The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  Antoine opened his eyes. “The cup. The cup?”

  Delia nodded. “He believed that if he drank from the cup – The Christ Cup – that he would be given the gift of immortality.”

  “Yes, we know that is true. But it must be genuine. The true cup. There are so many imposters…”

  “Like this ‘Hooded Man’,” she said.

  Delia leaned back and looked over at Antoine. “Darius came to me before he died. And when we have had this whole thing with that man in the hood coming about, that’s when I started putting things together. Darius shouldn’t have died, Antoine.”

  Antoine looked down, and ignored the fire. He closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. After a few moments, he dropped his hands to his lap, and looked over at Delia. “So why did he die then?”

  Delia sighed. She sat back on the sofa and shifted away from Antoine. “You remember our lunch on Miami Beach, right?”

  Antoine’s face shifted. He shook his head, looking upwards towards the ceiling. “Our lunch?”

  Delia leaned forward and looked over at Antoine. “Yes. Try hard. Think. Please. It was a while ago. You and Darius were there. I was there. And so was Ethan. We talked about the ‘Hooded Man’. Do you remember, Antoine?”

  Antoine paused, leaned back into the sofa and remembered. He remembered the luncheon. The toast was burned for his Ruben sandwich. Yes, he remembered the day. “Ethan? That’s a blast from the past. Good God…where has he gone?”

  “Not really sure,” Delia said. She crossed her legs and fidgeted. “He was last seen recently not far from the Ponce de Leon.”

  “The hotel or the street?”

  “Hotel.”

  She shook her head and looked down. “I don’t know where he is, Antoine. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him.”

  Antoine raised his eyebrows and looked over at Delia. She was still fidgeting. “No, I haven’t seen him.”

  *****

  There was a time when the one who was sent to collect the immortals had once been human. There was a time when he didn’t wear the hood.

  There were fleeting images of days past, growing up as a young boy, into a young man, and onwards towards adulthood, which fingered their way into his mind. He could still remember those days, the days before he was plunged into darkness, before he kept the four young college men in his basement in a cage for each –

  But the cages, in his basement, were something that entered his life decades after he had started the downward spiral. It wasn’t long after Gaye died that he eventually entered a quick and steady downfall. And shortly after that, he sat under heated lights, his hands in bright, steel cuffs, which caught the light and reflected it on the opposite wall every time he moved his wrists. “I remember the four young men. I remember them quite well. Especially Neil. He was my favorite. I remembered watching him mowing the lawn at his tiny, little house across the street. He was so tanned. So athletic. His muscles would glisten with sweat in the afternoon sun. Loved his hair. So scruffy! Tanned, a perfect specimen.”

  He looked over at the detective. He remembered the detective quite well also. Martin Jenson. Standing right before him now. Not just three months prior, he had been over to his house for dinner and drinks. Used to be a friend.

  Not anymore.

  It looked like the cop had put on some weight. Mustache was untrimmed. Pretty big set of luggage under his eyes, too. But his apparent exhaustion did not phase the man. He leaned forward and looked him directly in the eyes.

  “George, you need to walk me through this, step by step. Where are they?”

  George leaned back in his chair, and winced at the hard, wooden back. “Who is they?”

  Detective Jenson took a seat opposite George, and motioned for the deputy. The cop placed a steaming cup of coffee in Jenson’s hands. The detective took a sip. “The four men. Where are they?”

  George shook his head and look up towards the ceiling. “I already told you. They’re gone. I don’t have them anymore.”

  “You have four giant cages in your basement. Chains. Leather masks. So you did at one point. What did you do with them? Was this some sort of weird sexual game?”

  George paused for a moment and looked down at the table. He studied the hairs on his arm, and took a deep breath. He held his breath as he looked at Detective Jensen and shook his head.

  Detective Jensen continued. “But if they are alive, they are still missing. Where did they go?”

