

  “Right, sorry. He’s a friend. I take it you never met him?”

  Jacques looked uncomfortable about this line of questioning, which was probably my fault because I was kind of baiting him for kicks. I don’t know why I do these things.

  “Randall,” he said flatly. “This is the name you’re using.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Your man can create one for me, I’m not that particular.”

  “There was a rumor of a man who went by a different name, but who fit… well, not your description, as one was never paired with the rumor of his existence. But it fit the kind of access you appear to have, and the company you keep. Men do not simply appear out of the ether into our world with your connections. I’m wondering now if you are this man.”

  “Where did you happen to hear these rumors?”

  “Oh, in places. On the lips of certain people. You know how it goes.”

  I sort of did and sort of didn’t. Jacques was (obviously) a member of the European criminal underworld. If you go back far enough, you’ll find at least five or six people who could have been identified with that same underworld and who also knew me either as Adam, or under another name. The thing was, those five or six people were surely no longer among the living. So what we were talking about now was a legend passed down among Jacques’ people. Given the last time I lived in Europe was well over a century ago, it had to be one heck of an important legend.

  There was a more obvious explanation that wouldn’t occur to me until later.

  “I’m sure it’s a coincidence,” I said. “I’m not from around here.”

  “American?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  I actually lived on an island until recently, and it was nowhere near the New World. The island was nice, until it wasn’t. Identifying myself as a native of that island would do no good, since it was a secret island, but it was no more accurate to say I was a native of America. This was likewise true of everywhere else in the world other than equatorial Africa. That, I’m pretty sure, was where I was born.

  “If you are an American, you surely don’t need my help traveling to Chicago,” Jacques said. He was playing, because we both knew he wasn’t getting up from the table without promising to assist us. Just the fact that he couldn’t say Dimitri’s name aloud made that point pretty well.

  “I’m not anything, not really,” I said. “And the last version of me that could call himself a U.S. citizen died a few years ago. There are connections to my old life I can’t restore without putting people at risk. And you don’t need to know any of this to get what I need.”

  “You are correct. Here.”

  He took out a pen and jotted something down on a napkin, and then slid it over.

  “Be at this address after eight tonight, and we will accommodate you.”

  I looked it over. “And the telephone number?”

  “That’s a message center. A woman named Sherri will answer. If you require anything else that you have not yet expressed to me, tell her and we will get it to you. Where are you staying?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Yes, all right. It’s only that I may need to get a message to you.”

  “It would be better for everyone if you didn’t need to do any such thing,” I said. “If we see something we don’t like… I’m sure we’ll find a way to notify you of our dissatisfaction.”

  He stared at me for several seconds.

  “Yes, I understand,” he said. “Tonight, then.”

  “What did you think of him?” Mirella asked, later.

  We waited another half an hour before leaving the café, to put some distance between us and Jacques. This was either so anyone following Jacques wouldn’t also follow us, or to give whoever he paid to follow us around plenty of time to get ready. Either worked.

  “He’ll get the job done.”

  We were walking along Boulevard Saint-Germain. I’d set us up in a hotel not far from the piano-maker’s shop where the guillotine was invented. I didn’t do this out of any particular sense of nostalgia—probably—so much as that I happened to be pretty familiar with that part of town. Although, Marie Antoinette was a friend, so maybe there was more to it. Anyway, we were also right next to from a McDonald’s. You can make of that what you want.

  “He had a man across the street,” she said.

  “I assumed as much. Is he tailing us?”

  “No. I ima
gine he recognized this would be a discourtesy. I’m glad; I didn’t want to have to kill anyone in Paris. I like this city, and we only just arrived. What about the information?”

  “I have no way of verifying it. If I did, I wouldn’t have needed him to get it for me in the first place.”

  “But your sense is that it’s correct.”

  “The laundry tag on the blouse was in English, and the sizing was U.S. standard, so Chicago fits. Plus, it was one of the only places in the US where I’d previously spotted her. If Jacques was lying, he concocted a pretty convincing lie.”

  “Well,” she said, taking my hand, “I will continue to distrust him, if that’s all right.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “Good. Now take me someplace passably romantic.”

  Paris was just the second or third step on a journey of unknown length, and that was sort of exciting—who doesn’t enjoy a quest?—or would be if the stakes weren’t pretty high.

  Here was problem number one: the only human being in the world older than I am had acquired some kind of disease.

  A whole lot of impossible things are packed into that sentence, but let’s start with older than I am. I’m roughly sixty-thousand, give or take a few thousand. (It can only ever be an estimate.) She claims to be a third older, which puts her at eighty-thousand. And look, that’s kind of insane and hard to believe, but it helps to know that unlike me, she’s spent part of her existence in a side dimension where time moves differently.

  Yeah, I know, I’m not happy with side dimension either, but I think we can agree it’s better than ‘the veil’, which is what she calls it. (Possibly worse: ‘faery kingdom’, which is what the man who first told me about it called it.)