by A. L. Mengel
Something.
Anything.
The Monsignor opened his eyes, but saw nothing.
Until he heard the voice.
“Chet.”
It was masculine. Sounded rugged.
He flopped back on the couch, staring forward, but unable to move. He watched as a spine of light formed in the darkness, reaching from the floor, upwards towards the ceiling.
Alone in the darkness, he knew, moments after the rip closed, the purpose of the visit. He knew, as he had sat in the conference room with the questioners, what had happened.
And then, moments after those thoughts had entered his mind, he saw a light. It seemed that it could be miles, if not more, away from him, but – what it seemed to be was his ray of light. Could it be his beacon of hope in the darkness?
And then, in an instant, he was carried back and saw him.
He saw Tramos.
And the Monsignor recognized the bull-stature of the muscular man who stood as a dark silhouette bathed in muted white light, with his head hung down. The Monsignor could see Tramos’ hair hanging down towards bare, muscular shoulders, standing in a shadow. Tramos was the one who he had heard about, so many times throughout his long life; the one who had transformed Darius, and the one who had always fought with the Monsignor for control of the immortals.
Tramos opened his eyes, and looked directly at the Monsignor. “I have brought you here,” he said.
Tramos was the same as he had always remembered. The same striking, blue eyes, the flowing blonde hair, the chiseled features. But Tramos was not smiling this time. “Do you know why I have brought you here?”
“Into the darkness? Away from the conference room? And the High Council?”
Tramos looked straight at the Monsignor. His eyes were piercing. “I have brought you here to show you…that there is hope for all. For redemption. Even for the immortals.”
The Monsignor’s mouth dropped open. “I did not think…”
Tramos nodded. “I am more than what you know,” he said. “I am from another . I have been living amongst your kind for centuries, but for a specific purpose. And now, that you are facing the end of your kind, I must reveal who I really am.”
“And who are you?”
“I am the one sent to protect. To guide.”
Monsignor Harrison thought he was drunk. The Tramos that he knew was a conqueror; the Tramos that he remembered always clashed with him.
And then Tramos took the Monsignor’s hands, and when they locked fingers, the darkness spilled away. Tramos extended his wings across a new sky, and the Monsignor’s mouth dropped open.
“You’re an angel!”
*****
Monsignor Harrison woke up in his quarters with a throbbing headache. He clutched his head as he swung his legs out over the bed. The finished bottle of cognac sat on the dresser next to a bulbous snifter with a small dash of amber liquid in the bottom. He trudged over to the bathroom and splashed some cool water on his face. He filled one of the glasses with some tap water and took a sip, looking in the mirror.
The bags under his eyes were pronounced today.
But as the fog started to lift, he thought of Tramos. Had he visited? And was he really an angel?
As he walked to the conference room, for an unofficial continued questioning, he remembered the days after they had finally captured Claret. When the days were darker, when the skies had still been active.
When The Hooded Man still walked the Earth in search of all of the immortals.
He looked up, it was still dark, angry, burning with crimson red. The painted wisps. Once in the conference room and settled in front of the High Council, Monsignor Harrison continued: “The black clouds raced across the heavens above me. But as I looked down, over towards the barren earth, I saw the result of her crucifixion.”
They shuffled in their seats.
“What do you mean? What was the result?”
It was a random, masculine voice. Monsignor Harrison had been looking down at his lap and did not know who asked the question. He looked up and around at those at the conference table. They were each well poised, looking directly at him, with sullen faces, waiting for an answer. Monsignor Harrison shifted in his chair, looked around the room again, and grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “There was some unity that we hadn’t seen before. At least not in our race.”
A young man with horn rimmed glasses, who sat near Klemmson towards the center of the conference table, looked down at his notes for a moment, and then back up, adjusted his glasses. And then cleared his throat. “Do you think she was misjudged? That she was innocent of the crimes?”
Monsignor Harrison’s arms fell to his sides. “Claret? No! I proceeded over those trials! She was given a fair judgement!”
The young man nodded.
Monsignor Harrison leaned forward. “Do you honestly think it matters? With what she has done?”
The young man removed his glasses. “Fairness matters, Monsignor. In the end and in the pursuit of justice, we must always remain fair and true. Regardless of us being immortal and somewhat separated from the human race. Many of their principles still apply to our kind.”
Another male member sitting on the opposite end of the table sighed. “Yes. And we are in these proceedings to also determine if Claret was given a fair judgement.”
Monsignor Harrison snapped his head in the direction of the new member of the council. “You all sound as if you are doubting my judgement As if I did not act from the experience that I have. As if I somehow were incompetent!”
“Take us back, Monsignor. Back to when you captured her.”
The Monsignor remembered seeing Claret in a holding cell; the walls were made of rock, partially covered in moss. It was dark like a cave, with a layer of putrid water at the base.
And then he saw the hill.
Golgatha.
The famous sandy brown mountain outside of Jerusalem; where Christ was nailed to a cross; where Claret had been crucified thousands of years later.
