by A. L. Mengel
Antione looked down at his knees. “And he assumed then that he was going to die?”
Delia leaned back. “Well…” She looked down and appeared to study the magazines on the coffee table. “The encounter with The Hooded Man was the start. He just didn’t have the heart to tell you himself.”
Antoine stood and started pacing.
His face was shifted in anger. He breathed deeply through his nose. He guzzled his wine and held his glass out. “Giovanni,” he said. Giovanni raised his head and adjusted his handkerchief. He dashed over in the direction of Antoine’s voice and quickly refilled the glass.
“He certainly didn’t,” Antoine said. “And when I confronted him about it…when the rumors were circulating…he got defensive.”
I am still alive.
Antoine shuddered. He reached out and grabbed the mantle, holding his stomach. “He is still alive!” Antoine said.
“Are you okay, Antoine?” Delia set her wine down on the table with the clank and rushed to Antoine. She placed her hand on his back.
He waved up towards her, still hunched over.
“He was always defensive,” Antoine said, taking another gulp of his wine.
“Of course he was,” Delia said.
Antoine stood straight again and looked over at Delia. “Because he was ashamed.”
Antoine stared at the fire, crackling and popping in the fireplace. He didn’t know that he had spoken those words. And in his mind’s eye, he could see Darius. He could see Darius carrying an urn, filled with ashes, approaching Les Enfantes. He saw him standing on a shovel, breaking the ground under the tree, hoisting dirt over his shoulder until a grave was dug.
And he saw the ashes spread through the coffin. Antoine shook his head. “I can’t believe I was so hard on him for it. He was carrying this dirty little secret for years. And it must have tormented him, knowing he was going to die.”
Delia nodded but said nothing. She raised her glass as Giovanni refilled her wine.
“Dirty little secrets,” Delia said. “They can eat you from the inside out.”
Antoine returned his attention to the fire, watching Giovanni add a new log. “Darius struggled when he buried me,” Antoine said, never taking his eyes off the flames. “I can see it now. He was no longer an immortal at that point.”
“You mean when he had buried your ashes? After you were burned on the altar?”
Antoine broke his trance and looked over at Delia. She stood watching him, her skin taking on a deep glow from the reflection of the fire.
“Yes,” he said, and slowly made his way back to the couch. He sat, staring straight ahead. “Darius was not an immortal when he buried me. I can see it in my mind now.” He looked back up at Delia who joined him.
Antoine closed his eyes and sighed…
…And Antoine was hovering above Darius once again. As he experienced the visions in his mind, he spoke in small, simple words. “Darius told me about the decanter. He called it The Blood Decanter.”
Delia took notes furiously.
Antoine’s eyes were still closed. And as Antoine looked down at Darius, seeing the vision in his mind, levitating above him, he stopped and looked at his partner of centuries. Darius lay back, his eyes were closed; there was no movement beneath the eyelids.
No REM.
He couldn’t have been dreaming. He looked at Darius’ forehead, not breaking his stare, as the room turned black around him. Darius’ head seemed to levitate away from him, as Antoine was enveloped in total darkness, save Darius’ face, which floated away from him, further; it got smaller and smaller, until it was a tiny pinprick of light in the sea of darkness.
“Darius!” he called out in the front room, eyes still closed. “Darius don’t go. Don’t fly away!” Delia set down her legal pad with a worried look on her face.
Antoine reached outwards towards the floating face, and he felt that he was in vast nothingness.
The bed, the sheets, the room, the chateau. Gone.
Seek me.
He stopped for a moment, just as Darius was out of visual sight.
The voice was masculine, but did not sound like Darius.
Follow me.
And then there was the moment that there was movement in the distance – what initially looked like it could be the return of Darius’ face, it was quickly proven that it was not. There was movement.
A flash of red.
A crimson hue.
Come and follow me.
And then Antoine opened his eyes.
Delia’s mouth hung open as Antoine jumped up from the couch and raced down the hallway. “Darius!”
Delia assisted Giovanni as they went through the parlor, through the stone foyer, around the fountain, and down the hallway. When they got in view, Antoine was fighting with the lock. He looked over at them for a moment and then right back down to the doorknob. “Damn door is jammed!”
Giovanni rushed forward and kicked the door. It shook in its frame.
“Come on!” Antoine said, yanking the doorknob back and forth. He kicked the door and it shook. “I knew I shouldn’t have left the room. Now the door won’t open!”
Giovanni took several oversized steps back and Antoine moved to the side. Giovanni lunged forward and threw his weight against the door.
Antoine could see the light emanating through as the door splintered from the frame. He reached up for a piece that was splintering off, and tore it away, throwing a section of the wood into the hallway. Delia jumped backwards, never taking her eyes off of the two immortals tearing the door apart.
“Darius!” Antoine screamed as they ran into the room. A shadowy, red figure hovered over the bed and disappeared into the corner behind the armoire just as they reached the bed. “Darius!”
