Soul Meaning (Seventeen)

by AD Starrling

  Another minute elapsed. Reid’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he grunted.

  I stared at him. ‘This will get ugly,’ I said quietly.

  Reid shrugged. ‘I’m already involved.’ He glanced at me and scowled again. ‘I’m not going to change my mind about this, so don’t give me that look. And don’t say another word.’

  ‘I wasn’t intending to.’ Once Hasley decided something, it would take nothing less than an act of God to steer him from his intended path of action. ‘What about Price?’

  ‘Price can wait,’ Reid retorted dismissively.

  I looked down at the cat. The golden eyes were still fixed on my face: it seemed to be awaiting my decision as intently as Reid. ‘Okay,’ I said finally. ‘But we need more weapons.’ I paused and glanced at the dashboard. ‘And a new set of wheels.’

  Reid’s frown deepened. ‘What’s wrong with the Chevy?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I muttered with a shake of my head, ‘right now all the Hunters on the east coast know about the Chevy.’

  Reid hesitated. ‘How many of them are there?’

  ‘Hundreds.’

  Reid appeared to mull over something. ‘You have a car?’ he said with a healthy dose of skepticism.

  I leaned against the head rest and closed my eyes. ‘Yes. Several, actually.’

  Reid’s apartment was a short drive from our office and about half an hour from the suburb where his ex-wife and children lived. Though small, the condo had an austere black and white masculine decor that complemented his character and his former lifestyle as a Marine.

  I kept a lookout while he packed some bare essentials in a large rucksack. The cat followed Reid around the apartment, rumbling softly as he rubbed his head against his ankles. ‘He likes you,’ I said with a faint grin.

  Reid grunted something unsavoury and pulled a crate out from under his bed. He unlocked the heavy-duty military padlocks and flipped the lid open. The cat sauntered across the floor to investigate.

  I stared at the contents of the crate. ‘Leave those,’ I said firmly.

  ‘I thought you said we needed weapons.’ His hand hovered over the small arsenal inside. Reid had served with the 3rd Battalion 6th Marines at Camp Lejeune, in North Carolina. He had participated in both Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm in the Persian Gulf, as well as Operation Just Cause in Panama. He knew his weapons well.

  I hesitated. ‘Do you hold a license for the guns?’ I said. He nodded. ‘Then definitely leave them. And take your passport.’ Reid frowned. ‘Just in case,’ I added with a shrug.

  Fifteen minutes later, we strolled inside the lobby of my building. No one had followed us. We took the lift to the tenth floor. The hallway outside the apartment was deserted and the rooms were as I had left them that morning. I grabbed a couple of duffel bags from a closet and packed some clothes in one of them.

  Reid was sitting on the couch when I walked into the living room: the cat was next to him. They both watched silently while I headed for the Monet and took the painting down. Moments later, the metal panel holding my collection of weapons descended from the recess in the ceiling. Reid finally rose to his feet and joined me.

  ‘How long have you had these?’ he said in a neutral voice. His fingers traced the contours of a Beretta PX4 Storm pistol.

  I paused in the act of loading firearms and magazines into the second bag. ‘A few years,’ I replied noncommittally. I indicated the guns. ‘Take what you can carry.’

  The last item to go in the bag was the daisho, each blade secured in a leather scabbard. Finally, I reached behind the panel and pulled out a large, flat, rectangular grey package.

  Reid looked on wordlessly while I ripped open the cellophane wrap and emptied several passports and wads of different currencies onto the coffee table. I closed the metal panel, took a piece of paper from a notepad on the coffee table and wrote down a series of numbers.

  ‘These are the codes for my accounts. Memorise them.’ I passed the paper across to him. ‘The one in the Cayman Islands holds bonds for a dozen financial institutions around the world. The bank in Zurich has a deposit box under my name.’ I paused. ‘There’s enough there to buy you and your family security for life.’ I packed the money and the passports inside the one of the bags, my eyes not quite meeting his. ‘I’ve already given Bergman and Sacks your details.’

  ‘The solicitors?’ said Reid. I nodded. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ He stared at the numbers.

  My lips parted in a wry smile. ‘Because I have a feeling I’m going to die.’

