Five Immortal Hearts: Harem of Flames

by Savannah Rose

  “Oh, this?” he asked, moving heavily curled black locks back from his eyes to look around, and down to the street below. “This is just a little, something, I whipped together. It’s not much. Not like, maybe, a perfect dress in the back of your closet when you thought you had nothing to wear.”

  I squinted at him, “… and, is there, a perfect dress in the back of my closet?”

  He shrugged, and stood up, seeming uninterested, “The back of a woman’s closet is her affair, so if there is, I’m sure I know nothing about it, or dinner plans with the Cardinal — tonight, at nine.”

  “Which, Cardinal?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Which one is worth having dinner with, in a perfect dress?” he asked.

  Lifting myself to a firmer stance, I challenged, “A perfect, dress?”

  Quinn pouted his lips slightly, seeming to reassess his choice of words, but then held fast to his claim, “Sì, sì, un vestito perfetto.”

  “Then, of course there is but one Cardinal in all of Italy — but I’m sure he has better things to do than to have dinner with a heathen — even one in a perfect dress,” I told him.

  “His Holiness is not so burdened with graces that he could not offer a moment to the practical world,” he answered.

  “The Practical world?” I asked, never hearing it described with that term in the context of visiting the Pope. That was always the distancing mark for me and the religious people I’ve come across in my travels. The practical world. It was fine to talk of high beliefs, and prophecy but babies still spit-up on shoulders, and diapers continually had to be changed — did the child Jesus never have to take a time-out? Could he claim to be one of us if he didn’t?

  “Yes, practical,” Quinn agreed, “and don’t let it go to your head too far; others will be present as well. We have much to discuss.”

  Quinn was powerful, angular and complex. His mahogany voice captured my attention, and my imagination. I could still feel how his oak, and leather scent caught me up that first night, as he lingered over me, leisurely taking in my nudeness at his pleasure.

  Straightening my shoulders, I brushed the glitter, and romance from my eyes, and cleared my head from the numbness of the trans-Atlantic flight. “I haven’t been able to place you,” I told him.

  “Place me?” he asked.

  “I’ve caught on to the realms or whatever you five call your areas. Kane worked with influence and power in the business areas, while Slate did much the same thing, but works the political arena. Raw’s focus is war, and all that goes with that.”

  Quinn stood, and drank down the last of the wine in his glass, “And you have trouble placing me into the matrix of the world,” he offered.

  Hell, I had trouble placing him in this century. If he wasn’t so fucking masculine, the open shirt, extremely tight pants, knee high boots and long curls would have him more feminine than I liked. Fuck if it did though. It would take more than tight pants, and curls to make him effeminate. For a brief moment I imagined him in a tux, and my heart nearly stopped.

  “Yes,” I barked out, in a cough, taking a step and coming close to breaking the heel off my shoe. “How do you see the world? Where do you focus your energy?”

  He alighted up on the railing of his balcony, and pivoted on a toe. “Oh, I thought that would have been obvious.” Then he stepped out, and slid across the space from his balcony to mine, on what looked like the transparent silver blade of a sword.

  Stepping down onto the deck of my balcony, he took up the wine bottle my porter had opened, and refilled his glass. “I focus on the spiritual, the religions, the beliefs and hopes of the people.”

  I snapped my mouth shut, and replayed what just happened in my mind twice. “Did you just slide down a moonbeam onto my balcony?”

  “Yes?” he answered waving a dismissive hand. “It’s all that faith stuff.”

  “I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t do that,” I said.

  He searched his memory, and shrugged when he came up empty, “I’m sure someone very holy, and famous did at some point. I can’t have been the first.”

  “Zeus, maybe,” I suggested.

  After admiring a mouthful of wine, he agreed. “Sure, that sounds like him. Always turning into gold dust and clouds to seduce his women.”

  “That what you’re hoping for?” I asked, feeling a thrill of challenge. “This is Rome buddy. The place where wolves raised men to be kings. Serious ground. Olympus is in Greece.”

  “I know where it is, I have a villa there,” he said.

  That stopped me. “You live on Mount Olympus!” I said, in wonder.

  “Oh, well, no. Just south of there. Olympus is a protected preserve now.”

  The way he said this, made it sound as if the gods were an endangered species — which sounded crazy, but all too real as well.

  I glanced at the wine glass in my hand, and chose my next question carefully. “Are you messing with my head?”

  “It is religion dear. Not for the faint of heart,” he offered, and neither was the intoxicating patchouli scent in the air.

  I was severely lacking in the area of mind altering experiences. A couple of nights a year I drank down more than I should, and howled at the moon, sure — but always around safe, trusted people. People who would bail me out or at least be sitting beside me in the jail cell, saying ‘damn that was fun!’. And, truth be told, I never truly enjoyed being in an altered state of mind. Glancing back at my wine glass, I tossed it over the side to the street below without further thought, and went into my room.

  When I didn’t hear the expected sparkling shatter of my wine goblet, I looked back to him, and found he had my glass in his hand.

  “You might hurt someone like that,” he said.

  “Keep messing with my head, and it’s a guarantee,” I replied, and continued inside.

