Serving the Immortals

by Katie Douglas

  “You used that word before. What do you mean?” I asked. I got the impression she was a sort of marshmallow with a sword in the center. She was soft and friendly as far as it went, but if she got squished too hard, someone would get stabbed. In a way, that was more terrifying than the obvious control of the woman in the black dress, who I was still enamored with.

  “The sanguine ones all have a lot of supernatural powers. We can compel you to do our bidding, and some are more accomplished at it than others. I don’t like doing it to people; I want everyone to want to do what I want them to. Besides, I’m not very good at it, because it’s not a very fun game to play. It makes my head hurt and my heart sad to force people to do what I tell them. I like precipitating and floating much more. They’re fun games. And sex, of course.” Hannah brightened up, then she eyed my naked body hungrily. For a moment, I thought she might eat me, and I realized her teeth looked quite sharp, but perhaps it was an effect from the candlelight.

  She leaned in and kissed me, more passionately than before, and I wrapped my hands around her curvy waist as I yielded my mouth to her. I wanted her so bad that my whole body ached for her. She pushed me to the floor and snarled as she kissed me once more, then I felt two of her fingers circling my labia again, before they dived inside me. I cried out as she fucked me with two fingers, stroking my clit with her thumb, caressing one of my breasts with her other hand. The attention to my clit, my G-spot, and my nipple at the same time filled me with so much warmth that I thought I might burst into flames.

  As I got closer, I felt as though I was rising from the floor. I toppled over the edge into an intense orgasm. It reached its peak, and I contorted into a strange shape, my arms and legs haphazardly pulled in different directions, as I was overwhelmed by powerful, tingling contractions that coursed through my entire body. When it started to fade, I realized I really was floating, and so was she. I looked up at her in surprise.

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Haven’t you been paying attention, little sister? The sanguine ones can float. I showed you, when we went out of your bedroom window, and I told you about it, too.” She stroked my hair and wriggled gleefully, before gently returning us both to solid ground, where we snuggled up together.

  “I have a question,” I said.

  “Uh-huh?” she prompted.

  “What are the sanguine ones?”

  “You don’t know? But you’re marked! You’re marked by the mistress! You must know!”

  “No idea.”

  “Oh, this is bad!” She disentangled herself from me and got to her feet. I frowned and tried to figure out what the problem was, but I felt like I was missing the key piece of information, and she didn’t seem to want to share. Hannah handed me my nightgown, and somehow pulled her wet dress over her head without shuddering. I dressed myself more slowly, still hoping for an answer.

  “You have to go; if she finds you, we’ll both be punished very severely! I thought you knew!” Her words weren’t making any sense. Why would anyone punish us for having sex?

  “Can you please explain what you’re talking about?” I prompted, but she wasn’t paying attention. As soon as my shoes were on my feet and my damp nightgown over my head, she gripped my wrist and practically dragged me out onto the thin streets. She led the way out of the maze of alleys and let go. When I turned to ask her another question, I found out she’d vanished, leaving me on an unfamiliar street in the misty late-night drizzle, still uncertain whether I was dreaming or not.

  Chapter Four

  I finally arrived back in my bed, after having an argument with the night attendant at the bunkhouse because I had no key or identification. They had eventually accepted that I had gone out for a smoke in my nightgown. In the room, I changed into dry clothing then huddled under my covers for warmth and tried to sleep through what remained of the sodden night, but I couldn’t stop wondering about what Hannah was.

  I had thought that her references to sanguine ones must be some sort of folk name for vampires, but in the few books I’d ever read about them, vampires were described as skinny and waif-like. Hannah was neither, and her shape suited her perfectly but she couldn’t possibly be a vampire. Who was this mistress that had marked me—whatever that meant? Was Hannah’s mistress my mysterious woman in black? How could they know one another, living so far apart?