  He let his breath out and fell back into the chair. He looked up at the detectives and raised his eyebrows. “She has them. I told you already.”

  The detective pulled a manila file folder across the table, and opened it. He fished through a few papers, studied some photos, and paused for a moment. “Yes I see here from your initial statement. You say an ‘immortal’ came and took them. Some Claret? Seems pretty far-fetched if you ask me. She just flew in and grabbed them?”

  George nodded and shrugged. “That’s what happened.”

  “So we have four dead bodies. There was a widely publicized funeral with all four bodies. It was televised. Do you remember? If those bodies weren’t buried in those coffins, then who was?”

  “I already told you, Detective, she came and got them. She had me befriend each young man, I drugged them, as instructed, and carried them down to my basement. Then I locked them in the cages.”

  “And then what?”

  “She came to see them. She took each one. And then they were gone. My part was done. She even had me dig up the caskets to check and make sure that the bodies were gone.”

  Detective Jenson scribbled some notes on his legal pad. He looked back up at George. “And they buried empty caskets?”

  George looked down and examined his hands. “Yes, the caskets were empty.” The dirt was still underneath his fingernails. He remembered. He remembered being on his knees, in the darkness in the dead of night, tearing at the cool earth and tossing the dirt over his shoulders.

  “Keep digging!” Claret had said as she leaned down next to George’s head. He looked over at her; she scowled. “Dig now!”

  As he dug, and every time scooped a small amount of dirt, he tossed it over his shoulder. He dug for hours, until a pile formed next to them. Claret walked to the edge of the hole and stopped. “Stop. The casket will be just below.”

  George sat back, and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. He looked up and over at Claret. “Do you want me to continue?”

  She lunged forward and grabbed his neck. “What do you think the answer is?!”

  And George continued digging, until all four caskets were hoisted from the earth, slammed on the ground and caked in dirt.

  George opened the creaking lids, one by one. Claret looked down into the empty coffins.

  “You see? There are no bodies.”

  And George opened his eyes and looked back up at the Detective.

  The morning rays of the sun crept into the window. Detective Jensen rubbed his eyes. “Look, George, we have been here all night. We aren’t getting anywhere. We’re going to place you in a holding cell and continue questioning in 24 hours.” The questioning concluded as George was cuffed and led to his cell.

  But George didn’t live to see the next round of questioning. His body was found in his cell, hung from a self-made noose, the white sheets twisted and tied around his neck from the rafters, his face swollen purple and eyes bulging out of their sockets.

  *****

  He was soon after thought to be a monster.

  A hooded demon, sent from Hades, to call the sinful beasts back to Hell.

  And there was one immortal, in particular, who drank from the decanter, who was arguably aware of the ‘Hooded Man’ and his presence, and who was actually quite well respected in the community, but was enamored by the spell of the gift.

  Darius Sauvage.

  It had been on the same night Darius had prowled the parks in Miami Beach, looking for a sexual adventure. He walked towards th
e rusted gates, which rose above a broken sidewalk around a smattering of untended and overgrown trees. And when Darius had leaned against the fence on the side of the park, looking over at the parked cars, he did not realize that he was being watched.

  He did not know that, just a few minutes earlier, when he was walking along the broken sidewalk, that in the amber circle of light shining down on the corner of the sidewalk a block away, a tall, hooded figure in a long, flowing robe appeared out of the darkness, and stood in the center of the light, watching Darius lean against the fence and take his place.

  Darius didn’t notice the Hooded Man – as he was to be known eventually – who made an appearance on that fateful night, when Darius chose his ultimate fate. As a young man approached Darius, and stammered, the Hooded Man stood and watched and waited. It wasn’t until after, that Darius had felt his demon within rise. And that the Hooded Man rose in his mist cloud.

  And it was Darius’ death that caused a stir in the immortal world.

