The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  The room erupted in chatter as the heavyset man raised his hands. The talking died down. “I am Monsignor Harrison. Next to me, here, is my assistant, Ramiel. We are both members of the High Council in Vatican City.”

  Paul and the two others looked at each other. “I have seen him before,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “There is something about this man Ramiel. Is he Italian?”

  Paul looked down at his beer. “Whatever his ancestry, he is immortal. Could they be demons? Or are they angels?” Paul looked up and over at the two men. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. But in his mind, he replayed the scene when he and Ramiel first met, over and over again.

  And he saw Ramiel looking over at him. He could feel the heat of breath, the pierce of his eyes. Such a profound stare.

  He thought he knew the man from somewhere.

  And then it took him back to his days in Rome, when he had spent time on holiday, for a few weeks, decades ago; Ramiel’s face appeared in his thoughts. He was still the same Ramiel he had been so long ago. His smile was still warm, his teeth still gleaming white with perfection, his hair was still slicked back with small tufts at the collar.

  When the Monsignor finished his speech, Paul looked over towards Ramiel, and tried to get his attention. But he dared not call out his name. The Monsignor and Ramiel were moving their bags, placing them on a long table that one of the barstaff brought to them, and unpacking manila envelope packets, spreading the contents on the table. Paul continued watching Ramiel; watching him remove his jacket, smile and interact with the fellow immortals. Paul sipped on his lager and watched.

  He remembered now.

  It was the same Ramiel at the lounge in Rome.

  He saw the same smile then, as Ramiel had sat at the bar, laughing and drinking a glass of red wine, chatting with the bartender. And in a fleeting moment, Ramiel had set his wine down and looked in Paul’s direction, as Paul stood at the bar patiently waiting for a drink.

  Paul remembered Ramiel’s astonishing blue eyes. So rare for someone with such dark hair. But Paul remembered how striking it had been.

  But it wasn’t just in the immortal community in Miami that the rumors were spreading. Cities across the world were buzzing with activity after the sun crossed the horizon. There was a society of Immortals in Rome that initially made a call to Miami, once they learned that Darius had been stripped of his immortality.

  THREE

  Delia Arnette pulled her tiny BMW coupe into the parking lot at The Cathedral of the Gardens the following Sunday morning after she, Antoine, Darius and Ethan had met for lunch and discussed their concerns regarding the ‘Hooded Man.’ She swung her silver sedan into a small parking space, and then checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror. The lines around her eyes were pronounced; and her silver-grey hair was stringy with the humidity. She looked far beyond her age, but death would never come to her, unless the ‘Hooded Man’ came for her.

  She shivered and shut the door.

  Balancing on her cane, she headed across the parking lot in the relentless tropical sun. She looked up and saw the tired, old priest holding the giant wooden door open at the top of the stairs, waving to her with earnest.

  Father Bauman had been a priest at The Cathedral of the Gardens for well over a decade.

  In the span of that decade, he built relationships with a great deal of the parishioners. He formed a bond with each and every one of them that returned to hear his sermon each Sunday morning; he married their sons and daughters, he visited the hospital when family members would fall ill, and he presided over their funerals and burials.

  It was after the conclusion of Mass one particular Sunday, over a decade ago, that Father Bauman met a certain individual – one man who would figure into his life with much significance, become a close friend, like a brother. And that was how Father Bauman chose to remember him, despite how his final days progressed.

  Father Bauman stood outside the Cathedral’s side entrance with the small, grey haired woman, and fished a cigarette out of the soft pack in his breast pocket. “Buried good ol’ George in this cemetery right beside the church,” he said, with the flick of his lighter. The wind blew the lighter out after an instant. “Damn. But yes, he went down a slippery slope after his lost Gaye. His house was raided. Spent time in prison.”

  “Those four missing young men?”

  Father Bauman nodded. “He was arrested and questioned. They kept him all night. Till the sun came up. And then they sent him back to a holding cell to get some sleep. Plus I think the Detective needed a rest too. But just a few hours later, they found him hanging on a noose he made from his bed sheets.”

  Delia nodded. “I remember the news stories.”

  He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and he ushered the woman over to the rusted iron-gate. He held his arm outwards towards the cemetery, holding the cigarette between his pursed lips, and let the woman through. “What did you say your name was again? I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m just not the spring chicken I used to be. My memory escapes me quite often.”

  “Delia.” She extended her hand. “Delia Arnette.”

  “And who do you represent?”

  She reached into her purse, looked downwards as she rummaged through its contents, and back up at Father Bauman, and down again. “I know my card is in here somewhere...”

  Father Bauman shoved his right hand into his pants pocket and used his left hand to draw on his cigarette. Delia handed him a business card as he below out a cloud of smoke. He took the card from her and examined it, turning it over a few times, looking at the front and the back. “Says here you are the founder?”

  She nodded.

  “Founder of what?”

  She took a breath as she spoke, and looked upwards at him directly. “We are a group – an organization, rather – that is in place to govern the society of immortals on the earth. We have been in place for many years, Father Bauman. Backed by the church, actually.”