  “Apologies,” he offered as he followed me into my room. “But it’s not fully under my control. This is not to say that it’s not me, but rather you’re bonding with me.”

  I stopped, and turned back to him. “I’ve been through that three times now and the other three didn’t feel like this.”

  “True, but my power is more internal. Our spiritual worlds, make up our beliefs, defining the boundaries, and fabric of our reality.”

  “Are you saying the effect is deeper?” I asked.

  “Not deeper, per se,” he said, his expression showing his active search for the right words. “More diffused perhaps. Even those of the same faith don’t believe in the same ways. Belief is a very personal experience. Personal and hard to define even for those who have invested long years of focused time searching for clarity.” It didn’t take long for me to agree with his assessment. My own beliefs were muddled in ways no other topic came close to being – clear as stirred up mud.

  “Alright,” I said. “What do you suggest?”

  His vagueness sharpened to an intense expression that was difficult not to describe as violent. “All the ground work is complete. Our energy tonight is only in closing the trap.”

  “Something tells me that you’re being literal — that C-source is close. Is it exposed enough to tell what it is?”

  He stepped closer to me, pulling something from his shirt pocket. “The people we are meeting with tonight have different names for the thing, but westerners like yourself would most likely call it a Grigori.”

  The name meant nothing to me, and I’m sure my expression told him this as I let him slip a gold ring on my finger. In the same motion his hand slid up my arm and cupped my breast bringing his lips to mine.

  “Aren’t you moving a little fast for being the holy one?” I asked, just before his lips sucked my lower lip between them in the most beautiful way.

  His smile looked more fox than dragon. “I don’t believe any of the people we are meeting tonight would call me holy. Besides, it would really depend on what part of the world you were looking at — for example, for the Kama Sutra, we’re not even close to th
e introduction.”

  The mention of thee Kama Sutra had the effect of reminding me there was more to religion than Rome — and that some of them even liked sex.

  “So, what is a Grigori?” I asked, after he released my lip.

  “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?” he said, and then took from my bra the iron nail Raw had given me. “One could ask what this is,” he added, but he didn’t sound jealous. “The easy answer would be that it is a token from Raw, except I know my brother well, and Raw doesn’t give tokens. Raw understands heartache, loss, mortality, and pain better than the Buddha. If he ever had a sentimental side to him, it was burned away long ago. So, again, what is this?”

  I looked at the nail again, remembering the ring it use to be and felt an ache. “He said to keep it for protection.”

  “Did he now? That is interesting. I think then, you should do as he suggested, and we should try that dress on, in case I didn’t get the measurements perfect.”

  Possibilities

  Say what you want about the people of Rome, they have presentation and impression down to a science. I discovered this truth can be found in triplicate inside Vatican City.

  While I had been to Rome several times on my way to other places, I never had the chance to visit the ‘city inside the city’ before. It was grander than I expected, but also more oppressive and aged than I expected. While the first was a theme which fit, the other two did not. They felt more human than celestial.

  This wasn’t vacation either. The impression Quinn gave could have been read as the brothers were closing in on C-Source, or it might have closed in on them, or us, or perhaps just me. These answers left little room for a news story, and in that direction my brain kept spinning — attempting to conjure one from the nothing I was getting from them.

  A thirty-something man stepped out from the Swiss guard post, in a long black coat and priest collar, and walked up to us once we crossed the bridge.

  “I’m to escort you to your dinner Ms. Stone,” he said.

  He didn’t mention or even look at Quinn; my dress appeared to be causing damage points on his vows though. Quinn promised a perfect dress, and made good on that promise; complete with exquisite shoes.

  I had never felt so nude, sexy and powerful before. The only accessory which could be desired would be a long dagger to wear down my exposed spine. Layers of shear silk; black and gold, held together by spider web lace with intricate designs of dragons and claws, covered me, hiding nothing. Small rubies, as red as murder on a holy day, created the eyes of these dragons; their faces in delicate, and eye gathering places.

  He turned, asking me to follow, still not looking to Quinn, making me turn to see if Quinn was still behind me. Quinn nodded, but his smile had vanished, and I noticed tension around his eyes. Perhaps it was the venue, but I felt something else at work. Instead of asking, I followed our guide, deciding to keep my ears and eyes open.

  This was more difficult than it sounded, especially once we were inside the Sistine Chapel. Vague lights caused long shadows to pour across the floor and spill out from the painted walls. From the stained glass, altered light played with these shadows, causing strange vibrations and many things to appear almost seen. Even solid objects became effervescent; excited.

  Then Quinn was on my arm, and holding back my speed, allowing our guide to move further ahead of us.

  “Notice anything?” he asked.

  “Other than a very creepy chapel?”

  “No Swiss guards. Not even in the guard post by the gate. Just him,” he said. “And now others ahead, near the door. Others like him.”

  I didn’t question how he knew this.

  “How like him?”

  “They each have animals inside them.”

  “Animals?”

  “Shifters,” he added.

  “Like you?”

  He smiled, purely amused. “Nothing like me. However, nothing to take lightly either. The message is clear. C-Source knew we were coming here-. These beings are here to kill you.”

