The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  “Thank you again for coming on such short notice,” the Monsignor said. “Let’s begin.”

  He stood and Darius watched the booming man take his place in the center of the room. He snapped off the projector, and then looked around the room. “Darius Sauvage is here with us today. He is facing a challenging predicament – he is mortal again, he has lost his immortality, and is facing a certain and final death if we cannot intervene. The only thing that will save him is to drink from the Christ’s Cup – which, at this time, we are unware of the location of the cup or even if it still physically exists after so many years. But that, everyone, is another story for another time. Why we are gathered here today is to determine the how and why Darius finds himself in this situation. Darius here has been so kind as to fly here from Miami on a moment’s notice, so we can get an idea of who he is and his origins.” Monsignor Harrison took a few steps back and gestured. “Darius.”

  Darius’ eyes widened as he looked around the room.

  The Monsignor took his seat and gestured once again for Darius to begin. Darius stood in the front of the room, and looked outwards at the people sitting around the conference table. Delia smiled at him again.

  “Bon Giorno, to the High Council,” Darius said. He removed his jacket and placed it on a nearby chair, and stood again in front of the room, and clasped his hands together at his waist. “I will get right to it. There was an exact, very precise moment when I knew that Antoine would be the one that I transformed into my son. It came many years before I had first spotted in him the café; for I had been following him and watching him all of that time.”

  The Monsignor interrupted. “And where can we find Antoine? We would like to question him as well.”

  Darius looked downwards. “I’ve just flown to Europe from Miami, after the battle at the Sea of Souls. Antoine has just died on the altar at the hands of Nesmaron, the demon that Roberto had transformed into. I’m afraid he is currently not living.”

  Delia stood.

  Darius noticed her stringy, silver hair, and the silver pendant that hung around her neck. “Darius, tell the group about your experience in Miami recently. About the man who visited you. The ‘Hooded Man’, as he is called. And tell us about what is happening to you now. Physically and emotionally.”

  Darius nodded and cleared his throat.

  “Okay. So as you know, Antoine had resurrected me a few years back. He brought me to Miami and I have been living in that area with him ever since. The demon Asmodai had been following Antoine since the days in Lyon, when he brought me back. Claret had also been pursuing Antoine. And somehow, Antoine was betrayed. Dragged to an altar and burned to ashes.”

  “When did this happen?” Delia asked, leaning forward.

  “Just recently. Antoine was a very particular leader – he was all about charisma and presentation. Miami loved him. But he met someone who betrayed him. Sought his power, I suppose.”

  Delia sat back and nodded.

  Several of the people around the table took some notes on large, yellow legal pads. Cristoph sat at the corner of the table typing on a small laptop. The Monsignor removed his glasses and sat back in his chair. “Go on, Darius,” he said. “Tell us more of your story. When did you first encounter this ‘Hooded Man’?”

  Darius pulled one of the small side chairs to the center of the room and sat. “I had been living in Miami for several years when I first saw this man. A man who wore a hood. I had heard a few people talking about him – in nightclubs and bars, mainly. That’s where we would always hang out. Everyone would always talk – about the man in the hood who rode in on a cloud of white mist and carried a decanter. It was a big rumor that was talked about in hushed conversations, but that was about it. The man seemed to be a mythical figure. Everyone I had talked to had heard of someone who had drank from the decanter, so everyone knew someone who was dying, but I knew of no one personally. Well, he came to me.”

  “And what does this decanter do?” The Monsignor asked.

  Darius shrugged as Delia raised a finger. “I have performed some research on this decanter, your greatness. It’s a weapon to lure the immortals to early deaths.”

  The room erupted in chatter.

  “Silence!” The Monsignor stood. “Everyone, please! We cannot jump to conclusions. Please be quiet and let Darius finish his story.”

  After a few minutes, the chatter in the room died down, and Darius continued. “The story on the streets goes like this: a man in the hood visits an immortal shortly before their ‘death’. He targets immortals who have lost the gift. He carries this decanter – which has a bulbous base and top, and looks similar to a whiskey decanter. But it has a red, swirling potion inside. He convinces his victims to drink from it, insisting it brings them salvation.”

  “How does he do that?” The Monsignor sat back down.

  Delia answered. “He is very convincing, your highness. So many immortals believe they are damned for all of eternity. This ‘Hooded Man’ places a spell on the immortals he encounters. He convinces them that drinking the potion will save them and offer them redemption.”

  “A spell? And will it offer them redemption?”

  Darius looked at the man directly. “No, your highness. The decanter brings death. But yes to your other question. He recites some sort of an incantation as he approaches his victim. And what we have been finding so far, is that the spell does not fail. Like it didn’t fail with me.”

  “I see.” The Monsignor nodded and gestured for Darius to continue. Darius looked around the room, stood, and removed his shirt. His chest was covered in tiny, red sores. “I am dying, everyone. I drank from the decanter, and now I am dying a quick physical death. I am twenty-five, but how old do I appear?”

  Delia looked down at the table, and wiped her eyes.