  “By the church? Are you sure about that?”

  She nodded as they walked into the cemetery. Father Bauman continued dragging on his cigarette, holding it close to his lips as he spoke. Delia looked upwards and over at him repeatedly, and nodded as she listened to him.

  “I am quite sure, Father. We have many members who are also members of the church. Not all immortals are evil, Father.”

  He paused for a moment and looked upwards at the sky. “You have good monsters?”

  Delia scoffed and then smiled. “We are not all monsters, Father. We have many, in fact very many very good members of our society. There are immortals on this earth who are in place on a mission. Some of them are angels. Others are vampires, and some are demons. But not all are evil.”

  “And you said you governed immortals?”

  She nodded. “Yes. All immortals, good and evil. We are a representative of their best interests.”

  The tired looking priest flicked his cigarette into the grass as a stream of smoke flowed upwards through the blades up towards the sky. “Damn thing won’t go out.” He stepped forward and stamped his foot on it. He continued speaking as he walked back towards Delia, who was standing next to a large grave maker, taller than she was. “What I don’t understand is why the immortals need this representation. Especially the demons. They are pure, insidious evil. Exorcists have died trying to rid people of demonic possession. Why, in all of heaven, would you try to protect them?”

  She walked closer to Father Bauman and smiled. She looked like a sweet old lady. Her hair was somewhat mussed, but tied back in a neat bun. She appeared to be at least eighty years old; the wrinkles along her cheeks and around her eyes signified wisdom and experience, and her warm smile was accentuated by brilliant red lipstick. Father Bauman thought she might have been someone who had tried to hold on to her youth for many years after she had lost it. “Because I am one of them,” she said, placing her arm on his, touching his forearm with the soft, gentle touch that only an old woman could do. “I am
weak, Father. I am old. But only in appearance. Only physically. I am immortal, and I won’t die. But I can assure you…when I became old, I was quite young.”

  Father Bauman found a bench and sat. Delia sat next to him, never taking her gaze off the priest. Father Bauman looked down at the gravel path that they had been walking on, and shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. When you became old, you were quite young?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I am an immortal, Father Bauman. And before that, I was mortal. I was a human just like you are. And I was chosen for this. I was found by the one who made me, gave me this gift – or this curse, however one chooses to receive it – and I was young. A young woman in her early twenties.”

  “And when was this?”

  “The late nineteenth century, when I was living in Paris.”

  Father Bauman shook his head, and looked over at Delia, who was sitting on the bench, looking downwards at her lap. Her tiny hands were clasped together, fidgeting. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked over at the priest. Her eyes were wide and pleading. “We need your help, Father Bauman. We need you to go to the church. We need help. We are dying, Father.”

  He paused for a moment, his face shifted and he cocked his head to the side. He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them back up, and saw Delia’s eyes were still wide, her face shifted in a look of concern. “And so you come to the church for an absolution? For forgiveness for your evil doing? Just accept the Lord and Savior as your Christ and you will be granted forgiveness, my child.”

  Delia closed her eyes and shook her head, looking downwards. She then looked back up at him. “Father, many of our kind are dying. There is a man – I don’t really know if he is a man or a monster – but he is going after immortals, both good and evil. They are losing their gift of immortality and dying a quick and final death. On to damnation.”

  Father Bauman sighed, and looked over at the troubled old woman. “What is happening to them, Delia?”

  She sniffled, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and stared out at the cemetery as she spoke. “There’s talk of a man. A monster in a hood and robe. Someone who is making themselves out to be a savior. But he’s not, Father. He’s not.”

  “The teachings say that there will be many imposters. What is he doing to the immortals?”

  “He comes at the point where the astral plane – the dimension where the spirits live – and reality as you and I know it – meet. It’s a very chaotic place, Father. A horrendous gateway, where evil runs rampant and good is fleeting. When the sun sets, a green mist moves through the city to cleanse it for the next day. People typically drop dead. And monsters are unleashed. And these horrid, disgusting worms that devour everything.”

  Father Bauman’s face shifted. “I am not liking the sound of this. Is your organization satanic? Devil-worshipping?”

  She shook her head and looked back down at her lap.

  “Witchcraft?”

  “No, Father Bauman. We are not witches.”

  She looked over at the priest directly in his eyes. “Certainly you know about the supernatural, right? You are a priest. You should be more open to these things than the average person. Am I right?”

  Father Bauman nodded. “I have performed the rite of exorcism, Ms. Arnette. I know very much about the presence of evil. So what is this ‘Hooded Man’ doing?”

  Her eyes lit up and she smiled. “You see it! I knew you understood. That’s exactly what we all have been calling him! So you do understand our kind. I knew I went to the right person.”

  Father Bauman smiled. “I am calling him the ‘Hooded Man’ because that’s how you referred to him. Tell me more.”

