War Angel (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  Antoine looked upwards, as if to search the sky for an answer. “I want to say…hmmm…back in Badulla? Did I see you then? Back when I was newly transformed?”

  Ramiel shifted his face. “I’m not sure…Antoine. I think we met much later, no? Were you not already transformed?”

  Ramiel moved close to Antoine as the three entered the foyer. He moved close to Antoine, and hugged him from behind. Antoine froze, accepted the hug, and placed his palms on Ramiel’s muscular forearms. Ramiel moved closer, and pressed his body close to Antoine’s. He could feel that Ramiel had been working out. His chest was far more musclebound than Antoine had remembered. He felt Ramiel’s hard member press against his buttocks as Ramiel wrapped his muscular arms around Antoine.

  Antoine spun around. “No!” he said. His eyes flared. “His body is still lying in the back room! How can you attempt play at a time like this!”

  Ramiel took a few steps back.

  Ned approached from the foyer, stood silent, motionless, with wide eyes. He looked at Antoine and Ramiel, and then back at Antoine. “Did I miss something?”

  Ramiel had a grin plastered across his face like a Cheshire cat. “No, nothing at all, Ned. Just remembering old times, that’s all.”

  Antoine looked at Ramiel and shook his head. “Let’s go upstairs and keep focused on the task at hand.”

  *****

  Back in the days when Darius had just died, and despite Tramos’ intervention and his tutelage, Delia did not notice her gift as much. She did not realize how important she had become to the immortals and their destiny. It was before the days of the hooded man and his assault on the immortals. When Darius had just died, Delia did the exact thing that she had been doing for years: be a close friend to those who were closest to her.

  And after Darius was gone, she chose to focus on Antoine. But still, she always felt a very close connection with Darius, even after his death. And she still felt a connection with Antoine and Darius together.

  As if they were two beings, interlocked through the pursuit of immortality; their destinies intertwined as a singular spirit.

  Those two, she felt, she had the most connection to.

  Her connection to Darius, however, spanned a greater length of time. She was instantly drawn to Darius when they had first met in Paris.

  She and Darius had both been transformed with the gift already, and Delia was performing on the Vaudeville stage. When her number was over, she looked out into the audience. To the dark sea of faces as the applause rang through the auditorium. She was not focused on the sea of people. She couldn’t even hear the applause. It was as if she were wearing a pair of muffs, for all the sounds seemed so distant. When she took her bow, she closed her eyes for a moment. And when she snapped back up, she saw the one face.

  But there was one man that stood out.

  But she knew differently this time.

  For the man in the audience was not a familiar face. It was not Tramos, and although she knew that she was special, that she was chosen, and others were pursuing her to raise her awareness of her gifts, there was still the mystery of this particular man.

  A face who stared directly at her, that spoke to her.

  That connected with her.

  Her mouth dropped open, just slightly, as she stared directly into his eyes, watching him watching her. As she turned with the other performers to exit the stage, she kept watching him, and he kept watching her.

  Just like before.

  I know you are just like me.

  She broke her trance as she skittered off the stage with the other starlets. Once in the dressing room backstage, she sat in a small folding chair wiping the heavy layer of make-up off of her face, when she heard approaching footsteps on the wood.

  “Delia? Delia Arnette?”

  It was a strange replay.

  Who was the visitor that watched this performance?

  The voice was masculine, yet sounded young. Not like Tramos at all. Still working on the confidence. She turned around, and saw him.

  Tall, lanky. Long, brown hair tied back. Still yet to fill out. But clearly a man. “Yes?”

  “I’m Darius Sauvage. I caught your performance.”

  Yes. That was it.

  He was clearly the one.

  The face in the crowd.

  The eyes that had stared back at her when she took her bow, when she lifted her head and saw that one, single solitary face looking back at her in a sea of darkness.

  “I saw you watching me. Somehow we made eye contact. I hope you liked the show. How may I help you, young man?”

  He stammered, and fidgeted with a hat, which he held at the front of his waist. He looked down at the floor. “Are you…who I think you are?”

  Delia scoffed and returned her attention to the mirror, and dabbing at her make-up. She continued to look in the mirror as she spoke with Darius. “And who do you think I am?”

  He looked around the room and grabbed a small folding chair near the hanging heavy black drapes that concealed the back of the stage. He slid the chair next to Delia and sat. He faced her, although she could see him in the mirror, she did not turn around. She stopped wiping her face for a moment, watching him in the mirror, as she waited for an answer. When she saw him looking down towards his feet, she tossed the cloth on the table. “Who do you think I am?!”

  He looked up.

  She watched him and made eye contact with him. It didn’t matter if he answered or not. Because she already knew. He was the same as her. Maybe on a different level, perhaps from a different bloodline, but still on the same level.

  Delia sighed and turned back around to face him. “You already know who I am, don’t you?”

  Darius leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, raised his head to look at her, and his eyebrows.

  She stood. “So if you know who I am…which you certainly must know, since you came to my performance. Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Lyon.”