  I had to remind myself that both these mysterious, dark-eyed women were probably figments of my imagination, and therefore they knew each other because they were both made up in the same part of my mind. It made sense. A lifetime of not being able to find a girlfriend, then within two months, two showed up in short succession, both of whom had very similar obsessions with control and dominance, and both of them seemed to be attracted to me.

  Work the next day was beyond tedious. I couldn’t bring myself to care about cold soup and stale bread when all I could think about was the taste of Hannah’s kisses, the feel of her hands, and the color of her nipples. I only wanted to be with her again. The sixteen hours of taking customer orders and reciting specials was made worse by the day’s head waiter. He was a semi-feral prune with thick Coke-bottle glasses and balloon-like lips that he kept licking, who insisted on pressing himself against me at every opportunity. I quickly forgot his real name, because I always thought of him as Herr Prune. When he asked me to go downstairs into the wine cellar to check the stock, I decided it was best to lock the door behind me.

  A few minutes into my task, I heard hammering on the door, followed by Herr Prune’s voice pleading through the thick wood. I finished, unlocked the door, pushed past him, and lost myself in a sea of busy tables. When eleven o’clock came, I was glad he was too drunk to notice that I left. Walking back to the bunkhouse, I knew I needed a new job. Every day was a fight to get from one end of the shift to the next, then there was a short reprieve before it all began again the next day. I wanted to know where my life was going. I barely even had time to draw, which is what I’d traveled to Prague to do, and when I had a day off, I found myself sleeping late, barely ridding myself of the tiredness.

  When winter truly set in, it wasn’t the happy, scenic snow that I was used to in Austria. This was characterized by greyness; the clouds were grey, the buildings were grey, the landscape was grey, and the pelting rain even made the air grey. On the streets, everyone wore muted colors that were further dimmed by the thick layer of raindrops that constantly got between my eyes and anything I wanted to look at. The air was always damp, and it clung to my skin, making me clammy and cold. Sometimes, when I was traveling to work, the sky seemed full of black umbrellas above my head, crowding together like a Roman turtle for protection from the invading winter.

  I got up in the dark, I went to sleep in the dark, and in between, I did my job and dodged Herr Prune. Nowhere was hiring, and my return to Austria looked imminent. Then, just before Christmas, I received an invitation from an unfamiliar postal area. Someone had invited me to their chateau in Switzerland. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, and the signature was indecipherable, but the picture on the front was of a brightly lit Christmas tree with the words ‘come and play’ emblazoned on the front. Something about it reminded me strongly of Hannah.

  I was still trying to fill the emptiness in my soul, and I decided that more adventure would soothe me. Whoever had sent the card seemed to know me, and whatever awaited me in Switzerland, it had to be an improvement on Prague. I packed my bags, handed in my notice at the restaurant, and emptied my bank account of its dregs. I took a train to Switzerland, via Munich; I was afraid that if I went through Austria, I would go home and never leave.

  The journey from the train station in Haufburg village to Chateau Araignée was a two-mile walk that took me from the boundary of German Switzerland into the French part. When the chateau came into view, I was entranced. This was surely the perfect place to center myself and return to my artwork. It was on a hill that was much lower than the surrounding Alpine mountains. There were two huge rounded
turrets and a big house all wrapped within a wall. When I got most of the way up the hill, I discovered the only entrance was over a thin wooden bridge covering a narrow but deep ravine in the hillside.

  I didn’t really consider turning back; perhaps I had an idea that people don’t send mysterious invitations out of the blue to join them in their chateau, but I wanted to know who had summoned me here. I strode across the bridge, and didn’t think too much about it when my foot landed on a piece of wood that splintered and tumbled into the black chasm.

