War Angel (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  Antoine looked back at Ramiel but said nothing. They listened to the clanking of glassware as the bartender cleared the glasses from the night’s business. After a few minutes, Antoine reached out and took a sip of Ramiel’s wine. “I have to die but in the end I will live forever?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  Antoine nodded and stood. “I best be going.”

  Ramiel also stood, calling out to Antoine “Think about it, Antoine. Darius will be visiting you soon. Think of immortality. We can use a natural leader like you.”

  Antoine left the café as the door swung closed behind him.

  *****

  In the catacombs underneath Vatican City, in the offices of The Inspiriti, Delia Arnette fished her phone from her purse as the sessions went on break. She looked up and saw Monsignor Harrison wandering over to the vending area with his hands in his pockets. She pulled up Antoine’s information and typed him a message:

  WE MUST GET TO MIAMI. IN ROME. MEET ME?

  She spent the next few minutes reviewing e-mails as she noticed, in the corner of her eye, a pair of work boots. As if a man were standing next to her, facing her. Who had started this dark vision?

  She looked up, gasped and covered her mouth with her free hand. “No! It isn’t you!”

  The room darkened and they were alone together.

  His eyes were wide open and the mysterious man stood above her, saying nothing.

  His face was pleading. A tear streamed down his cheek. “I…I don’t know what to say…”

  The man smiled. “You could start by letting me in.”

  Her face shifted. “Let you in? To where? Who are you?” She put her glasses on. The man had short cropped dark hair, parted on the side. He wore his black suit well. But the darkness that surrounded him still offered no answers to where she suddenly was.

  “I am back for you, Delia. I have been following you all these years. You know that don’t you?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Oh…” She removed her glasses as the man’s image softened. “You’re no man.”

  “I’m going to leave you a minute, don’t you worry your pretty face,” he said. “Although I see you’ve grown old.”

  “Thanks to The Hooded Man. I lost my immortality and aged.”

  “But you’re immortal again.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I am.”

  The man took a step back. “Do you remember the night in Paris? That night so many years ago when you had the mysterious visitor at your door?”

  Delia nodded slowly.

  “It was the night after you met Darius,” he said.

  She nodded again.

  And then she remembered. The man faded into the darkness, as she saw it play in her mind’s eye, like the celluloid of the past.

  She saw herself in her apartment in Paris.

  Delia took a breath and stood aside. She reached her arm out and gestured for the man to come in. He was dressed in traditionally cut coat and hat, typical dress for the men in Paris of the era. She showed him in to the small sitting area, and he sat on the couch. She went to the kitchenette and boiled some water for tea. The man sat still on the couch, almost motionless, as her clanking of china filled the otherwise silent room. When she approached the sitting area, she placed a steaming cup of tea on the table before him and sat in a small wooden chair next to the sofa.

  She stirred her tea and placed the spoon down silently. She raised her eyes to the man. “I let you in because you claim you are my father. I buried him years ago.”

  “I am your father, Delia. That was not me you saw in the pool of blood on the floor.”

  “It wasn’t you?”

  He lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip. “No. It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t be sitting in front of you if I were dead, would I?”

  Delia leaned back and studied the man who claimed to be her father. He had the same wispy hair. Broad shoulders. Facial features. But there was something in her mind. Deep within her soul, that told her to proceed with caution.

  Delia’s expression softened. She hung her arms at her side and took a step backwards. “How are you standing here? When you are dead and buried?”

  But the vision did not stay.

  She opened her eyes and saw the harsh overhead lighting of the conference waiting area. She still clutched her phone in her hand, her purse had not moved from her lap.

  Monsignor Harrison approached with a small bag of potato chips, his face was shifted and he bit his lip. He sat in the seat next to Delia and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay, Delia? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  She turned and looked at Monsignor Harrison. “Was I out for a few minutes? Asleep or anything?”

  The Monsignor tore his bag of chips open, leaned back and started crunching. He looked around the room as Delia patiently waited for an answer. He swallowed his chips and took a large gulp of soda as he looked back at Delia. “No. You’ve been sitting here. But we just got out of session. I mean, I just walked over and bought these chips. You sure you’re alright Delia? You look pasty white. No ghosts?”

  “So no time has passed? Not ten or twenty minutes? Nothing like that?”

  Monsignor Harrison shook his head. “No, I went and got the chips and came right back. What is going on, Delia?”

  She looked down at her phone. “I sent Antoine a message. Let me look at the time stamp.”

  Delia pulled up the message she sent to Antoine:

  WE MUST GET TO MIAMI. IN ROME. MEET ME?

  And then checked the time stamp. She looked up at the clock and gasped. “I…just sent that a moment ago.”

  Monsignor Harrison leaned closer to her. “What happened, Delia?”

  “It appears I’ve had a visitor. Somehow he came to see me during the seconds between when I sent that message to Antoine and when you came here.”

  “You look pained.”

  Delia looked down and then back up at Monsignor Harrison. “This visitor is bringing up old memories. From so long ago. And my life has been so…erratic.”

  The Monsignor leaned in and whispered in Delia’s ear, his voice almost completely concealed by the ambient noise in the waiting area.