Delia’s heels clicked on the wooden floor as she approached the bed. Antoine covered his face with his hands. “I just know he’s gone, I just know. He’s gone! Dead!”
Antoine slammed the armoire and it crashed against the wall and corrected itself. He looked over at the bed. Darius lay flat on his back, covered in a white sheet, looking like a snow covered mountain range. He took a few steps closer to the bed, and looked at his former lover. He shook his head and felt his eyes well up with tears. “He looks dead. Should we check?”
Delia rushed over to Antoine and placed her hands around Antoine’s shoulder as Giovanni stood at the opposite side of the room, hanging his head low, and crying softly. He sniffled several times as Delia loosened her embrace. Antoine wiped his eyes. “I can’t even begin – to think – about where his soul may be now.”
Delia dropped her arms to her sides. “He was not entirely evil,” she said. “While you were in your coffin, Darius came to me, several times, when he was a mortal again.”
Antoine looked up, eyes red rimmed with tears. “He came to you?”
Delia nodded. “He was trying to find a way to survive. Searching for an elixir. He called it The Quest for Immortality.”
Antoine slowly walked over to the bed.
He looked down at Darius, he appeared to be not only dead – but decrepit. His skin sucked to his cheekbones like parchment paper. Antoine shook his head. After a few moments, he looked up at Delia. She was standing just behind him. He hadn’t even noticed that she had placed her hand, an open palm, in the center of his back.
“What was that?” Antoine asked.
Delia leaned in closer. “I mean I know of a manuscript. For a book he was writing. On his life. His story. And he called it The Quest for Immortality.”
Antoine looked up. “So you’re saying I can read this? Where is it? About the years he was mortal and I was buried? And find out what happened?”
She nodded. “The location…not sure, Antoine. It was rumored to have been at your Estate in Miami when the fire struck.”
“Was it destroyed in the fire? Is it finished?”
“The manuscript is substantial. Finished – I am not sure.”
“Where is it a
gain?”
“It is at the compound in Miami. He never brought it with him to France.”
“Then we need to go to Miami. I need to get my hands on that manuscript!”
III
THE KISS OF JUDAS
DELIA ARNETTE.
She was the woman, the immortal woman, the one who was always present, but not always noticed. She would never die; unless she betrayed her own kind.
In the Code of the Immortals, death was a certain sentence for those who betrayed their own kind – whether it be for murderous intentions, the pursuit of power, or other reasons.
But when she left the Chateau, there had been a certain feeling that washed over her, like the Christ blood – that redemption, however far that it may seem out of reach, especially for members of the immortal community, could very well be possible, at least for some.
Even for the darkest of individuals.
Even for those who lived a life full of evil, like Darius, who had lived a life of sin and passion. But when Delia got into her car outside Antoine’s estate, she made a mental note to find the manuscript for The Quest for Immortality for Antoine.
And later, as she sat back in her car as her driver navigated the small car-lined streets of Lyon, as she headed towards the airport, thoughts permeated her mind, and she wondered about the immortals as a whole society: could they be redeemed as well?
Was there hope for them beyond the physical world?
And after Darius died, after Delia had left for the airport in Lyon that one summer day, The Hooded Man struck the immortals with a vengeance.
Not far after that, the immortals were nearing death.
Extinction.
Even after defeating the villain, the wounds ran deep.
The blood was still fresh, and the many immortals who were seduced – the ones who drank from the decanter, were dying as mortals; final deaths.
No resurrection.
At least not in the physical world that they had come to know. Delia settled into her flight back to Rome from Lyon.
In the months and years after Darius passed, Delia remained close with the immortals.
She maintained her leadership role, and when The Hooded Man brought his assault against the immortals to a devastating crescendo, she was drawn to Antoine. Assisting him with navigating the leadership of a sector that was clearly the nucleus of the attack. And also comforting him when Antoine would shudder at the thought of Claret Atarah – or perhaps even Asmodai, the demon of hades, the demon of Lust, who had been pursuing Antoine for many years, ever since Antoine had resurrected Darius for the first time.
But when The Hooded Man was defeated, Antoine and Delia drew closer towards one another. Delia Arnette was now one of the most senior of the immortals, and she appeared aged.
Her hair had turned snow white.
Her hands and arms, appeared frail; but despite her outward appearance, she remained with the strength of her gift.
For she was still an immortal, she still would not die.
When Delia had first been transformed, when she was first given the dark gift of immortality, she had been young, gorgeous…a red lipped young starlet on the Vaudeville stage in Paris. And on that fateful night, when she took her bow at the end of the performance, she saw a man in the audience; a single pair of eyes in a sea of faces, staring right at her. Not merely watching the performance, or the bows, but staring directly at her.
Their eyes locked and the man nodded as the crowd stood on their feet and cheered as the rest of the cast took their bows. Delia slowly walked off stage, never taking her eyes off of the strange man. He seemed a bit out of place in the tiny Paris theatre; and she was strangely drawn to him.