  Reid frowned and struck a match. The flame caught the edge of the paper. He dropped the burning ashes in the fireplace. ‘You never really needed the job, did you?’ he said after a while.

  I gazed at him steadily. ‘Life as an immortal would be tedious without one.’

  He still looked thoughtful when I led him to the private elevator. His eyes widened slightly when I turned on the lights in the basement moments later. I walked across to a black Toyota Land Cruiser with white racing stripes and smoked windows, and started to load our bags onto the back seat.

  Reid stopped in front of a blue 2008 Dodge Viper ACR SRT10. His eyes roamed the underground garage. ‘This is quite a collection,’ he said dully. In addition to the Hayabusa, the Land Cruiser and the Dodge Viper, the basement housed a GMC Yukon Denali, a Porsche Carrera GT, a Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren, a Dodge Charger SRT-8, a Yamaha YZF-R1 and a Ducati Supermono. ‘Why have I never seen you drive any of these before?’ he added with a frown when he climbed into the passenger seat of the 4x4.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ I replied enigmatically. I pressed the remote control button on the key ring. Lead-lined steel doors glided open at the head of a ramp at the rear of the garage. I put the cruiser into gear and drove out into a back alley.

  Reid glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’re not taking the cat with us, are we?’

  The silver tabby had assumed a sphinx-like pose on top of the ammunition bag. The golden gaze switched to Reid. The cat yawned.

  ‘We’re dropping him off at the landlady,’ I said as I negotiated the narrow lanes behind the block. ‘I called her when we were at your place.’

  Mrs Trelawney lived in a crowded 1960s condominium within shouting distance of our office block. She shared her three-bed fourth floor apartment with her daughter Izzie, Izzie’s husband Pepe, their three children, Theo, Max and little Isabelle, two dogs, three cats, five goldfish and a hamster. Mr Trelawney had passed away twelve years previously from lung cancer.

  Little Isabelle opened the door at the sound of the bell. She stared at the silver tabby, shrieked excitedly and ran back inside the apartment. Cornelius glanced at me warily.

  A larger figure appeared in the corridor. ‘There, there, you’re acting like you’ve never seen a cat before, girl,’ grumbled Mrs Trelawney. She was wiping her hands on a towel; the warm smell of cinnamon and caramel drifted from the kitchen behind her. ‘Oh.’ She paused and inspected the silver tabby closely. ‘Why, he’s a handsome specimen, isn’t he?’

  Cornelius meowed approvingly.

  I handed her the cat and placed a brown envelope on the table in the hallway. ‘This is for taking care of him.’

  Mrs Trelawney hefted the bemused feline in one arm and opened the package. Her eyes widened. ‘This is a lotta money.’ She paused and stared at us. ‘In fact, I’d wager there’s enough in here to cover the rent for the office for five months.’ I felt Reid’s hot stare on the back of my head. Our landlady was frowning. ‘You boys aren’t in some kinda trouble now, are you?’

  ‘Not anymore than usual,’ I said drily.

  Mrs Trelawney gazed at us steadily. ‘Wait here,’ she said and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned seconds later with a large cake tin. ‘I baked this today,’ she said, shoving the container in Reid’s unresisting arms. ‘Now get outta here. And take care of yo’selves.’

  Reid was strangely silent on the way back to the SUV.

/>   ‘You would have refused if I’d suggested paying the rent,’ I said carefully. I manoeuvred the Cruiser into the nighttime traffic and glanced at him.

  ‘That’s not what I’m thinking about,’ said Reid. He paused and frowned. ‘And yes, you’re right, I would have refused,’ he added.

  I looked at the rear view mirror. ‘What is it then?’

  Reid stared down at the tin box. ‘This is a lotta cake,’ he stated dully.

  I smiled, glanced at the side mirrors and stiffened.

  ‘What?’ said Reid.

  ‘Got your seatbelt on?’ I said tensely.

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘We’re being tailed. Hang on.’

  Chapter Five

  The clock on the central console was reading midnight when we reached the outskirts of New York City.

