The Immortals Trilogy Books 1-3: Tales of Immortality, Resurrection and the Rapture (BOX SET)

by C. F. Waller

  A memory of a summer’s day standing in front of the Gulf station watching an attendant pumping an elderly woman’s gas plays across my mind. He washes her windshield wearing a wide smile. When he’s done, her credit card isn’t swiped, but rather imprinted by a roller on a clipboard.

  “Knuckle buster,” I mumble, recalling that term from some lost memory of childhood.

  In my daydream, the attendant holds it in the window while she signs and then tears off a carbon paper receipt for her. As I watch, condensation from the glass bottle runs down my forearm and I take a long drink.

  “Poor attendants probably on Social Security now,” I chuckle. “Unless he’s one of them.”

  Rahnee is resting in the jet. Decker got a doctor to come out and have a look at her. He tells us she’s fine, but gives her some stiches and antibiotics. The shot was a through and through, missing her femur and the artery that runs right next to it. Most people would be off their feet for a month, she has announced we are leaving later today.

  When the doctor and his driver came, they brought an extra car for us to use. I sit in the passenger seat, one leg out the door, flipping the radio station. Landing on a Nickelback song that’s decent, I lean back and sip on the Coke, which is now warm from the heat. Condensation drips off the bottom of the bottle, leaving a wet spot on my thigh. I blot at it with a napkin left in the car. When this fails to dry the spot, I groan and lay my head back on the headrest, trying to recall the image of the attendant with the clipboard. Decker pokes his head out of the jet and nods in my direction. I tip the bottle up and nod back.

  “Any change?” I shout.

  “She’s getting dressed,” he yells back. “Give her a half hour and we can see what she wants to do.”

  I nod back and he disappears into the jet.

  “You might work for her, but I don’t,” I declare, wishing I knew what I wanted to do.

  No return calls from my people has left me at loose ends. I need to tell them about the strange assassin that tried to kill us, but I am not even sure if I believe it. Under normal circumstances I would report all this and they would tell me what they would prefer. As it stands, they are three days out of communication with me and I haven’t a clue how to proceed.

  I am startled briefly as the song Call Me Maybe jumps out of my phone as it vibrates in my front pocket. Arching my back, I dig it out and look at the screen. Carly Rae Jepson is the ringtone for unknown callers and the screen is telling me the caller id is blocked. Arm out the window, I set my nearly empty soda bottle on the roof.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Mr. Dunn?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “Yes, this is Dunn.”

  “Hold please,” she instructs me and the line clicks.

  Annoyed, I wait for a full minute before a male voice comes on the line.

  “Mr. Dunn, I so am glad to have finally gotten ahold of you.”

  “And you would be?”

  “Yes, yes, my apologies. I am Ian, Ian Flynn,” he replies.

  “It’s not ringing a bell.”

  “The man who you work for,” he tells me and pauses. “We have never spoken. Your contact is Wes Lane correct?”

  “I’m sorry,” I stall and try to think. “Flynn is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your number’s not in my phone and I don’t know who you really are. That said, I can’t actually confirm or deny anything.”

  “I understand,” he replies calmly. “Let me help you out there. Your contact’s number is 555-656-1512. Country code aside,” he continues as if he’s reading it off a sheet of paper. “Back-up number 555-241-6389, is that correct?”

  “Maybe,” I admit and stall once again, watching Decker lean out of the jet and scan the runway.

  “Your main contact goes by the name Reginald, he’s dead. The man you talk to when requesting a cleaning crew’s name is Raylan, also dead. You can call anyone from the organization you like, but they are all quite dead.”

  “Explains why they aren’t calling me back,” I groan. “So, who are you?”

  “The man you work for,” he repeats. “I have been calling down the chain of command to see who might be left. You’re the first one to answer your phone. Is Miss Ben-Aharon still with you?”

  “Rahnee, yeah, she’s dinged up, but still breathing,” I explain, then decide to take him at his word. “Some guy tried to kill us yesterday. We got out of New Orleans alive, but you would not believe the story I have for you.”