  “This ‘Hooded Man’ lures immortals to drink from a decanter, a decanter filled with blood that he claims is from Christ, which will redeem them and bring them eternal life. But he is an imposter. The decanter is not from God and does not bring life. It brings a swift and final death. Damnation.”

  Father Bauman watched Delia wipe a tear from her cheek. Her running mascara created a dirty patchwork over her wrinkles. He searched for a tissue in his pocket and handed it to her. “There will be many false prophets,” he said. “Thou shalt have no other gods except Me.”

  Delia nodded and took the tissue, and blotted her cheek and wiped her eyes. “We are being wiped out. Exterminated.”

  Father Bauman sat back on the bench. “I don’t understand. If they are immortal, why would they need to drink from the decanter? They already have eternal life.”

  Delia looked over at the priest as she dabbed on her nose. “He targets broken immortals. Those who have either lost their immortality for some reason. Or those who are questioning their purpose. He places them under a spell of some sort. It’s like they see the decanter, and all they want to do is to drink from it. Nothing else matters.”

  “Broken immortals? Questioning their purpose?”

  She shrugged. “We have problems just like you humans. Just because we are immortal, or demons, or vampires, or what have you, doesn’t mean we are perfect. And it’s a common problem – especially among those who have not been immortal for very long – to question their purpose. And we can be destroyed, Father. There are ways. And this ‘Hooded Man’ has found a way, and a motive, to exterminate us.”

  Father Bauman nodded. “And you came to me. What makes you think that I am an expert in these matters? I have experience with the occult, as I said, but this is sounding otherworldly.”

  “I came to you because of Darius,” she said. “He spoke about you quite often.”

  The priest’s face lit up. His eyes widened and he smiled. “I have not seen him for so long. How is he?”

  Delia looked down at her lap, and her lips started to quiver. Her voice shook when she spoke. “I’m afraid he is gone. Very recently, too.”

  His mouth dropped open and his eyes squinted. “Oh Delia, I had no idea! When did this happen?”

  She looked up and out at the cemetery again, and there was a long pause. She closed her eyes, looked back down at her lap, her small hands holding the crumpled tissue between her legs. “You see, Father? This is why I need you. The one you call the ‘Hooded Man’ got to Darius. I have reason to believe he drank from the decanter. He was lured by this imposter and now he is gone.”

  “Oh Delia, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

  She nodded.

  Father Bauman shifted and sat up straight, placing his arm around Delia’s back. He looked down at her, like a loving father. “How can I help you, dear child?”

  *****

  Across the ocean in Lyon, night was falling.

  The treetops blew in a light, passing wind, as the temperature dropped to a chilling cold. Antoine rubbed his arms, shivering, and waiting for the sun to completely set before beginning his task.

  After a short while, it was time.

  Shrouded in darkness, Antoine was able to enter the woods and drag the casket towards the center of the cemetery, where he had prepared the grave.

  Darius, I am burying you with the same diligence and reverence that I did so many centuries ago, when I had first put you into the ground. So long ago, after that night in the foyer, when I plunged the dagger into your chest.

  Now it is so different.

  Tonight seems so prophetic; it is igniting memories which are centuries old. Like a candle which the wax has dripped down the sides, spilling out and over the candle holder until the candle itself is merely a small stub. The candle has been lit once again. How long will it burn?

  He paused for a moment as he felt a cool breeze. He looked over toward the swaying treetops, and peered into the forest for a few minutes.

  I am burying a human, mortal body.

  It’s so different.

  Before, you were ash. You were a beating heart. Now, you are a full, human body, already in a state of decomposition and decay.

  I am so confused. So perplexed as to how I can bring you back. Or even if I can at all.

  Antoine p
ushed the casket into the ground, and it tumbled into the grave with a thud. He stood above the threshold of the earth, looking downwards, his face sullen, his eyes looking downwards. “I will miss you my Darius. You were my guiding light. Where has my light gone?”

  Antoine looked around the cemetery, noticing the same soaring trees on the perimeter, the same small markers that rose from the ground from many centuries ago when he had first buried Darius in the same spot. It seemed that nothing had changed.

  “Are we going through a cycle, Darius? A continuous cycle of change? Of death, and life and death again?”

  Antoine gathered his equipment. His shovel and bag, and hoisted it over his shoulder. It was to be a very cold night. Record cold in Lyon for this time of year. There would be hot soup in the kitchen at the Chateau, Giovanni would see to that. But the Chateau…so big and quiet now. Darius was gone. The drapes and windows even seemed too large. The furniture, most definitely too much for one.

  The sun set and ushered in the night.

  The darkness shrouded Antoine, but, when he had finished with his homage to Darius, and the grave was filled and things were completed, he returned to the Chateau. Now it was time to wait. And shortly thereafter, to journey to the west, across the dark waters of the Atlantic, to the Americas, back to Delia and the city and region he once had been able to control.

  But even later that evening, while sipping a glass of red wine and sitting in the front parlor, Antoine could not get the images of his death out of his mind. The bleeding altar, the flames which he still felt searing this skin. He could still smell the thick, noxious smoke.