  “I know, Delia. About your history. I know you exist in different time periods. And how you travel between them. I know who you are.”

  She opened her eyes. “So…you know.” She straightened up and tossed her phone in her purse. “Of course you do. You’re Monsignor Harrison. You’re the eldest, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “I know what you have done. For our kind. And I am forever grateful for it. You protect us, Delia. Now why don’t you lie back and rest yourself? We still have some time before we go back inside.”

  Delia settled deeper into the small, leather chair and closed her eyes. She didn’t notice the noise around her; the chatter of random conversations, the heavy thud and clank of a soda can tumbling out of the vending machine, or the chatter of a news report on the television perched in the corner. She was fading, away, and, then, when she opened her eyes, she looked down and saw her hands.

  Dirt was caked underneath her finger nails.

  “Come on! Come with us!”

  Jerusalem.

  The heat and the dust could only be.

  But where was she?

  In a state of a dream?

  For when she looked, when she viewed the film in her mind, she saw herself. She wore the same robe that the old woman had put on her that very first morning that she had awakened on the mat. She moved through the crowds slowly like a lost fish in a vast, overpopulated sea, in an ocean of unknown faces and foreign, dusty roads.

  And then came a bright flash.

  Delia shut her eyes, raising her arms across her face.

  The winds roared, and she felt she was moving, perhaps to another time, or to another place, but the tiny, fragile woman, who sat, silently, in the waiting room in Rome, her eyes still shut tightly, tears streaming down her face, as she f
ound herself, again, now through the darkness.

  *****

  Antoine woke as the car pulled to a stop.

  Ramiel cut the engine and turned around. “Did you check your messages?”

  Antoine yawned and rubbed his eyes. “No. What messages?” He stretched in his seat. Had he been sleeping the entire trip? He looked around. Traffic surrounded them. Horns honked. He lowered his window, and saw large, glass doors across a vast sidewalk and people scurrying about, all in different directions, but most towards the large doors. Some pulled large suitcases behind them. Young children ran to keep up with determined parents. College kids hoisted large, overstuffed bags over their shoulders while hugging crying mothers. He looked up at saw the sign: DEPARTURES.

  “Are…we at the airport?” Antoine turned back to face Ramiel.

  Ramiel nodded. “Frankfurt airport, yes. While you were sleeping, I called the airline and booked you a ticket to Rome. You’ll need to meet up with Delia there. She’s with Monsignor Harrison in Vatican City. They’re still in session with the High Council, but Delia should be free to go by evening. You’ll need to meet up with her there so you both can catch your flight together and head to Miami.”

  Antoine paused. “Back to Miami. Why so soon?”

  Was he ready to return to the city that still held so many memories?

  So many fresh wounds that still bled?

  “My estate is a burned out shell,” Antoine said. “What’s the point of going back there?”

  Ramiel nodded. “Yes. But you need to find the manuscript that you spoke of. The one Darius wrote. What was it? The Quest for Immortality? Yes…that’s the one.”

  Antoine raised the window, leaned back, watching the scurrying people, and sighed. “I wish I could still fly myself. I feel so useless to our kind.”

  Ramiel turned around and looked at Antoine. “Your powers will return, Antoine. They will return. Spend some time. Recharge. Recuperate. And take stock at the estate. The manuscript may hold answers for you. We’ll send for you to come back to Rome when the time comes. But for now, meet up with Delia and get to Miami.”

  Ramiel opened the driver’s door and stepped out. He went around to the trunk and popped it open. He fished out a large, black suitcase and set it on the pavement, extending the handle. Ramiel walked around and opened Antoine’s door. Anotine looked up at Ramiel.

  “It’s time, Antoine. You need to get with Delia. And then head to Miami. Just go. This recharge may be exactly what you need right now.”

  Antoine nodded and reluctantly got out of the car. “Which airline?” As Ramiel gave him the details of his upcoming flight, Antoine grabbed his rolling suitcase. He joined the throngs of passengers dashing from cars towards the terminal; and as he headed to the large, expansive glass doors, he turned around. Giovanni had lowered his window, his head pointed in the direction of Antoine, his arm draped over the side of the car. Ramiel had closed the rear passenger door and stood, arms folded, leaning against the car, watching him leave.

  *****

  Delia felt a hand touch her face.

  It wasn’t hard nor forceful, but a gentle slap. “Delia! Delia, wake up!”

  She opened her eyes as the room slowly came into focus. “Wha…I...” Monsignor Harrison was directly in front of her, holding her hands. His face was shifted with worry. “Delia! You’re awake!” There was a team of paramedics checking her vitals. A white stretcher was sitting on the floor in front of them.

  “Wha…what happened?”

  The Monsignor sat in the chair next to her and placed his arm around her shoulders. “You were out. Completely unresponsive. Administration sent the paramedics.”

  She leaned in close to Monsignor Harrison’s ear. “Yes,” she whispered. “But I am immortal. I do not need all of this.” Monsignor Harrison waved his arm and gestured for the EMT’s to leave. He turned back to Delia. “Just…please. We don’t need any more rumors circulating about. Especially not here.”