  The chateau’s door was huge, with metal bolts the size of my fist holding the wood against even bigger hinges. The wood was so thick that the sound of my knock was barely audible. When I saw a rope to one side, attached to a metal bracket, I pulled it, and wondered if it was a bell, a mount for a hanging basket, or a snare. While I hadn’t heard the bell ringing, someone must have because the door creaked open. At first, I thought someone had come to greet me, but when no one revealed themselves I guessed the door had been blown open by the wind. There was definitely one blowing, with a sudden mistiness, although I think part of me knew it couldn’t have pushed the door hard enough.

  Inside, it was obvious that this chateau wasn’t quite what we would call a castle in Austria; it was more like a large house with some rounded turrets. There was an entrance hall, which had a large staircase sweeping up to the right and an ornate stone handrail so that anyone on the first floor could see down to the main door. Wooden screens with many holes had been placed from the top of the handrail all the way up to the ceiling, so I could see shadows up there, but I couldn’t make out if there were people or not. To my left and my right, wooden doors were set into the thick stone, and I wasn’t sure where my mysterious host was most likely to be hiding. To compound the problem, it was beginning to go dark and I didn’t know where to find a light switch.

  I was still trying to decide where to search when I heard footsteps echoing from upstairs. As I watched, a figure descended the sweeping staircase then approached me.

  “You have my deepest apologies for the frosty welcome you have received. Let me put a light on.”

  I already suspected that I knew whose voice this was, but when the light clicked on, and she turned to look at me, I couldn’t help gasping in amazement. It was my mysterious woman in the black velvet dress, only tonight she wore a coal-colored gown of finest silk with the texture of running water.

  “I heard you were in Prague, and I thought it was prudent to invite you to my home. I am Monique Araignée. We met at Elodie Neige’s cottage, if you remember.”

  “And you told me to leave you alone, so I did. What’s so different about now?” I asked, feeling pushy and rude, but wanting answers nonetheless.

  “Let us go to dinner; you must be hungry after the journey here. I will explain afterwards.” Without waiting for my agreement, she strode toward the door on the right, and held it open for me. I scrambled behind her, still dragging my rucksack, and found myself in the middle of what looked like a formal dinner party with room for eight. Feeling like a tramp, I followed Monique to a chair, where she indicated for me to be seated. I was self-conscious and surrounded by people who looked well-dressed and stylish.

  At the head of the table, I watched Monique seat herself, then I caught the end of what she was saying, “…speak to her about how to answer the door.” The person she was leaning toward then gave a very solemn nod, but before I could hear any more, a woman in a maid outfit appeared and stood beside me.

  “You would like to eat, madame?” she asked in German with a heavy French accent. I looked around the table in surprise.

  “They have already ordered, madame. We have chicken or beef, which would you prefer?”

  Without any further information about what each meal would be, I selected chicken and waited quietly, feeling exposed and frumpy still in my traveling jeans and thick wooly sweater, resplendent with reindeer and snowflakes on the front. Everyone else wore cocktail dresses or finely tailored suits; there were no men here. I hadn’t ducked under the table to inspect anyone’s shoes, but I suspected I was the only person wearing battered, greying sneakers.

  The first course was prawn cocktail, and I suddenly had a glass full of red wine beside my food. The servants were efficient, and once everyone had their starter, Monique tapped a glass once with a fingernail. Everyone stopped talking and gave her their full attention.

  “Thank you for coming; we all know what has been going on lately, within the news and more significantly, that which hasn’t been reported. Madame President of Belgium, would you like to share the issues you brought to me?”

  A stout woman in her fifties, with greying hair and wearing a cheerful green suit, stood up. She looked around the room at the women assembled at the table. I had seen her before, on the television; she was, indeed, the president of Belgium. In my Christmas sweater and old sneakers, I started to feel a little queasy as she spoke. Her words were English, in a Flemish accent, and I struggled to translate everything or keep up with what she said.