  “I might,” he suggests, sounding un-phased. “I have to ask you Mr. Dunn. Do you believe what we told you now? My reports from the field indicate you don’t believe in immortals.”

  “After yesterday I’ve had a change of heart,” I reveal, still unsure what I saw. “But I was under the impression we were hunting plain old garden variety folks that don’t age, not undead assassins?”

  “We are hunting the first variety, but it seems the second variety is hunting us,” he admits. “Do you recall the Cartographer? Your first find.”

  “Of course, that’s where we got the family tree.”

  “The Calling Tree,” he says wistfully. “And a wonderful tool it has been over the years. If you recall several years ago we had a blackout period before your contacts were changed?”

  “Yeah,” I chuckle, thinking I refer to it as a regime change. “Was nice to have the time off.”

  “It wasn’t just a blackout. It was an attack,” he admits in a stern voice. “Five years ago, my organization was hit by a series of incursions. People were killed, entire installations were burned to the ground. Were I not so deeply insulated from day to day operations, I would no doubt have been killed as well.”

  “Good information for me to have,” I stutter, trying to recall what was said back then.

  “This scenario has repeated itself and I fear whatever came after you yesterday is the cause. Not just that one, mind you. We believe there to be quite a few more.”

  “How many more are we talking?”

  “Twelve,” he reveals. “We cannot know for sure, but we think they started with twelve.”

  “Started with?” I question. “So, you can kill them?”

  “Let’s stay on task,” he directs me. “You acquired the Calling Tree from the Cartographer and we have been working down it. Was Miss Ben-Aharon able to acquire Beatrix Moffat?”

  “Had her, but she got away,” I explain. “This Moffat slaughtered three of her guys and bailed. We are tracking her now. Miss Ben-Aharon has some impressive resources.”

  “She attacked your people?” he audibly gasps over the line. “Beatrix Moffat?”

  “Rather violently, but we have a line on her.”

  “That’s very odd. As a rule, they are non-violent,” he mutters to himself before getting back to me. “Mr. Dunn, while I realize we took the photos of the Tree from you and have been giving you one target missions, I assume you kept the original images of it and understand we are at the end of it.”

  This is interesting and he is correct, I have the original photos. I knew we were down to the end, but I wasn’t aware this was the last tree. I try and recall the pig tail ends on the tree and come back thinking Beatrix is two or three from the dead end.

  “Beatrix is two from the dead end?” I counter, letting it trail off to silence.

  “Yes, but we only want the last one. Any others are unimportant at this point,” he instructs.

  “I am going to have to get my tablet, but under Beatrix are a couple of guys, right?”

  “Dorian, Dorian Faust,” he says and coughs. “We think he is the one we need.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “Edward Grey,” he says quietly. “We believe he’s dead. They probably got to him a week ago.”

  “By they, do you mean the blood-thirsty un-killable army of twelve?”

  “I do.”

  “Any chance you can send in some re-enforcements?” I request, thinking even one of those things was more than we can h
andle.

  “Sadly, my resources are rather depleted at present. Tell me where you are and I will send my best man to aide you,” he offers. “He will bring all the information we have on them.”

  “Fair enough,” I agree, seeing Rahnee limping down the stairs from the jet. “I’m just outside of Vegas. Give him this number and have him call me when he’s on the ground.”

  “I’ll have him there is six hours,” he replies. “And Mr. Dunn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You won’t be able to reach me at this number again. I will call you however, to see how you progress. Should you acquire Dorian Faust I would recommend you hide and wait for me to contact you.”

  “Fair enough,” I fire back, seeing Rahnee limping my way. “Have your guy call me.”

  The call ends and I climb out of the car, tucking my phone back into my pocket. She watches me as she approaches, stopping short with her head cocked to one side.

  “Who you talking to?”

  “The people we work for,” I admit, nodding at Decker who is now coming out of the plane. “Can we trust him?”

