The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  “Yes,” Antoine said. Giovanni nodded.

  “And I was working with Darius as I have formed a group called The Inspiriti, because, as immortals, we need to band together. There are those out there that are set out to destroy us.”

  Antoine and Giovanni both nodded.

  “I can see from your Giovanni here that he has been injured and seems to suffer from as similar curse as I have.” She looked over at Giovanni. “Is that right, my dear?”

  Giovanni pursed his lips together for a moment, and exhaled. “I am cursed to live old and blind for all of eternity. Sometimes I think death would really be just beautiful right about now.”

  Delia waved her hand. “Nonsense. Stop with that rubbish. Yes, I see that your youth has been taken from you. And your eyes as well. I don’t know how much of your senses you have, but I have a similar curse, though applied differently. I was youthful and my immortality was stripped from me. But I managed to regain it. I regained my immortality.”

  “But not your youth,” Giovanni added.

  Antoine took a seat next to Delia and looked over at Giovanni. “And that is how Darius died. He did not regain his immortality.”

  Giovanni shifted on the sofa. “So how did you regain yours?” He stared straight ahead initially, and when asking the question, but once Delia spoke, he instantly honed in on her voice and faced her directly.

  Delia set her tea down on the coffee table with a light clank of china against glass. She sat up, took a deep breath, and exhaled quietly. “There is a cup, my dear Giovanni. There is a cup that is rumored to be the key to life eternal. It is the same cup that was in The Last Supper, back in the times of Christ.”

  Giovanni leaned forward. “And where is this cup? You drank from it?”

  “I have.”

  “And what about you, Antoine?”

  “I have not. I was raised from death by a separate ritual. It had nothing to do with the cup.”

  Giovanni paused for a moment, seeming to stare straight ahead. Antoine thought that he might be deep in thought. “There is a problem with what you say,” Giovanni finally said, after a few minutes had passed. “For I drank from a cup as well. I drank and was told that I would keep life eternal. That I would find forgiveness and salvation. And that the sins of my dark-hood would be washed away.”

  Delia looked down and her face shifted slightly. “It cannot be the same cup. I know there are very few of us who are so damned that they cannot regain the gift.”

  “Who are those?” Antoine asked.

  Delia looked over at Antoine and nodded. “You know who they are.”

  Antoine stood and tended to the fire. “I shudder to think,” he said. “That you drank from the cup that I thought you drank from, Giovanni. We are here because Darius drank from a decanter – something that was forced upon him. He was enamored with this bloodlust. But this event ultimately ended his life.”

  *****

  Antoine sat back on the sofa, long after Giovanni had retired, and considered what Delia had said. If the immortals were truly under attack, then they may just have to join forces. But he has been running from Claret for years. And why would Claret choose to attack her own kind?

  He longed for the days of his youth; when he first had partnered with Darius, and they foraged together, when Darius taught Antoine the ways of darkness, those years of tutelage that culminated with Antoine wielding the dagger in the foyer.

  But in the days that led up to that incident, when Darius had died for the first time, were some times that Antoine wished he could revisit. The days of being a student. Now, he was the scholar. He was the teacher.

  And Darius was gone.

  Antoine closed his eyes.

  He wished that there was a simple solution to what Delia had said. And Giovanni…he was another worry. When Giovanni had explained to them how his eyes had been torn out of his skull, and how he was now cursed to live eternally blind, this disturbed Antoine deeply. Thoughts of their conversation permeated Antoine’s thoughts as he tried to get some sleep.

  “She ripped my eyes right out of their sockets,” Giovanni had explained as he sipped his tea. The fire had died down, but Antoine did not rise to stoke it any longer. It was far too late at this point. The sun was already starting to peek across the horizon.

  Antoine shook his head. “Why would she do something like this Giovanni? What did you do to deserve being robbed of your sight?”

  But it wasn’t the conversation that bothered Antoine so greatly. It wasn’t Delia’s warning either. It was the eyes.