  “Since the Misogyny Party was elected in Denmark, they have formed further parties throughout Europe, and now control most countries on our continent. Their policies are disturbing, and my main concern is the new law, being passed at a European level, which prohibits women from holding positions of office. They refuse to debate it, and we are silenced when we try to discuss the new laws. We are not trained to fight them, since they do not allow women to fight on the front lines, and so a full-scale war would be almost impossible, because our chances of success would be very poor. I am also unwilling to accept the potential losses of life until every alternative has been explored. However, we absolutely must put a stop to them. I petitioned Madame Araignée because I do not believe there is a way forward through other means.”

  There were several nodding heads, and I wondered what, exactly, one well-dressed woman could do that several women in high-powered positions could not. Had I misunderstood what the president had said?

  “We need to declare war on them. They should be wiped out for what they are doing to us. What they have already done.” A woman halfway down the table glared at the Belgian president as if daring her to argue.

  Monique Araignée raised her hands, and the room fell silent. Once she had the attention of the room again, she spoke.

  “I understand how you feel, but I cannot permit the eradication of men. If nothing else, humanity will expire without them. The birth defects from synthetic sperm cannot be overcome, even after years of research. If humans die out, the sanguine ones have a serious problem, just as humans would have a problem if plants became extinct. I will need to lay groundwork, make arrangements, before I can eliminate the threat of these men.”

  “With all due respect, madame, you have six weeks. After that time, the new law will be enacted. They will force us all to relinquish our power and they will control the entirety of Europe.”

  Monique nodded solemnly. “If you will all do me the honor of staying in my castle overnight, I am confident that I can present a solution by lunchtime tomorrow. Those of you who wish to be a part of the solution will need to remain here to assist with preparations. In the meantime, avail yourselves of the many distractions my castle can provide, and I shall speak to each of you individually, to ensure that my answer takes everyone’s thoughts into account.”

  I studied her in amazement. She was so in control of herself. Did she find it strange that so many people had asked her for help with a Pan-European political situation? Her voice still sounded beautiful; the steely undertone was so arousing that I had difficulty taking in what she had said. I wondered once again about why I was here.

  Dinner came and went. Once dessert was over (a stunning lemon meringue pie), all the women retired to the smoking room. I rose from the table last, my stomach quite full, and was about to follow when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Not you.” Monique was standing behind me; I could feel her breath on my ear as she spoke. Her
touch gave me tingles while I tried to calm my racing thoughts. I wanted her.

  “Why am I here?” I finally asked her.

  “Narcissism.” Her answer made no sense, so I waited for her to elaborate.

  When she didn’t, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “You are self-absorbed and arrogant. You think you can do what everyone else does and get different results. Since you have no regard for your own safety, no purpose or direction, I had to bring you here to keep you from the ones that will do you harm. Your presence here is taken to be an understanding that you will do what I or my adherents say at all times.”

  I closed my eyes and nodded. Was she trying to tell me I was important? How could I be?

  “Who would want to harm me? I’m nothing special.” I thought back to Herr Prune at the restaurant. That was about as much danger as I’d ever been in.

  Leaning in, so I could feel her lips brushing my ear, she murmured, “Indeed. You’re not special, you don’t have any great significance in the grand scheme of things, and whether you live or die is of no consequence. People wish to harm you because you keep drawing attention to yourself by looking for meaning in a life of no importance. That is precisely why I seem to be drawn to you. Your emptiness mirrors my own.”

  I couldn’t make up my mind if she was chastising me or praising me. She was putting my entire life into words and I wondered how she could possibly know any of it.

  “You’re an easy book to read,” she remarked, as she began to walk away. “One of my adherents will show you to your room whilst I entertain my petitioners.”

  Before I could press her for more answers, she was gone.

  To my further amazement, Hannah appeared from a doorway. She wore a maid’s uniform, with a short skirt and a small apron. Her golden ringlets were fastened into a bun that strained against its bindings, and she had a small hairband with a frilly trim around her head, to immobilize any stray hairs. It seemed bizarre to see her here at all, let alone so tidy and cared for. Had she been employed by Monique when I last saw Hannah?