  Those who had the gift started to panic, wondering how one could be stripped of immortality. And although Darius lived for years after he drank from the decanter, he eventually died as a simple mortal, and, because of that, there eventually were rumors quickly spreading. Through the immortal communities in Miami – initially – those who were familiar with Antoine Nagevesh and his work, along with his affiliation with Darius, and started talking about how something like that could have happened.

  For when Darius died, no one knew about the decanter. Or what was really the purpose of the decanter. And when Darius became mortal again, he chose not to speak of it. Shortly after Antoine had brought Darius to Lyon to live out his final days, signs were seen, and pamphlets were distributed in underground bars that read:

  BEWARE OF THE HOODED MAN.

  That was all it said.

  A small, black business card with bold, white block lettering was placed on every table with the same warning. The immortal community of Miami was getting the message. The materials were distributed to all the immortals who would venture out in the night, for weeks, if not months, until Darius was the subject of stories around bars and cocktail tables.

  There was one table, a high-top cocktail table, not far from the service bar, where several sat, having a quiet conversation amidst the thumping music. The four huddled over the table, staring downwards into their drinks.

  After the group sat in silence for some time, a pale-skinned woman, with voluminous red hair, spoke, as she looked around the table. “We all have to be wary of this decanter. Of this man. Darius was no accident. Why would he suddenly be selected for something like this?”

  She looked over at her fellow immortals. One was an overweight, middle-aged man with an unshaved beard and a receding hairline. The other two were younger men, possibly in their middle twenties when transformed, a blonde to the left, and on the right, dark-haired and olive skinned.

  The olive-skinned immortal looked up from his drink and spoke first. “Darius was out of control. He was on a rampage after Antoine brought him back. Perhaps that was why he was selected.”

  She immediately noticed his piercing blue eyes.

  And then she looked down at her drink for a moment, and considered what he had said. After a short while had passed, she looked over at him. “Paul. Listen to me. This not one of those stories. Darius did not get selected because of his behavior. He acted normally for Darius.” She looked around the table, at the blonde and the middle-aged man. “Do either of you remember when Antoine resurrected him? He opened a doorway. He called Asmodai. Ever since then Antoine has been running.”

  The table sat in silence for a few minutes.

  Then the music in the bar stopped playing, and each of them looked up and over towards the bar. The bartender was still mixing drinks; the loud chatter of the clientele sounded indiscernible.

  The front door swung open, and two men, dressed in flowing black trench coats entered without a word. They walked towards the center of the bar as the chatter died down.

  The bartender stopped mixing drinks, and all eyes were focused on the two men, including Paul and his companions. The two men were tall – one perhaps six feet or more in height, light skinned, dark hair which flowed down each of their shoulders. One man had a small scar under his left eye, and before long, he spoke. But the one who spoke first was shorter, heavier, with silver, thinning hair.

  “Good evening, everyone, I come to you from Rome. We have received some distressing calls from Miami at headquarters. We are aware of the situation and are dealing with it.”

  The bearded man snapped his head over towards Paul. “Is he talking about the hooded man? Who called Rome? Antoine did this?”

  She shook her head, but Paul did not answer, simply shrugged his shoulders. Paul sipped his beer and his eyes remained focused on the two visitors from Rome.

  The man standing in the middle of the bar continued. “Some of you know that there is a ‘Hooded Man’ who has been appearing to some of you and others in your bloodline. We have come here to address this issue and preserve our species.” The man continued as all eyes remained on him. He set a briefcase down on one of the cocktail tables as his fellow man sat in one of the chairs.

  The bartender, a heavyset, muscular man, paused, holding his shaker above his shoulder, and looked straight at the man. “I lost my ancestry. Almost completely. We’re almost wiped out.” His eyes pierced the room.

  The man turned to the bartender and held his hands up. “I understand, sir, and my condolences.”