  Those dead eyes.

  He could still see Giovanni walking the hallways.

  Watching the chateau.

  Serving his duties for the last several hundred years. And he could still see him, dusting the busts, and the marble statues, cleaning the bright red carpets and drawing the drapes as the night would fall on Lyon.

  And then Antoine thought there was a light knocking on the door. He couldn’t tell what time it was. Maybe past noon. But he heard a faint, muffled voice through the door.

  “I am here for you Master Antoine. Do you want your breakfast, dear sir?”

  Antoine swung his feet from the bed, letting the covers fall to the floor. “Giovanni? Certainly we can’t have slept that long. Maybe we can talk this afternoon?”

  “Oh but Master Antoine, I have prepared this especially for you…just look into my dead eyes. Do you see me?”

  Antoine opened the door to Giovanni, who had been standing obediently still, waiting for Antoine to rise and acknowledge him. Giovanni was standing with a large platter, with an oval silver cover. You see Master Antoine? I have brought this especially for you. I cannot see it with my dead eyes…but I know it is just for you.

  Antoine stepped back for a moment. “Giovanni, I’m not hungry. Will you please let me sleep?”

  “Oh but sir, these are especially just for you!”

  Antoine shook his head and took the platter from Giovanni and placed it on the bedside table. As he turned back to face his loyal servant, he waved his hand. “Now please, Gio, let me sleep for a while longer. I need more rest. Stay up if you wish, but I must sleep.”

  Giovanni left and closed the door.

  Enjoy, sir.

  Antoine climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up over his head. But he could not get the silver platter out of his mind.

  He could not fall back asleep. He would attempt lying in one position, holding the pillow over his head, shielding his eyes from the outdoor invading sunlight, but in his mind, there was the silver platter, he could see it despite his eyes being closed, sitting there, gnawing at his every emotion.

  Open me!

  And then Antoine’s curiosity got the best of him.

  He flung the covers over to the side, swung his legs onto the floor, and looked down at the platter. He lifted the lid, and instantly dropped it to the floor. He covered his hand over his mouth, agape and aghast.

  I see you Antoine! And I am always watching you!

  He crawled back under the covers as he heard laughter from out in the hallway. “Go away, go now!

  *****

  The next morning Darius was prepped for burial.

  The sun had been shining with brilliance as the coffin was hoisted into the funeral parlor, and it sat, back in the preparation room, a silver gleaming box with bright chrome handles. Its elegance was a striking contrast against the clinical feel of the preparation areas of the home, but it was a common scene.

  The day after Antoine’s discussion with Delia and Giovanni, he opted to venture to the funeral parlor to retrieve Darius’ body. He knew that this would be one of his greatest challenges. As Darius died as a mortal, many different things have happened. His body was prepped and laid in a coffin. There was a death certificate and record of his passing. And one more challenge.

  Time.

  Antoine was desperate to get the body away from the funeral home before it was embalmed. The body would swiftly decompose and d
ecay. And if Darius were to be embalmed, the blood would all be lost…

  Antoine woke with a sense of dread overcoming him. How long had he slept? He flung the covers to the floor with his feet, and craned his neck, while still lying flat on his back, to look at the bedside table.

  No platter.

  He looked towards the other side of the room, out the window, at a setting sun. He cursed himself for sleeping the day away.

  “Gio!” He called out as loud as he could as he hopped out of bed and searched for his trousers.

  Not after long, there was a soft knock on the door. “Yes, sir?” Giovanni stood in the doorway, his arms at his sides, looking over towards Antoine, with a white handkerchief folded in thirds, covering his eyes, wrapped over his eyes and presumably tied in the back of his head.

  “You covered your eyes?” Antoine asked, pulling up a pair of tight black pants.

  Giovanni entered the room and started to make the bed. “I have no eyes, Antoine. I see nothing. But I could sense both you…and Delia…staring at me many times yesterday. I thought it would be best to cover those ghastly looking holes.”