  It had taken a quarter of an hour to lose the two SUVs tracking us. Somewhere off Interstate 90, Reid helped me remove the racing stripes from the Land Cruiser and change the number plates.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the Henry Hudson Parkway was packed. I drove past the George Washington Bridge, exited onto Riverside Drive and joined 12th Avenue. I crossed Broadway and Park Avenue, and finally turned right onto Lexington.

  Solange was a small and exclusive jazz club situated in a leafy street off 3rd Avenue. With a maximum capacity of a hundred heads, it was well off the beaten track of the city’s busy night life. Entry was strictly by invitation only. The owners liked it that way.

  The doorman eyed us coolly when we walked up to him. He glanced at my business card, nodded briefly and stepped to the side. We moved past him and headed down a dimly-lit spiral staircase. The walls were lined with red silk padding and adorned with old black and white photos that depicted the club’s long history: Louis Armstrong, John Coltrane, Miles Davis and Charlie “Bird” Parker featured in many of the pictures. At the bottom of the steps, mahogany double doors opened out onto a wide, sunken floor.

  The room was drowned in deep reds, purples and rich earth tones. The furniture was Brazilian cherry wood, upholstered in plush velvet and laden with satin cushions. Discreet booths overhung with black rococo curtains afforded privacy to those that needed it, although the muted lighting provided enough of that as it was.

  A woman in a shimmering red cocktail dress stood on a raised circular stage to the far left. She was crooning a French song softly in a deep, sultry voice, her eyes closed and her glossy crimson lips glistening in the mellow spotlight. Behind her, cymbals vibrated gently, a piano tinkled and a saxophone hummed.

  I crossed the floor and headed for the bar on the other side of the room. Reid followed in my footsteps. I paused by a tall, black leather and cherry wood stool. ‘Hello, Pierre,’ I said quietly to the man behind the counter. He finished polishing a wine glass and turned around slowly.

  Pierre Vauquois had always reminded me of a very solemn Great Dane. Although the years had added padding to his body and greyness to his hair that gave him a distinguished look worthy of Capitol Hill, his sad face remained as unreadable as ever. He glanced at Reid, untied the apron from around his waist, and handed it to a waiter hovering close by. ‘We’re not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Am I clear?’ he said firmly to the young man. The latter nodded nervously.

  Vauquois set a bottle of 1980 Krug Clos du Mesnil on ice and loaded the tray with four champagne flutes. He turned without looking at us and disappeared through a door hidden unobtrusively behind a purple velvet curtain. Reid and I stepped behind the bar and followed.

  Carpeted stairs led up to the three-storey townhouse above the club. We walked through another pair of mahogany doors and entered a wide hallway with a polished parquet floor. Vauquois paused and placed the tray on a gilded French console table. He closed the doors, turned and embraced me in a tight hug.

  ‘Lucas,’ he murmured, slapping me gently on the shoulder. He took a step back and examined me with a critical eye. ‘You look awful.’

  I smiled faintly. ‘I’ve been better.’

  ‘You must be Reid,’ said Vauquois, looking to my side. He held a hand out to the former US Marine.

  Reid grasped the proffered hand hesitantly. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,’ he said gruffly, glancing at me with a frown.

  ‘Ah. I see Lucas is being as secretive as always,’ Vauquois said impassively. He collected the tray and led us down the hall to an exquisitely decorated drawing room with tall vaulted ceilings. We settled in the deep and comfortable chairs while Vauquois poured the champagne and handed us a glass each.

  Reid glanced from the bubbles in the flute to the bottle. ‘This looks expensive,’ he stated warily.

  ‘It is,’ said a voice from the doorway. It was the woman in the red cocktail dress. ‘The nineteen-eighty Krug? Chéri, you’re spoiling us.’ She crossed the room, kissed the cheek of the smiling Vauquois and took the glass he proffered. Her eyes studied us carefully over the rim of the champagne flute while she sipped the golden liquid. ‘My name is Solange Vauquois,’ she said finally. ‘Pierre and I own the club.’ She moved behind Vauquois’s chair and leaned on the headrest, her hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘You are Reid?’ she asked smoothly, the faintest trace of her birth accent modulating her voice as she gazed at my partner. Reid nodded. A warm smile illuminated Solange Vauquois’s face. ‘Lucas speaks very highly of you.’