  She shook her head as she circled the area where Darius sat. “Yes. Lyon. But now you’re in Paris. And now you’re a man.” She leaned close down towards his face, and met eyes with him. “Now you’re a man and now you’re calling on me. So do you know who I am or not?”

  He leaned back. “Yes. I do.”

  “And why did you come calling? Why did you come to my show?”

  “Well, we’re the same. I wanted to find others like me. I was transformed and abandoned.”

  “Abandoned?”

  “Yes. My maker left once I was transformed. He visited me for weeks and weeks up until the night he transformed me, but once that happened, I never heard from him again.”

  She turned around.

  The look on her face softened.

  A young, scared, abandoned immortal sat before her, looking at her with wide, open eyes. “Are you scared?” she asked, her head now cocked to the side, a smile now warmed her face.

  Darius looked at her and bit his lip. “I…” he stammered. “I don’t know what to make of this. I feel this hunger inside of me that I cannot explain! I have desires that I never thought I would have! Things look different to me now...when I look around, all I see is death…”

  Delia leaned forward and took his hands. She looked down as he intertwined his fingers with hers.

  They sat, facing each other, holding hands, looking down in each other’s laps, and sat there as the theatre closed for the evening around them, as the lamps were shut out and curtains were drawn closed.

  Darius kicked his feet against the hardwood floor. He leaned back and forth, as if searching for an answer. “Well,” he stammered. “I have heard rumors about you. That you are the protector. You guide and counsel the immortals. I thought you might do the same for me.”

  She stood, walking around the chair, and around over to Darius, and leaned down to look at him face to face. She placed her hands on his chin, as he raised his eyes to look at her. “You have heard that? Who have you heard it from? And i
f they told you that, then certainly they told you of the requirements?”

  He leaned back and shook his head as she continued back towards the makeup counter. “I didn’t know there were any requirements. I was told that you were protective of all.”

  She paused and sat back in the small folding chair. She hung her head down, looking down at the floor between her legs. “You know, despite what they all say, I am the same as you. I am just an immortal who got transformed. Just like you. I am scared and worried about my future. Just like you.”

  “And they told me to come to you.”

  She snapped around. “Who are they?”

  Darius leaned back, looking up at Delia with wide eyes. “Uh…they…well…Tramos had mentioned your name. And when I saw it on the billboard, I bought a ticket to the show. But the word on the street is that you’re a protector.”

  She looked down for a moment and then back up in his eyes. “And then you thought I could be your salvation? From what? Who is chasing you, Darius?”

  Darius looked up. He leaned back.

  “Chasing me? No one is chasing me. I was just compelled to contact you. Was I wrong?”

  Delia fidgeted with the items on her makeup tray, looking down, and sighed. “No, Darius. No, not at all. I am sorry for the chilly reception. I can help you. I certainly can. And know that there are no coincidences, my new friend. Everything that happens is meant to happen. And Tramos was meant to mention my name to you. And you were meant to purchase a ticket to my performance. And I was meant to see your face looking at me from the dark crowd. There are no coincidences, Darius.”

  *****

  As Antoine meandered through the kitchen, Ramiel followed, watching Antoine’s every move. Antoine kept looking back at Ramiel, who was always nearby, watching him closely. Antoine could feel Ramiel’s intense stare, and as they sat at the wooden table, directly across from each other, Antoine thought he might have remembered when they had first met.

  “I remember a night in Badulla,” Antoine said, folding his hands, his eyes staring straight into Ramiel’s. “You were one of my suitors, weren’t you?”

  Ramiel let out a small laugh and looked down at the table, then back up. “Your suitors?”

  “Well you know I was a prostitute for tourists.”

  He nodded. “I think that might have been what it was. But that isn’t the reason why I came to Badulla. Or why I was waiting for you in the café. You don’t remember?” He leaned back, as his eyes darted around the room. He paused for a moment. “Do you think Ned needs help? He might. But I think we should explore it a little bit.”

  Antoine nodded and poured some tea for Ramiel, who continued. “I had just gotten in from Rome. And the Monsignor had already retired. We’d finished our meeting with the Southeast Asian sector of the immortal commune, and I was feisty.”

  Antoine nodded. “You certainly were.”

  “But I knew you were important, Antoine. I knew about your destiny.”

  Antoine looked up from stirring the sugar cubes in his steaming tea. He raised his eyes towards Ramiel. “My destiny? How did you know that?”

  Ramiel chuckled. “Antoine, I’m much older than you. I was transformed many years before you. And I work directly with Monsignor Harrison in Rome. Do you not think that I would have a vast knowledge of our immortal kind? Of all those in the lineages and ancestry that we have?”

  Antoine nodded.

  “And so you need to realize,” Ramiel said. “We were meant to meet. That I can assure you. There are those of us who are rumored to be much more than immortals. Our dark gift, as we have called it throughout the centuries. There are those of us who are rumored to possess the dark gift but also have other celestial connections.”

  Antoine’s eyes widened. “You mean…”

  “There are those of us who could be angels.”

  AFTER THEY HAD LEFT THE HILL of Golgatha, Monsignor Harrison settled into the backseat of the large, black sedan and started thumbing through a book, as Delia looked out the window on the opposite side, through the muted view of the tinted glass, and saw the sandy, brown hill in the distance.