He heard the sound of boulders rolling down a hill as the sun beat down above with ferocious intent. “Take her,” he said to the High Council. “Her hair, I remember, was stone white. But that’s all I remember about her. She just hung there, her head down. Blood ran from her eyes, her mouth, her ears. She cried out as she seared in the sun. She had been so weak with dehydration.”
Monsignor Harrison recalled his commands to the soldiers: “Take her to the bowels. To the dungeon. The cave. Chain her up. But give her water. She is near death. We must keep her for the trial. No food. Only water. Go now!”
*****
Once in the cave, Claret laid against rough stone, her eyes watching the door. There were heavy footsteps approaching outside.
But the door remained closed.
A fire crackled in the distance.
She reached out for a small, wooden bowl of water. The shackles and chains on her wrist clanked as she moved closer to the bowl. The water looked cool, and fresh. She could see the reflection of the flames in the ripples. She was almost there.
But then a pair of heavy work boots appeared just at the bowl.
She sat back and closed her eyes.
There was a fire in a pit in the center of the holding cell that reflected a warm, orange glow on her cheeks.
*****
Monsignor Harrison sat back, his hands crossed in front of his stomach, and cleared his throat. He waited as the members of the High Council leaned in towards one another and conferred with each other.
The young man in the horn rimmed glasses picked up a piece of paper, adjusting his glasses as he read. “Since some time ago, and over the course of years, there was a man who wore a hood, and he rose from the bowels of the earth. A personification of evil. He wiped out my race. Everyone who I had ever known. And relied upon. Everyone…gone.”
The young man removed his glasses and looked directly at Monsignor Harrison.
The young man brought his hand up to his forehead and smoothed his hair back. “Well, Mr. Harrison, it seems from that statement – which you gave to us directly – and from what you just told us about her holding and resulting crucifixion, that we have a question before us.”
“Which is what?” The Monsignor shifted in his seat and crossed his legs.
The young man leaned forward and looked directly at the Monsignor. “Was she guilty of the charges? Was she treated properly during holding? It’s a moral question, really, isn’t it Monsignor?”
He tugged at his collar and took a sip of water from the adjoining table. He looked at the eldest Cardinal, who sat off to the side during this session.
“I stand by my decision,” Monsignor Harrison said. “And my holding practices. Claret was treated no differently than any other prisoner who had committed crimes against the immortal kind.”
Klemmson stood. “Monsignor Harrison. Do you think those practices are just? Moral?”
He shook his head. “Since when we – as immortals – who have strayed far from goodness…have a great concern about morals? She is gone now. Paid for her crimes. I’m sure she’s found her redemption.”
Klemmson scoffed. “Redemption? Of our kind?” He laughed, turned and sat.
Monsignor Harrison took another sip of water and watched Cardinal Klemmson settle back into his seat. “We all can find redemption, can we not? And perhaps she has now found hers.”
The younger man in the center shook his head and lay his glasses on the table.
He stood and looked across at Monsignor Harrison. “What you are failing to connect with,” he said. “Murdering an immortal is a crime against your own kind. You do know the punishment for it, correct?”
Monsignor Harrison slammed his fist on the table. “Yes I am fully aware! And she was tried and found to be guilty!” He looked at the council with wide eyes. “This hooded man attacked our kind. All over the world. And she was tried. And found to be guilty for the same exact crimes that you are speaking of!”
“Then, Monsignor, why did you not escalate this mater to our Council?”
Monsignor Harrison swallowed but did not reply.
*****
Miami.
The brightest city with the darkest shadows.
For the immortals, it was the city that had been central to The Hooded Man’s wrath. Where it had all began. When Darius had first encountered the villain outside a park in the dark, wee hours of morning in Miami Beach; that was when it had all started.
And afterwards, it spread like an infection.
There were those who talked about seeing The Hooded Man. Immortals met in bars, cafes and even churches to discuss their dilemma: who was appearing to immortals offering salvation but bringing death?
And in all of those meetings, it all came back to Miami.
It had been the city of Antoine’s leadership; he had an estate in Coral Gables. The city where the infection started and spread. Antoine had called it home for years, and he had once owned and operated a nightclub on Miami Beach called Sacrafice.
Coral Gables was also the home of The Astral, a research society with offices on Ponce and 5th, which were lost, almost entirely, to an explosion, coinciding with the fires at both Antoine’s estate and the nightclub on Miami Beach.
Two of the researchers met in the local library to discuss the situation with the immortals. Hector Tabares led the investigation surrounding the fires and explosion. A short, silver-haired Hispanic man, he had close ties with Antoine.
There was an announcement over the Public Address system that indicated the Library was closing. Hector looked up from his computer screen and saw several rows of bright, florescent lights snap off. He shook his head, returned his attention to his computer, and went to save his work. As he shut down the computer, the screen snapped off and went dark. He started to pack up his notepads and books. His associate Geraldine, a Director of her own Research Society in Rome, had asked a question of him the other night and which now popped into his mind.
“Why do you have this deep fascination with the immortals?”