  His voice became darker as he explained this, and I thought of the way the guide had ignored Quinn, focused only on me. A shifter? Like a werewolf, perhaps?

  Standing next to a dragon shifted into the shape of a man, I could not just toss the werewolf thought aside as being impossible, or belonging to some bedtime tale on late night TV.

  Now I seriously wished I had a long dagger hanging down my spine and I mentioned this to Quinn.

  “We can do better than that,” he said softly, and put his hand on my lower back, just above my ass. There was a jeweled clasp, which held much of the dress in shape through knots and tension. I felt it click, and the dress began to writhe about me. It billowed for a moment and then sucked down into a skin tight body suit. At first, I felt a single layer of silk was hardly better than a long dagger — and my dress was gone.

  My hands told me another story. The motion caused Raw’s iron nail to fall from its place against my breast, and I caught it before it fell, which wasn’t as cool as it sounds.

  By the time I grasped it in my hand it was four inches long. By the time the dress became a body suit, the nail was a twelve inch spike, and the dress wasn’t silk; this was the suit Raw gave me, or one just like it!

  Looking into the darkness, without hesitation I launched the mini drones, which ran down my spine. They were little more than cameras on propellers; eyes, which let me see in the darkness ahead without the obstructions of shadows, and altered light.

  There were eight men up ahead, and four of those were armed with pistols.

  Quinn grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back the way we came when I relayed this information to him. Three of my drones were shot out of the air, and I cursed. I’m not a good Catholic girl, but this was an amazing part of human history, no matter what you felt about the church or their beliefs. Firing a gun in here was worse than sin, or sacrilege; all the more reason to get out of the chapel as soon as possible. Recalling the rest of my drones I ran hard, stretching out my legs, and putting all I had into my thighs.

  Quinn approved and let go of my arm, positioning himself behind me; though it couldn’t be for protection. With this suit on, I was far less exposed than he was. Perhaps he wasn’t aware, after all it didn’t feel like armor.

  I hit the door with my shoulder and burst outside into the garden courtyard. An oppressive force came down on me like a hammer. The air was thick and heavy, as if gravity had tripled. The feeling created a primal fear in me, as if God were present in all of his Old Testament descriptions.

  Then I was clutched, and lifted into the air. I would have screamed if not for the unwavering knowledge that this was Quinn in his dragon form. He wasn’t like Raw at all, but rather like the dragons of the Japanese or Chinese. Long and thin, his claws the size of my body, clasped around me easy enough to feel secure, but not crushed. His claws however were menacing, dangerous as the feel of his strength which pumped through me as he rushed us across the Vatican City and out over the Mediterranean.

  I could no long feel the thick air, or see anything following us. “Those men,” I asked Quinn, “were they only there for us? Why so many?”

  “I don’t think so. I believe they intended to use you to get into the room where the others were going to meet with you.” Quinn replied, his voice a growling of words.

  “One of those people was the Pope, right? Who were the others?”

  “Leaders of all the major religions,” he said.

  “Then we have to go back. We can’t let that happen!”

  “Go back? The feeling in the air was the approach of C-Source, or whatever you wish to call him. I’m not taking you back. I’m not sure I can defend you against it by myself.”

  “Then call for help, but we have to go back. We will go back, now, or by God I’ll never talk to you again. I swear. You are immortal, and I am expendable. Every leader of the religious world is not. Go back!” I demanded.

  It was a fury of motion when he t
urned into a cyclone, pulling the waters of the sea up into rising tornado, and the clouds down from the skies. Lightning struck around me in crashing violence, and he roared.

  I think I pissed him off, I thought to myself, fear rushing through my veins.

  But then he burst from the swirling winds, waters and storm hurtling us back toward Vatican City.

  In the distance I heard two thunder crashes, one from the North, the other from the West.

  “Raw, and Slate have answered,” Quinn told me.

  “Will that be enough?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ve never gone up against one of the Sleepers before. We also have no idea which one has woken,” he said, but as he did a flood of his memories washed like surf into my mind.

  “His name is Marchosias,” I said and even though I said it, I had no idea what it meant. Inanna speaking through me, or filling me with memories that didn’t belong to me wasn’t something I ever saw myself getting used to. Right now, however, there was no time to worry about such things.

  “Sweet night, are you sure?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes. I think I am.” I told him, sure, but not one hundred percent convinced. “Makes sense with the animal men…the shifters. Also, that feeling in the air as we came out of the chapel, don’t you think?”

  According to the Ars Goetia, from the Lesser Key of Solomon, which might be all fiction or the ravings of a lunatic mind, Marchosias was a mighty aristocrat of Hell. He commanded a whopping thirty legions of demons. Sketches show him as a massive black dog, or a wolf, boasting gryphon’s wings and the tail of a serpent. As requested by the magician he so faithfully serves, Marchosias is also able to take on the form of a man. He had once belonged to the angelic order of Dominions, and wished to return to Heaven. At least that’s what I could gather from the stream of memories coming from Quinn, who I noticed had slowed down.