  The cross still hung. She could see the shadow.

  But the sun wasn’t as intense as before. She could see dark clouds on the horizon.

  Delia lay back in her seat, leaned her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes as the car pulled away for Ben Gurion International outside of Jerusalem. As she listened to the tires crunching through the gravel and dirt, and then the eventual hum of the engine as the dirt roads gave way to pavement, she remembered Paris from her days as a little girl, back in the days before Vaudeville had come to town.

  She remembered the words of mother.

  “We all need to have a little courage,” she had said, as she braided little Delia’s hair. Still a child in those days, she looked up towards her mother’s smiling face. “Mama, do you have courage?”

  Her mother’s face fell and she stopped braiding.

  The door crashed open and father spilled into the room. He was drunk again. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  He lunged forwards and grabbed mama’s arm and tore her away from little Delia. She held her hands up in defense as her eyes were wide with terror. “I – No – !”

  “You stupid fucking bitch!”

  But little Delia had been accustomed to her father’s repeated assaults on her mother. She started to cower backwards – but stopped. Little Delia stood and started slapping on her father’s hip, as his head snapped down and glared at her. “Lay your hands off me you little child!”

  Delia looked up and scowled at her father as her mother eased back towards the wall and flopped back under the window, holding her hands over her face. A stream of blood ran from her mother’s nostril.

  “Leave her alone!” Delia shrieked.

  Little Delia maintained her stance, her arms against her hips, her neck craned upwards, and she glared up at her father, as he looked down at her, his eyes rimmed red, his hair mussed and oily. Drool spilled out of his mouth as he bent down towards her. “Don’t you think you can save her?! She is a whore and doesn’t need any saving! So you think you’re a fucking angel? Just look like a little child to me! Now get out of my way!”

  And he stumbled across the room, slamming the door behind him, as Delia flew to her mother’s side. Mother leaned her head back against the wall, crying, holding Delia in her arms. “He’s drunk again…he’s drinking every night…”

  The car’s suspension fumbled over a speed bump as Delia was roused from her dream. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and stretched her arms. She felt the warmth of a solitary tear stream down her cheek, as she smeared it away with her hands. She took a breath and cleared her throat as she leaned forward. “Are we close?” She looked up at the diver as he turned around once the car was at a stoplight. “Not far yet, ma’am. Not far yet.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled, and looked out the window. They were still in broken territory. They weren’t in modern Jerusalem yet, so she could have only been asleep for a few minutes, at the most. The palm trees rose from the dry sands on the sides of the streets, amidst dilapidated old houses. She sighed and looked down at her hands. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the zipper on her purse. She fished her plane ticket out and examined it. “How, after so many years, can you still make my hands tremble?”

  The Monsignor looked up from his book and over at Delia and raised his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Delia made a fist, never taking her eyes off of her hands. “I…I will be okay. Yes.” She raised her head for a moment. And then looked over at the Monsignor. “Yes, I will.” There was more confidence in her voice. More determination. “Let’s catch our flight, your Highness. I have so much more to tell you once we get to Rome.”

  “You can’t tell me now?”

  Delia shook her head. “No, your highness. I need some more time to face it. To process what I have running through my mind. Once I’ve had a chance to sort i
t all out, I will speak to you about it. I think once we get to Rome I will feel better about everything.”

  Monsignor Harrison nodded and returned to his book. “Understood. Fair enough.”

  As the car approached the terminal, it slowed in front of Departures. Delia looked out the window and noticed it was teeming with activity. Lines of people stood and waited with bags of all sizes at curbside check-in. Others dashed in and out of oversized, glass revolving doors, as cars sandwiched their way down several blacktop lanes. The car pulled up in front of the large revolving doors and the driver exited the car and slammed his door shut. He swung around to the rear of the car and popped the trunk, fishing out their bags.

  They made their way through the boisterous activity and crowded terminal, and not long after, boarded their plane. Once settled in their seats, Delia settled into the flight as Monsignor Harrison sipped on a whiskey.

  Delia closed her eyes as the rumble of the plane shook her seat as it barreled down the runway.

  Her arms felt heavy.

  She unfolded the small, blue blanket across her lap and settled deeper into her seat as the plane shot higher into the sky. As the pilot turned starboard, she leaned her head on the side headrest and opened her eyes for a moment, and looked over at Monsignor Harrison, who sat just across the aisle.

  “Your Highness,” she croaked.

  He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows.

  “Do you think my past had anything to do with this?”

  “With what?” The Monsignor asked. “The whole deal with the ‘Hooded Man’?”

  Delia nodded.

  The Monsignor looked at his lap for a moment and then back up at Delia. “I think not. You were what – just a girl weren’t you? When Claret found you?”

  “Still a girl but still a woman,” Delia sighed and turned back towards the front of the plane. She pulled the blanket up towards her neck. “Oh, those days back in Jerusalem seem so distant now. I remember waking up. So lost. But my mother was there. She was there for me.”

  She closed her eyes again.