  Darius looked at those around the conference table and no one said a word. Darius was macerated and sickly thin. He placed his hand on his head.

  One of the priests at the end of the table stood. “How do you know that you were enchanted? That you were under a spell? And not just simply fascinated by his potion?”

  The room erupted in chatter once again.

  Darius looked at the man. His small framed barely hovered over the table. He adjusted his glasses as he waited for Darius to provide an answer. The small priest spoke again as the chatter in the room died down. “Darius, we have studied you. Researched your life and how it has led up to that particular moment. We have watched you and how you relate with Antoine, how you have become a cold blooded killer. Do you think that maybe you have become a little lost in your ways?”

  Darius shook his head. “No…” He sat down slowly and stared at the contents on the table. There were several books – thick research volumes – and several files. Large photos of himself, as well as Antoine, some other photos of Miami, and another folder that was marked CONFIDENTIAL. Darius reached for the folder as his voice trailed off. “No, not at all…”

  Monsignor Harrison gestured for the small priest to sit, and then looked back over at Darius. “I am certain you understand your predicament. And the purpose of this hearing is to help you, not to harm you.”

  Darius flipped through a folder filled with glossy photos of the park, the dead cops, the young Hispanic man, and himself. There were also copious reports and handwritten notes. He looked up at the board, and then back up and around at the High Council. “When was all of this assembled?”

  The Monsignor answered without hesitation. “We have had some operatives in Miami trailing you for some time now.”

  Darius took a step back and shook his head. He looked down at the files and photos, spread out on the table. “So you are saying…what…I am being watched? For what purpose?”

  Monsignor Harrison leaned forward and folded his hands. He raised his eyes to view Darius directly. “Darius, you have been quite a burden for our society. You have drawn attention to yourself for centuries. Your whole tutelage of Antoine has been sub-par. He is
lost. A lost immortal, Darius. You have failed him.”

  Darius felt his heart race and the skin at his temples tighten. His face grew hot. He swallowed, and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You are telling me that I am what – a failed immortal? What are you trying to do with me? Throw me away? Toss me out with the trash?”

  The Monsignor stood. “Now, Darius. No reason to get upset.”

  Darius grabbed his jacket. His eyes flared. “Just let me be clear on one thing, your highness. Am I being excommunicated?”

  The Monsignor sighed. “Put down your coat, my son. Please calm down. And this may help.”

  Monsignor Harrison removed his glasses and walked over to the dark side of the room, grabbing a small folding chair. He sat directly next to Darius and looked directly into his eyes.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Darius was still breathing heavy.

  “Sit down and calm down,” Monsignor Harrison said again, this time more insistent.

  Darius set his coat down on the table slowly, and sat. He glared into the Monsignor’s eyes.

  Monsignor Harrison sat back and a deep breath. “Look into my eyes, Darius. I am going to hypnotize you. You must remember, my son.” He motioned to one of the other officials and the lights were dimmed. He picked up a candle from the conference table, struck a match and lit it.

  Darius felt his eyelids getting heavier with each passing second.

  “I want you to think, Darius. Open your mind to what I am saying. Think about the days when you first were transformed. Think about Tramos. And how he came into your life. Open your mind to me, Darius…”

  Darius could not help it, he closed his eyes, and then he was standing in the same rooms that he had so many years ago, when he was still mortal. He remembered the same, small bedroom with the eastern facing window; the same, delicate curtains that hung on the window, and the same small bed in the center of the room.

  “What happened in that room, Darius?”

  Darius shifted in his seat but his eyes did not open. “He could come to me there…he would visit me…and then he transformed me…”

  “Go on, Darius. Take us there. Take us back to Lyon…it’s time to remember Tramos…”

  LYON

  A small spider scurried across the wall, heading up towards the ceiling as a cool summer breeze blew through the window and across Darius’ face. He could hardly remember the night before. He picked at the grit in his eyes, and felt the ache in his legs. Had he been running? He couldn’t remember, but swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded across the room, shaking the sleep out of his head.

  Darius did not always live in Lyon.

  He did not venture to the south of France until he was in his early twenties; but it was there, when he had lived in a new city and away from the constrictions of his mother and father, he found a new vision of his life; at which point that he blossomed as a mortal.

  Darius also could not remember the last time that he saw Tramos. Once Darius had received the gift, the immortality that he had once so longed for as a young mortal man, he was very quickly abandoned.

  Tramos, oh dear Tramos. Are you with me? Tramos, are you there?

  During those first days, in the genesis of his new immortal life, he found himself frequently in deep thought.

  And it always was about Tramos.

  Darius could still see the long, flowing hair as he always walked in front of Darius; he could still feel the roping, powerful muscles in his back, and the commanding way he would carry himself.

  But as quickly as Tramos was there, he was gone. It was always that way; Tramos would appear for minutes or moments, but never stay.