  He then looked around the room and continued. “All of you, I’m sure, are familiar with Delia Arnette. She flew to Rome last week and met with several of the members of the board. She is fully aware of this crisis. But for the time being, you must all be prudent in your self-preservation. If you see the ‘Hooded Man’ the main objective is to flee. Get away from him before he takes a grip over you. Do not make any attempts to speak to him. Do not attempt to fight him. Just leave. Quickly.”

  A tall, dark-skinned man stepped forward and set his beer glass down on one of the tables, and crossed his arms. “And what are we supposed to do if he spots us? Word on the street is that once he sees you, it’s too late. Like he puts you under a spell or something.”

  The heavy man nodded, and smoothed his silver, thinning hair. “Yes, yes that is the commonly held belief. You are responsible for leaving before he can cast his spell.” He then turned back towards the crowd. “And I have no reason to believe that it’s a misconception. You all are responsible for your own survival. My mission here is to put an end to this. But in the meantime, you must heed my warning. Do not let this man spot you. If he does, it may already be too late.”

  Paul and the woman looked at the man, who paused for a moment, and was looking around the room. The crowd remained motionless. The man then looked over to where Paul, the woman, and the red haired immortal were sitting. He walked over to their table and looked directly at Paul. “I recognize you, don’t I?” He leaned down closer. “You have been here with Antoine, correct? Correct me if I’m wrong, please. But he had mentioned a woman and three men under his tutelage. Am I right?”

  The woman looked downward as Paul looked the man directly in the eye and answered him. “We work for Antoine, yes.”

  The man shoved his hands into his pockets, looked up at the ceiling for a moment, and then back over at Paul. “Who has been calling Rome? I was sent here because of your calls.”

  The four looked up and over at each other, but no one spoke until Paul stammered and shrugged his shoulders. “We are dying. We need help.”

  “So you called?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “Antoine called then?”

  “No,” Paul said. “As far as I’m aware, Antoine has been in France for the past several months, since Darius died. We have not seen or heard from him.”

  The man nodded. “I see.” And then he stood again, and looked around the room. “All of you here need to be a
ware of this situation if it hasn’t affected your bloodlines yet. We all know about Darius, and the rumors surrounding his demise and death.” The man looked over at Paul and the group and raised his eyebrows. “We do, right?”

  They smiled and nodded, and returned to the center of the room.

  The man continued as he looked around the room. All eyes were focused on him. “There is a ‘Hooded Man’, as I said. There are rumors that he is approaching those immortals who are near death, who may have lost their way, or lost the gift, I don’t know. But these are rumors.” He looked around the room. “They are just rumors. They never happened.”

  A petite woman stood in the center of the room, slammed her glass down on the nearest table, and placed her hands on her hips. “Rumors? You just warned us. Is this man a rumor or not?”

  The room erupted in chatter.

  The heavyset man raised his hands up, as the other, younger man stood aside and looked on with his hands clasped at his waist. The heavyset man continued. “Please, please everyone. Quiet please! I am addressing these rumors with you, and I called this gathering as we all know very well where we stand right now after the events in Miami. I will not have this sector’s reputation tarnished any further than it already has been. As far as anyone outside our sect is concerned, these are just rumors. But my warning directly to you all is this – take this threat seriously. I do not know enough about this ‘Hooded Man’ to give you anything but a warning. And I’ll say it again – you are all responsible for your own survival.”

  Paul started to raise his hand, his index finger raised. “Forgive me…we know you are from Headquarters. But you haven’t introduced yourself.” Paul nodded around the room. “And I know many of our other followers here, I’m sure, have questions too.”

  The heavyset man nodded and stood, and looked around the room as he spoke. “Yes, everyone. We are from an organization called ‘The Inspiriti’. Perhaps you have heard of us. I am here from Rome, as I said. Not all of you, especially the newly transformed, will remember our organization. But we were formed over a hundred years ago, and your founder, Delia Arnette, has currently returned to this area. She has been here for a few years now, and she has been addressing the rumors behind Darius’ death. What you may not know, is that she is also a member of the High Council. And we are in town now investigating this matter.”