  Reid’s eyebrows rose. ‘He does?’

  The woman’s smile widened. She looked at me. ‘Did you drive?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, carefully avoiding her eyes.

  She turned to Reid with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘It was one of the scariest experiences I’ve ever had,’ Reid admitted with a heartfelt grunt. Solange burst out laughing, the sound clear and musical.

  I frowned at Reid. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘You were like a stuntman on the Nürburgring,’ Reid retorted darkly. ‘I’m surprised a patrol car didn’t pull us over.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s always been one for fast things,’ said Solange, her eyes sparkling with humour.

  Reid studied the couple thoughtfully. ‘You’re immortals, aren’t you?’ he said after a while.

  Solange’s expression sobered. She glanced at Vauquois. ‘Yes, we are,’ she replied quietly.

  I first met Solange and Pierre in Paris in the late sixteenth century, not long before I began my travels through Asia. In those days I was a homeless, unruly, and defiant mutt living on the streets of the not so fair city and forever in trouble with the law. One winter night, at the end of a long day drinking cheap liquor distilled in the backyard of a friend’s home, I got into an ugly fight with one of the patrons of Pierre and Solange’s tavern. Instead of hauling me to the closest gaol and leaving me at the hands of whichever bastard sergeant was in charge of the prison that day, a fate I no doubt deserved, they offered me food and a room to sleep in for the night. In my short immortal life, I had only ever known compassion from my parents: it took a while for my mistrust to fade.

  It was Pierre who first encouraged me to go on a voyage to foreign parts, to “broaden your mind and your views of the world” as he put it. Upon my return almost two decades later, they realised that I was an immortal, as I did them. From then on, Solange and Pierre adopted the roles of surrogate parents and mentors; their two children, François and Claude, had died from the Red Death in the late fourteenth century, and they themselves had subsequently been afflicted with the curse of infertility. When I left Europe after the end of the Second World War, they followed me to New York.

  ‘I see,’ said Reid after Solange explained the circumstances of our meeting. ‘Does that mean you knew Olsson?’

  ‘We never met,’ said Vauquois. ‘But we knew of him.’ The older man paused and looked at us quizzically. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Mikael’s alive,’ I announced with a carefully neutral expression. The couple stared at me, shock and surprise dawning on their faces. ‘And for some
reason he’s joined forces with the Hunters who’re after me.’ I gave them a brief account of the events of the last few days.

  ‘Oh, Lucas! Your sixteenth death?’ Solange whispered, her face ashen as she lowered herself into the seat next to her husband.

  I avoided her eyes, aware that this knowledge brought her great pain, and gazed at Vauquois. ‘Have you heard anything unusual recently?’

  Although they kept mostly to themselves and rarely associated with other immortals, the Vauquoises had contacts who regularly apprised them of significant events in both societies: having been spies during the Seven-Year War, the French Revolution, and most recently members of the French Resistance, it was a hard habit to break.

  Vauquois studied me with a troubled expression. ‘A secret meeting attended by several members of the Crovir First Council took place in Washington a few weeks ago,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t know the exact details of what was discussed, but whatever it was, it’s stirred things up.’ He hesitated. ‘Our friend inside the Second Council told me that the Crovirs are on the move; not only here, but in Europe as well.’ He paused. ‘It’s the largest mobilization of Hunters we have seen since the immortal wars. They’re looking for something. Or someone,’ he added gravely.

  Reid frowned. ‘The First Council?’

  Vauquois turned to him. ‘The immortal societies are ruled by nobles who form the Councils,’ he explained. ‘The First Council is the most senior one, made up of the Heads of seven Sections. The Order of the Hunters, the Counter Terrorism group, Human Relations, Commerce, Immortal Legislations & Conventions, Research & Development, and Immortal Culture & History.’

  ‘The Second Council is the Assembly,’ Solange continued. ‘It consists of the Regional Division directors under each Head of Section. Below them is the Congress of the Council, who function as local authority chiefs.’

  ‘The Head of the Order of the Hunters is usually the most powerful member of the First Council, and that applies to both Crovirs and Bastians,’ said Vauquois. ‘The Hunters are essentially the assassins, bodyguards, policemen, and soldiers of the immortal nobles.’