  There were years of uncertainty long before Darius lost the gift – when he had become a mortal for the second time in his life. For in the beginning, he was not always the confident immortal that he once was; and, as there had been with Antoine, there was also a long period of time where Darius had his own lessons to learn; where he had become the student as opposed to his usual role of the mentor. A time when Darius sought confidence, the quest, the path to freedom; to independence and surviving in this new, foreign world on his own.

  “I am going to walk tonight on my own,” Darius found saying to himself as he would rise in the evening. He was a young immortal; many would mistake him as a vampire. And to even more, he was appear as that of a vampire. But in such an infantile stage of immortality, the case of mistaken identity was a common one.

  “I was never a vampire,” Darius had explained, centuries later, to his psychiatrist, Claire Winchester, in Miami, while dying as a mortal. He had started seeing Claire after he lost his immortality. “People once mistook me for a vampire. As they also had with Antoine. But it’s a silly mistake. Vampires are mythical figures. They’re heroes in stories. Folklore and such. But angels and demons…the supernatural is real. We are real.”

  But in the early days when Darius had become the student, he had been most vulnerable.

  The first night, that first terrible night, his eyes opened. He could still feel the grit and dirt between his eyelids, and he instinctively reached his finger towards the edges of the bed and was halted by a solid surface. His head throbbed.

  “Tramos? Are you there?”

  Only silence.

  His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the darkness, but he could sense confinement. Not that of a cage, but more of a box. He shifted his body, and heard a dull creak.

  He shifted again.

  The same creak followed. But there was still only darkness. And an overwhelming sense of confinement.

  Feeling that the grit and dirt were cleaned sufficiently, he opened his eyes once again. He tried to raise his hands, and they were blocked, by an unseen ceiling. Something soft, like a fabric, yet with a hardness underneath, like wood. Soft though, initially, yes. Perhaps fabric. Cotton or satin of some sort. Yes, perhaps that was it.

  But it was the solidity of his surroundings that bothered him. And the darkness that would eat away at his mind.

  He could feel his heartbeat as he looked to the left, and then snapped his head to the right. “Tramos?! Where are you?”

  And then he reached out towards his right. The same softness covering the same hardness. And then to his left. Once again, the same.

  He took a deep breath and held it, and shifted once again. The same creaking, like wood on steel, like metal shifting on top of stone, ensued.

  What happened to Tramos?

  He racked his mind to remember, as he exhaled. He closed his eyes once again.

  There had been a small café, although it may have been a bar. He remembered that much. The wine had been flowing freely. He remembered that as well. And when he concentrated, when he tried with all of his might, he could see the wine glass. The deep red liquid, and the tiny bubbles that hugged the side of his glass. And as he raised the glass, he saw the glass rising closer towards his lips, upwards, expanding, as the deep, dark liquid started flowing towards him…

  …and then he lowered the glass from his lips, and saw Tramos in a fit of laughter. His teeth were gleaming white and well pronounced. Darius looked down at his wine glass as he placed it on the table, and looked up again at Tramos, who was slapping his knee, and then leaned back in his chair, and stared at Darius intently.

  And then, after just a few moments, Tramos shuffled a bit, and regained his composure. He looked over the table at Darius with wide eyes, framed by long, golden hair that reached down towards his powerful arms. He smiled at Darius, and paused for a moment, reaching his arm across the table. “Stop this nonsense, Darius. This is just a replay of this in your mind. You are seeing this again, but you are lying in a coffin. I won’t be there, I promise you that. And you will find your way. I promise you that too.”

  Darius looked up from his wine. “Where are you Tramos? Have you abandoned me? Will you leave me?”

  “I have not abandoned you. I have always been, and
will always be with you. It’s up to you to listen to what I have to say to you.”

  “What do you have to say to me?”

  Tramos looked at Darius, directly in the eyes. He leaned in closer, hovering over the table, and reached his arm out, placing an enormous hand on Darius’ back shoulder, drawing him in. “I come with a warning.” Tramos took his hand down and placed it over Darius’.”

  Darius paused for a moment, and looked down at the large, muscular hand covering his. The fingers, he noticed, were large, thick and pulsating. Neatly trimmed nails. Veins spider webbing up a muscular forearm. Clean and powerful, yet soft and reassuring and protecting. Tramos spoke again, leaning in closer towards where Darius was sitting, and spoke again, this time at a much lower level. “A warning, Darius. I come with a warning.”

  And Tramos reached his arm upwards, and the activity in the bar halted. When Darius looked around the room, he saw the same small, dark tables. But the candles in the center of each table had a flame which was frozen still, and when his gaze drifted off towards the bar, he saw the bartender, holding his arms upwards, holding a mixing glass and shaker, frozen in the process of mixing cocktails. And the patrons, scattered about the room, some at the small, dark tables, others leaning against the wooden columns that reached down from the ceiling to the floor, and even more huddled over the bar top, looking upwards to where the bartender had been doing his mixing – all frozen still and silent in a semblance of a painting.

  “My warning is of a great unfortunate prophecy. I have inserted myself into your memory so you can make a difference for our kind. There will be one that will come, and his only purpose will be to destroy us.”