Once backstage she rushed over to the makeup tables and started removing her glittering headdress. As she removed the bobby pins, she dropped her handheld mirror on the floor. As she leaned over to pick it up, she saw a pair of black boots. She paused, her hand on the mirror handle, and saw the man’s dark face in the reflection.
She turned around and looked up.
The man smiled, removed his hat, revealing long, flowing golden hair. He smiled. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said. “May I speak with you?”
She picked the mirror up and slowly placed it back on the make-up table. She leaned back in the small folding chair as the man moved around and leaned against the countertop. The other performers hurriedly removed their costumes and make-up, each picking up their belongings and leaving the theatre, one by one. Heels clicked against the hardwood floor, fading off into the distance. Several lights clicked off.
The man shifted his weight against the make-up counter and crossed his arms as they looked at each other in silence. Delia raised her eyes to look at him, as she still held the wadded up cloth in her hand. Bright red lipstick stained it.
“I know about you.”
Delia’s mouth opened. Her heart started beating fast. “Know…about me?”
“About you,” he said. “I know of your origins. Where you come from. Where you have been. We have been studying you.” He reached under some racks of costumes and fished out a small, wooden folding chair. He placed it on the floor next to her and sat facing her. “But first, please permit me to introduce myself,” he said. He extended his hand, taking hers gently, and he drew it up to his lips and kissed it. “They call me Tramos.”
Delia took a breath. “That’s…an interesting name,” she said, her eyes watching his hands.
He placed her hand gently back in her lap and leaned back in the chair. It creaked under his weight. Delia noticed how muscular he must be from the look of his large, powerful hands. “I know that you are special,” he said. “You have a unique assignment. But you…what…have embraced the physical world, yes? And the ways of the immortals as well?”
Delia looked back in the mirror.
Her lipstick was smudged across her cheek. She dipped the cloth in a small glass of water and started to clean her face. “How do you know this? So much about me. Who are you affiliated with?”
Tramos removed his coat.
“I am one of the eldest immortals.” He extended his hand as he told her about his origins. She got up and took his hand as they walked to the end of the stage. He spun her around, so that the room became blurred.
All was out of focus except his face.
Delia felt her eyes getting heavy. “Just focus on me,” he said. “Don’t lose sight of me…”
And then the stage turned black.
They spun as they lifted into the darkness. The lights cut out and they were bathed in black. The curtains soared down from the ceiling as they levitated.
Delia closed her eyes.
She was feeling nauseated.
But just as she closed her eyes, she felt Tramos put his powerful hands on her cheeks. “Stay awake, dear one. You will want to see this show!”
She struggled to open her eyes, but when she did, Tramos spread a pair of fine white wings from his back…so wide they reached far outwards from his muscular body. As the wings soared outwards, the spinning ceased, and Delia looked at an immense black mountain range, rising from an unseen land.
The green sky lent a foreign hue.
She looked down at an empty beach and surf from the sea. He flapped his wings as they hovered above the beach. He held her tight, and she felt his powerful muscles engulf her. She looked up at his piercing blue eyes.
Are you my war angel?
He looked down at her and smiled. “Shall I take us down to the beach?” She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.
Delia saw a small bonfire appear in the middle of the sand, burning and emitting a plume of dark, black smoke. She looked back up at Tramos. His long, blonde hair was blowing freely in the wind, and his eyes were closed. As his powerful arms were still wrapped around her, they gently glided down to the beach.
Tramos set Delia down gently on the sand. The surf splashed in the distance, crashing against stones and emitting a dull roar. Her mo
uth dropped open as Tramos extended his wings to full span. They reached from one end of the beach towards the other.
“You!” she gasped. “Are an angel!”
Tramos leaped upwards and flapped his wings and they carried him into the sky. Delia looked up, her mouth open, her hand covering her forehead, shielding the sun from her eyes. He glided across the sky, as his wings soared out from his body. “Now you try!”
Delia looked up at Tramos.
He was hovering above the beach, his wings bent at an angle as he gently lowered himself down towards the sand. He watched Delia watching him in awe.
“Your wings…they’re so beautiful!”
His wings were the color of ivory; but they caught and reflected the light in pastel rainbows. White at their crest; a bit darker in the inner parts of the wing.
But so bright and reflective.
Delia had to shield her eyes when she looked at them. And when he spread them, as they reached their maximum span, they appeared to reach across the entire sky, bathing the beach in celestial light and the colorful echo.
And then she heard what sounded like music.
“Is that music I hear?” Delia called up to Tramos.
He looked back down at her, and smiled.
Yes, there was music.
She could tell.
Just ever so faint. Like a hum. Or a chorus. The singing was faint but audible; and hit a crescendo when he spread his wings out to their maximum. A cascade of mezzo-sopranos from an unseen choir.
She watched as he drew his wings inwards to his back as the music stopped and the light faded.
They were as real as they could be. And when she had seen him gliding across the sky, she knew what she felt. She could feel their comfort. As if those wings were spread to protect her, and only her.
Tramos walked towards her as the singing stopped. The dull roar of the surf returned. “Time for you to try!”