  “I am just fine,” she said to the paramedics as they packed up their things and grabbed their gurney. “No need for any of this.” She reached into her purse and fished out her phone. “I think there is a message from Antoine.” She scrolled through her messages. “Yes. He’s already in Rome.”

  Monsignor Harrison got up. “Just a moment, Delia.” He wandered over to the reception desk. He spoke with the agents for several minutes as Delia looked on. As he returned, he smiled. “Well, you’ll have to return immediately,” he said. “But I bought us some time. They are delaying the inquiry so you can go to Miami with Antoine.”

  “You can’t come?”

  He shook his head. “No, I must stay in Rome. Klemmson said he plans to continue questioning me unofficially. But the inquiry will wait until your return. Now go, Delia. Get yourself to Leonardo da Vinci. Meet up with Antoine. Get yourself to Miami and back.”

  Delia nodded and tossed her phone in her purse. She swung it over her shoulder and stood, steadying herself. “Yes, yes. Antoine. He is waiting for me.”

  “And we will be waiting for you here, Delia. Come back soon. We need you. We need to figure out how to save our kind.”

  *****

  As the first day of the inquiry headed towards a close, Delia found her way outside the basement level of the Sistine Chapel. She walked, as quickly as her elderly legs would allow her, down a wide hallway, lined with old, but highly polished, linoleum. People scurried back and forth, heading in and out of doors that lined the passage. Now that the inquiry was placed on hold, many of the members of the High Council would be preparing for a short trip back to their home sectors. Harsh overhead light panels hung from the ceiling every few feet. The tiny door, which held the small, dark set of stairs up to the chapel, seemed so far away, at the end of the hallway.

  She was still well a ways from the door, when she saw it open.

  “Antoine!” she exclaimed. He looked tired, but it was the same Antoine. So tall. Ruggedly handsome. She picked up her pace as he stood, smiled and nodded.

  “You made it!” she said, giving him a hug. “Let’s go! We have to catch our flight. I have so much to tell you on the way to Miami. We had a day of inquiry about The Hooded Man. But what’s really interesting is what Monsignor Harrison was speaking to me about when we were waiting for the afternoon session to end.”

  Antoine nodded and assisted Delia up the tiny stairs. They exited into the Sistine Chapel worshipping area. Antoine looked up. His mouth dropped open. “Amazing…”

  Delia turned around and saw Antoine had stopped walking next to her, but was standing and admiring the ceiling. He looked at the artistic masterpiece, saying nothing, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

  Delia backtracked back to where Antoine was standing. “Michelangelo’s work,” she said. “The ceiling at least.”

  Antoine shifted his gaze forward, towards the altar. “Look…at all those people…I see the cross…and others…and the colors…”

  Delia leaned on her cane and looked across the chapel towards the altar. She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Michelangelo’s Il Giudizio Universale. You see it on the back wall? The finality of it is just profound.”

  Antoine broke his gaze and looked at Delia. “What did you say?”

  “It’s Italian, Antoine. It means ‘The Last Judgement’.”

  Antoine gasped and studied the mural.

  “It took several years to complete. Just that fresco behind the altar. But all of the painting was completed in different time periods. It depicts the Second Coming of Christ.”

  Together, they stood and looked at the soaring mural, at those in the celestial areas; in the clouds, in the heavenly glory. And those in the center, rising towards the Heavens. And then towards the green grounds below, what could only be a depiction of the physical Earth; the bodies lying; lifeless; grey corpses amidst fissures of flames rising from the ground.

  Antoine paused for a moment, looking around the chapel, admiring the ceiling, and the frescos by the
myriad artists. But he kept looking back at the work by Michelangelo on the altar wall.

  The Last Judgement.

  He did not speak, but as they piled into the waiting black sedan, which sat running in La Piazza san Pietro, Delia saw that Antoine looked pained. There was something bothering him. Something eating at his insides. She chose not to bother him with asking about it now, as they were rushing to the airport.

  But she knew something was on his mind.

  *****

  Monsignor Harrison returned to his quarters.

  From a distance, he watched Delia hug Antoine and disappear into the tiny doorway to the world above. After a few minutes, he turned, heading the opposite way towards the residences. The hallway, the same polished linoleum. He pressed his access card against a steel plate on the wall in front of a set of heavy, wooden doors, and entered the residential area. Carpet now lined the hallway floors in this area, as well as a more “homey” feel – side tables, couches, and floor plants lined the walls. When he found his door, deep into the residential sector of the catacombs, he fumbled for his keys. Once inside his humble quarters, he opened a small cabinet in his living room. His prized bottled of aged cognac was locked inside, along with several snifters.

  Several hours later, the bottle of cognac was nearly polished off. The amber liquid hugged the bottom of the bulbous bottle. Monsignor Harrison leaned back on the couch, his eyes semi-closed. He fumbled in his breast pocket, and fished out a cigarette, when the room went dark.

  “What the – ”

  He attempted to stand but lost his footing, almost crashing face forward into the coffee table. He reached in front of him, and tried to make out his hands. The table and furniture.