  “Yes, I’ll take responsibility for him.”

  “Fair enough,” I nod. “Hop in. I have a lot to tell you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Arron Wessker

  The rooms at the Rio are lavish, but the rather rowdy clientele roamed the halls until the wee hours of the morning. After a long night spent lying awake, Bee knocks on the door to our room. Dorian and I bunked together, while she took the adjoining room on the right. As they appear to have endless money I had asked for my own room, but for some reason Dorian won’t let me out of this sight. Possibly he’s just afraid to be alone. Either way, my private room never materialized.

  I open the door between the rooms to find her standing there fully dressed in her typical full length long sleeved dress. Today’s is a dark red in color with the same white frills on the end of her sleeves and around her neck. Intricate buttons and sewn pleats run up the front in an impressive piece of wearable art. A peek at the clock on the nightstand reveals it to be almost 9 AM.

  “Wake him up and get some clean clothes on him,” she orders, seeing Dorian curled up on his bed in the same clothes as the day before. His wrinkled suit jacket over him like an extra blanket. “Shag up the bags and take them to the car.”

  She points at her rolling bag sitting on the floor behind her and I nod reluctantly. She is treating me like a glorified taxi driver and it grates on my ego. I remind myself how much I am being paid, which soothes my offended sensibilities a bit.

  “I am going to breakfast,” she informs me as she turns to go. “Get him down there so we can put some coffee in him. When that’s accomplished, we are out of here.”

  I nod and she disappears out her own door. Dorian wakes begrudgingly, but refuses to shower or change. He spends a moment or two running his hand through his hair, shakes out his jacket and goes down to have coffee with Bee. I take the bags to the underground garage where I left the car. Bee refused to let me valet the car for some reason and thus we are parked a block away. By the time I get to them, their table has been cleared and they are sipping coffee and chatting. My arrival is mostly ignored, so I order coffee and listen.

  “I am not going to your place,” Bee scoffs. “Stop trying to make me an ostrich.”

  “They only tracked as far as you,” he argues. “Since they didn’t catch you, it will take them a long time to get to me.”

  “Where is your place,” I cut in, as the waitress sets my coffee down.

  “Bozeman Montana,” Bee grumbles. “Positively desolate.”

  “Try not to sway him with that brilliant description,” Dorian adds. “While not cosmopolitan, Montana has its advantages.”

  “Running water?” Bee questions with a side of sarcasm. “Indoor plumbing?”

  “Actually yes,” he reveals, shooting her an offended look.

  “Sounds pretty good,” I hop in. “Anywhere they won’t look for us.”

  “In reality it’s safer to be in a crowd,” Bee argues. “Neither of the groups chasing us wants a public fuss. We are safer standing in that crowd of harlots outside, than in a tumbleweed infected backwater.”

  “Slandering the working class again,” Dorian admonishes her, but she puts up a hand and looks away in a Talk to the Hand gesture I find a little too contemporary for her.

  “And your plan would be?” I press Bee.

  “She would have us stay here even though they know where we are,” he complains.

  “Not here,” she corrects him. “Laughlin. Its ninety minutes south of here. Give us a chance take a deep breath and decide what to do next.”

  “It’s nice there,” I convey, having been there many times.

  A debate rages on for a half an hour. I have some eggs while they bicker, but in the end, Bee gets her way. Dorian settles up the bill and the three of us walk over to the parking garage. When I try and take the stairs down one flight to the car, my two comrades strongly disagree with that option and we wait for an elevator.

  “He likes elevators,” Bee groans, elbowing me and rolling her eyes at Dorian. “He’s like a child infatuated with toy trains.”

  “I find them soothing,” Dorian scoffs.

  “He probably likes the music,” Bee fires back. “All his taste is in his mouth.”

  “Very funny,” Dorian bristles. “You’re hardly the queen of style.”