Hector hadn’t had the opportunity to give Geraldine an answer, as she had asked him just as the Library had been closing a few days prior.
Hector saw Ponce De Leon after dark.
The offices to The Astral, back before the explosion, the blinds shut tight and drawn, the glass door closed and locked and dark. “I remember meeting with a Sheldon. He was the Director at the time. I remember…yes. That was him.”
“Wilkes?” Geraldine pecked at her keyboard. “Sheldon Wilkes?”
Hector nodded.
“He died, correct?”
Hector shrugged. “No one knows for sure. He was rumored to have died. I hadn’t seen him since he was actively meeting with Antoine. He told me he was writing a book. His car was found sitting outside Antoine’s estate in Coral Gables. He was thought to have been visiting Antoine that evening. But never came out. And then after the fire…”
“…after the fire no evidence was found.” Geraldine took a breath and looked over some notes on a yellow legal pad. She removed her glasses and looked up at Hector, who sat across her at the tiny wooden table, and looked right back at her. “So…then…what is next Hector? What is the next step?”
Hector fidgeted and bit his lip.
He crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair, and looked up at the ceiling. After a few minutes, he looked across at Geraldine. “How about we visit the estate? Get a look inside? Is it still a crime scene?”
A stern librarian leaned over the table. “We are closed. Please gather your things and exit downstairs. We open tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
Geraldine chuckled as she closed her laptop. “You just let me pull a few strings. I know some people in Miami PD. Back before I was sent to Rome. I can get us access. Watch and learn, Hector.”
*****
The chatter in the conference room died down as the Elders stood in front of the long table at the end of the room. “Monsignor Harrison, stand please.”
He did as instructed.
“For the crimes against an immortal, we find you guilty as charged.”
The room erupted in chatter.
Monsignor Harrison’s mouth dropped open and the others had to restrain him. Several burly men stood in front of the room, in front of the Cardinals. “Everyone, please! Quiet!” Cardinal Klemmson banged his gavel. “Order, please!” He banged the gavel again as the chatter died down.
“Now for your sentencing.”
Monsignor Harrison remained standing as the other immortals were instructed to sit. He kept his eyes focused on Cardinal Klemmson, who looked straight at the Cardinals. They each took their seats behind the lengthy table. As they got settled, Delia sat and Klemmson spoke. “You are herby sentenced to death. We will command your soul and you will navigate the netherworld and find our redemption. The immortals need salvation after this wrath from this ‘hooded man’, and as punishment for crucifying one of our own kind without an apparent fair trial, or proper prisoner holding procedures, you will be burned to ashes and buried in an unmarked grave here in Italy.”
There were some gasps as Monsignor Harrison looked at the floor and closed his eyes.
Klemmson continued. “When you are on the other side, you will meet up with another chosen representative of our kind and go on a mission to earn our redemption.”
The chatter swelled again as Klemmson banged his gavel. “Everyone! Please! Quiet!”
After a few minutes of dwindling chatter, Monsignor Harrison looked up at the panel. He looked at each of the men, the eldest immortals save him, and paused on Klemmson. “I did not cause this!” he said. His eyes were wide. “I did not give the order! I didn’t recruit George!”
Klemmson banged the gavel again. “Order! Order!”
The chatter died down as Klemmson stared directly at Monsignor Harrison. “Tell me who this George is. Has he been newly transformed?”
; Monsignor Harrison looked over at Delia, who leaned forward over the table she was sitting at. She looked back at him and nodded. The Monsignor looked back at the Cardinals and cleared his throat. “George Stanley was a predator, your grace. Of young men. He seduced them and murdered them. Locked them up in cages in his basement.”
“And you are bringing this up at the last minute, why?”
Monsignor Harrison shook his head. “Because he was Claret’s puppet! He is a man. Was a man. A man with a very dark past. And Claret recruited him. Lured him.”
“And how did she lure him?”
“She visited him regularly. Some say in his dreams.”
Klemmson looked down and shifted through some paperwork. Monsignor Harrison waited patiently and folded his arms. “She had many powers,” he said, as Klemmson looked up at back at him.
*****
As Monsignor Harrison told the story of Claret and George to the Council, Delia awoke. She waited for her vision to adjust, but after a few minutes, she heard the hum of the engines. The blue fabric seats expanded in front of her, as most of the interior lights of the cabin were off and the plane was quiet as passengers were sleeping.
She looked across and saw Antoine fast asleep in the seat next to her. His seat leaned far back, and he was wrapped in a blanket.
She could not get the image of Monsignor Harrison out of her mind. She could see him, standing in front of the High Council, getting a death sentence. But had he been guilty? Had it happened?
Delia closed her eyes.
She could remember everything.
She saw the tiny stucco house in the Southern suburbs of Miami. She could still feel the stifling heat and humidity against her skin as if she were standing in George’s driveway. She could still see a Styrofoam cooler toppled over with beer cans rolling down the driveway. She could see George passed out in a lawn chair, holding a can of beer in his hand, with his right hand down his shorts.