  Antoine looked over at Giovanni who had finished making the bed. “Well, it certainly isn’t necessary, but I appreciate the gesture. And I’m sure Delia does as well.”

  Giovanni nodded and headed towards the door. “Are you going to retrieve Darius today?”

  “Yes. I must get his body before it’s embalmed if there’s any hope of resurrecting him.”

  Giovanni nodded.

  “And Gio…” Antoine finished buttoning his shirt and smoothed his hair. “I have something eating at my mind that I need to talk to you about.”

  “Anything, Master Antoine.”

  “Did you knock on my door earlier this morning? What happened to the silver platter that you placed on my bedside table? Where did it go?”

  Giovanni cocked his head to the side. “Sir?”

  Antoine stood next to Giovanni and placed his hand on his shoulder. He leaned down towards the man’s face, and whispered. “What happened to your eyes, dear Giovanni?”

  Giovanni looked up at Antoine. “I already told you…she took them from me. She ripped them right out of my head!”

  Antoine nodded. “Yes, yes I know, Gio. I know that much of the story. But do you know what happened to them after she ripped them out?”

  “Yes.”

  Antoine raised his eyebrows, took his hand off Giovanni’s shoulder, and waited patiently.

  Giovanni’s voice quivered. “I saw it in my mind. I heard her stomp on them. She took her feet and smashed them into a pulp. I felt the floor tremble and her foot squished them. She was screaming. So loud. She kept saying ‘you will be forever blind!’ and ‘you will living eternally with this curse!’”

  Antoine shook his head.

  “And ever since, I have been living with these ghastly holes in my face, with the skin torn and ragged, and the blood that was dried…I finally washed away. And I healed. But I could never see again.”

  “And so the eyes were destroyed?”

  “Yes, they most certainly were.”

  “And you never brought me anything earlier this morning?”

  “No sir, I did not come calling once.”

  *****

  Once dressed, Antoine hurried out the front door, slamming it behind him. The sun was shining brilliantly when he coasted down the stairs and towards the driveway; he fished a pair of sunglasses from his coat pocket and ran towards his waiting Mercedes for the short drive into town and the funeral home. He slammed the door as the engine roared to life. Fumbling with the heat settings for a minute, he rubbed his hands together, put the car in gear, and peeled out of the driveway.

  As he slowed at the end of the driveway preparing to turn, he looked back on the chateau for a moment. He paused briefly as the car stopped, and noticed the approaching dark clouds, and the imposing shadow of the chateau, the darkness and gray-hued spires, reaching from the daunting structure.

  The sky seemed to be awakening as the clouds were gathering above. Antoine closed his eyes for a moment, and hung his head, closed his eyes, and then looked at the Chateau once again.

  And he felt a chill course through his body.

  For when he looked closely, into the clouds, his mouth fell open when he focused on the details of what was appearing above.

  The eyes.

  The same eyes that he remembered, years ago, looking down on him from the swirling, angry sky when resurrecting Darius before.

  The darkness had befallen once again.

  And as he drove to the funeral home, he remembered the night when he sought to raise Darius from the dead. So long ago, it seemed. He remembered lying in an open grave, full of putrid water; dark and dank, watching upwards as the dog-faced demon leaned over the edge of the grave, looking downwards upon him.

  Asmodai.

  Was he returning? Did he know what Antoine was preparing to do?

  After a drive of several hours, Antoine pulled into a cold, wet parking lot, next to a stark, grey building without many windows, as daylight was fading. He placed the car in park and got out. The cold air hit him like a brick wall and stung his face.

  Moments later, he stood in front of large steel door. There was a small, frosted square window just above shoulder height. Antoine stood up and peeked inside the window, but saw nothing. He banged on the door, and scanned the parking lot. He appeared to be alone.

  A light snapped on and Antoine saw shadowy movement on the other side of the frosted glass. Several locks clicked, and the door opened.

  “Good evening, Antoine.”