  When the door dings, telling us we have reached the bottom floor, I am dying to get out of the elevator and away from their chatter. The light in the garage is bright, even though it’s underground. At first, I don’t see anyone else, but as we stroll across the space, a man steps out from between parked cars. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit and begins to walk directly at us. His blonde hair is slicked back with so much product it shines as if wet. He’s fair skinned, wearing a serious face that’s almost a scowl.

  Bee takes me by the arm, pulling me to a stop. She jerks me back in the other direction and must also have grabbed Dorian as he pulls his arm away in annoyance.

  “What’s your problem,” he fights her.

  “Him,” she gasps, taking his arm again.

  A good thirty feet from us the man draws a gun and raises it in our direction.

  “Patiente, ut remordeat hoc parum,” he utters in a gravely tone.

  There is a pop, like a flashcube and then a slight hiss in the air to my right. This is punctuated by a sickening thud. Our assailant stumbles, before falling over, a long black arrow sticking out of his ribs. His firearm clatters to the ground a few feet away. Our movement away from him slows as we try and understand what has occurred.

  Laying on his back, he reaches one arm across his body to grasp the arrow lodged in his side. The top of the shaft has what looks like a tiny aerosol can imbedded in it. Before he can draw the arrow out, the can begins to bounce up and down on the shaft. The movement is less than an inch, but it makes a clicking sound as it goes. He manages to get his hand around the arrow, but utters an aggressive stream of sentences in an unknown language when his pulling on it gets no results. Slowly he stops moving and his skin fades off to a nearly solid grey appearance. Thin lines of dark purple, akin to spider webs, weave about his face. The tiny can stops clicking, leaving him on his back with one arm draped over his side.

  “Das ist, hat zu verletzen,” a tiny voice shouts from my right.

  The three of us turn as one in time to see a small child striding across the parking lot in the direction of the downed man. She drags a long archer’s bow behind her that appears too large for her to manage. It’s a shiny composite material and it crackles as it drags over concrete. After a few steps, it drops from her hand and rattles to the pavement.

  “Nicht aufstehen,” her high-pitched voice barks, giving me a jolt.

  None of this is directed at us. She has eyes fixed on the motionless man on the ground. She stops just short of him and kicks at his hand with a tiny foot wearing a shiny black le
ather shoe. It’s a theater of the absurd watching her stand over him. She’s young for sure, maybe nine or ten. She’s not even four feet tall with long reddish blonde hair somewhat held down by a hairband, but otherwise flowing wildly. She wears a green velvet dress with a wide off-white belt around her waist. Although, the longer I look at the belt, it might be a ribbon. White tights lead down to black leather shoes with tiny silver buckles on each one.

  “Stings nicht wahr,” she chirps at the man, who seems to be moving again.

  He tries to roll off his back, but is kicked hard by the tiny girl and falls back. He tries again and this time her kick isn’t strong enough to keep him down. She backs away a step and scowls. The man rolls to his stomach, unable to roll further as the arrow hits the floor. I am reminded of a parking boot, the kind meter maids put on cars left in no parking zones. With the boot on, the tire can only turn half way. Forcing himself to his knees, he looks our way, revealing the color returning to his face.

  “Gib mir einen Pfeil,” she howls, looking back to where she was hidden behind parked cars.

  A new woman scurries out of the shadows delivering another seemly identical arrow to the lethal girl. She’s Asian, dark hair in a bun and wearing a grey suit jacket and slacks. She’s non-descript, the kind of look that you would forget the minute she walked away. Once she hands it over she backs up a step and waits. The girl holds up the arrow and spins it between her fingers like a drummer would as he showed off his drumsticks.

  “It simply cannot be,” Dorian mutters as he backs up a step and runs into me.

  “Can’t be what?” I reply, baffled. “Should we run?”

  “It’s Shelly?” Dorian continues to rant quietly. “That has to be Shelly. For Christ sake it’s her.”

  “Let’s not invoke the C word,” Bee orders, flicking Dorians ear with her finger as if he was in Catholic School.

  “Anyone want to tell me who Shelly is?” I whisper in Bee’s direction, thinking Dorian has lost it.