  It was the first time that Antoine had ever seen Ned McCracken in person. But Darius was familiar with the man, so Antoine trusted him and insisted he fly to Frankfurt to prepare Darius’ body for transport back to the United States, and to ensure that he was not embalmed. Now, that Darius was to be buried in Lyon, Ned was preparing the casket for transport via train, and Antoine appreciated that Ned still made the journey across the Ocean.

  Always known as ‘The Mortician’s Mortician’, Ned was rather well known through the Miami funeral circuit, and through the local churches in that area, but he flew to Frankfurt for this special reason.

  For Darius.

  He wore a grin, had warm brown eyes, and slicked dark hair. “Come in, Antoine. I will take you to him.”

  Once inside, Ned closed and locked the door. Daylight was almost gone, and the sky was taking on a dark blue tint. He led Antoine through a preparation room – past the giant glass cylinders used to mix embalming fluids, past a giant steel table, and into a long, barren, dimly lit hallway. “I’m sorry that you had to drive so far, dear Antoine.” Ned led the way, and looked back at Antoine as he spoke. “But my cousin owns this funeral parlor. His family has been living outside Frankfurt for years. And that’s why I had instructed you to have Darius sent here. But I have him here for you. All ready to go.”

  Antoine stopped in his tracks. “All ready to go. You didn’t embalm him, did you?”

  Ned smiled and shook his head. Antoine nodded. “Thank you, Ned.”

  They stopped in front of a door which was closed. Ned looked at Antoine expectantly. “Are you ready for this?”

  Antoine nodded and closed his eyes, as Ned opened the door and stepped aside. Antoine opened his eyes and saw the open door; he saw the warm light flowing out into the front hallway, but his feet would not move. He looked down at his feet and studied his shoes. They were the same black dress shoes that Darius had brought home to him from Paris just two years ago. He remembered that day so well.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Antoine!” Darius had called as the front door of the Chateau slammed behind him. Darius was standing in the foyer, in the same black dress shoes, and clicked the heels together. “Look what I brought you from Paris!”

  Antoine walked towards the door, nodding. “And you’re wearing them?”

  Darius threw his head back and l
aughed. “Don’t be silly my little immortal! My little chosen one! I have another pair for you here! Same shoes!” He raised a brown paper bag and shook it.

  Antoine took a step back and sighed, and opened his eyes. Darius looked so different now that the life was gone. So still. It was really gone. “Yes, I remember those shoes you have on him.”

  FRANKFURT-LYON

  Once Darius was buried, then it would be time to move on. Antoine decided that he would have the Chateau closed up, the shutters would be pulled shut, the furniture would be covered in white sheets, and Giovanni could opt to head back to Italy to visit with family until Antoine’s return.

  Antoine just had to get back to Miami.

  Just after his visit in Frankfurt, Antoine had settled into his seat on his return train ride, his car safely tucked into a car transport in the rear of the train, and he sat in his First Class cabin as the remaining passengers boarded the train.

  He called the cabin steward for a pre-departure cocktail. Once he had his bourbon, he relaxed into his seat and settled for the journey, closing his eyes, waiting for the train to leave, he closed his eyes and thought of the exchange with his unexpected visitor when he had first returned from Rome.

  “I cannot tell you the whole story here. I am unable to speak the words that you would like me to say. For there is much more story to tell that I could even comprehend. There were days when I thought that he was the most damned of demons; the killing he did, for sport. And then I witnessed his decay. His death. His rot and stench.”

  “I see…”

  Cristoph sat back in the large, plush, high backed lounger, holding a pen and yellow legal pad, writing furiously, as the dark ink glided across the paper. His eyes were staring with deep intensity through his thick, round lenses, accentuating the wrinkle in the center of his forehead.

  And then the fire crackled.

  The man stopped writing for a moment and leaned back as his face softened. “So, tell me again about the first few days after Darius had died,” the young man said. “Tell me about what happened from the moment of his death…until you buried him in the cemetery in Lyon where he now still lies, correct?”