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

by C. F. Waller

  “Girl talk,” I chuckle.

  “When did Arron call you?” Beatrix demands, pulling my attention back to them.

  “An hour or so ago,” I lie, tilting my head back and forth to indicate I can’t be sure. “Hey, if you two want to stay here, be my guest.”

  They exchange a word and then Dorian pulls open the door, holding it for Beatrix. Once they are both are in, I use my door switch to lock the back doors, revving the engine just a bit to cover the click.

  “Gotcha,” I whisper.

  Slowly picking my foot off the gas, I roll toward Rahnee to check out the proceedings. The man on the ground raises a hand and then rolls onto his stomach, the arrow in his side flipping over and causing Rahnee to jump back. An Asian woman appears from the darkness that produced the little girl and hands her another arrow. The child says something to Rahnee and then hefts it over the man struggling to get up. Rahnee puts up a hand and shouts something, stopping her from plunging the arrow into him. More conversation takes place before Rahnee points her gun at the man’s head and pulls the trigger twice, stopping his movement. With her head cocked to one side she fires a third shot after a pause that causes the little girl to break into laughter.

  I pull within ten feet of the group and stop, drawing their attention off the fun and games of killing this guy over and over.

  “Are we having fun yet?” I shout.

  “That moron with you?” the little girl shouts, pointing the arrow in my direction. “Nearly gave away my position.”

  “My bad,” I apologize.

  “Typical short-timer moron,” the tiny assassin mutters.

  “Going to get real crowded here after all that gunfire,” I offer, trying not to be offended. “What do you say we make ourselves scarce?”

  “Check that,” Rahnee replies, winking at me secretly. “Get them out of here. I’ll take Arron with me.”

  “You got it,” I shrug, seeing two men dragging a huge metal box toward the group.

  The man on the ground flinches and feels around his body with a free hand. Without turning away from me, Rahnee pulls the trigger two more times, stopping his movement once again. These shots hit him in the back as opposed to the headshots he got a few minutes ago.

  “I love that,” the little girl giggles in a childlike tone. “Probably hurts more too.”

  Having had enough of whatever is going on with the gals, I turn down the first aisle and up a steep incline to the main road. Three or four valets in red velvet jackets peer around the building trying to see where the shots are coming from without making themselves a target. I peel out of the drive and onto the two-lane road that runs along the river. In the rearview my two passengers confer, stopping periodically to peek into the front seat. We go about a mile and a half before the questions start.

  “Where are we going now?” Beatrix demands.

  “Safe place,” I reply smugly. “Keep you guys out of harm’s way.”

  “Arron will be joining us?” Dorian inquires. “Once he’s done dealing with Shelly.”

  “Who?” I blurt out.

  “Shelly, the little one who twirls her slingshot and brings down Goliath,” he remarks in a theatrical cadence.

  “She said her name was Sindri,” Beatrix corrects him.

  “I think Shelly has more panache,” he goes on. “Plus there is the Mary Shelly cross over to consider. There is a certain symmetry wouldn’t you say?”

  “She’s not exactly Dr. Frankenstein,” Beatrix groans.

  “It’s more her grotesque nature,” he fires back. “In this instance she plays more the monster than the creator, don’t you think.”

  “The creator being?” Beatrix queries.

  “Excellent question,” he nods, glancing at me in the rearview. “What say you on the subject Mr.?” he asks, pausing for me to fill in my name.

  “Dunn,” I share.

  “Right, Mr. Dunn,” he nods vigorously in the rear-view mirror. “What say you? Which role better fits our tiny avenger?”

  “Not a big reader,” I deflect, wishing the car had a radio. “Sorry.”

  “It’s the American education system that should apologize,” he complains.

  Once his rebuke of my intelligence finishes, they argue back and forth, seeming to forget I am even here. My pocket vibrates and when I check its Rahnee. With a certain feeling of superiority, I decline the call. Technically she’s in acquisitions and I’m in collections. Her part of the job was over the minute they got in the car. The phone vibrates again, this time a text.

  Where do u want to meet up?

  I fail to respond to this as well. After all, it’s not safe to text and drive.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arron Wessker

  Shelly’s minions haul the box into the SUV. Moments later it pulls out onto the road and disappears. Rahnee and the tiny angel of death had an an extended conversation about body disposal and the chemical nature of the deadly coagulant used in her debilitating arrows. As soon as the conversation veers into anything remotely personal, Sindri clammed up and bailed. I suppose you don’t stay hidden by getting to cozy with the ones being chased.

  Sirens blare in the distance causing Rahnee to turn back to me after shagging down an empty clip tossed on the ground during the fray. We have an awkward silence and then she holds her hands out as if she’s waiting for me to talk.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Crappy hotel a few miles from here,” I divulge. “Where’s yours?”

  “Just left,” she moans. “I thought you had one.”

  “Took a taxi,” I shrug.

  Red and blue lights glow over the fence that cuts the lot off from the main road. Teeth gritted, Rahnee turns and starts jogging to the back of the lot where a sidewalk runs along the river’s edge. She favors one leg which slows her down. I follow along, though uninvited, and we travel past two hotels before she slips into the pool area behind the Aquarius Hotel. It’s a huge place, with architecture that reminds me of Treasure Island or the Mirage. Having seen me following, Rahnee waits and then without warning untucks my shirt bottom with a violent tug and shoves her guns in the rear waistband of my pants.

  “Excuse you?” I complain.

  “Just stand still,” she orders, pulling the untucked shirt down, covering the budge.

  “You could at least buy me dinner first?” I offer weakly.

  “Just walk me past the pool and out to the main drag so I can get a taxi,” she whispers, even though no one else is within earshot.

  “You mean we can get a taxi,” I correct her. “You meant to say we.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she agrees, preoccupied by leaning around some shrubs to see if there is anyone between us and the street.

  “We have to meet up with Dorian and Bee,” I demand. “You said you’d leave them alone if I got us out alive.”

  “I never laid a hand on them,” she says coldly, turning back to me with an icy stare. “I didn’t snatch them up and you got us out. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.”

  “But you called your guys and told them where we would be,” I fire back accusingly. “You handed them over on a silver platter.”

  “They got in the car,” she sighs. “Their call.”

  “Take them with you,” I say imitating her voice poorly. “I’ll take Arron with me.”

  An angry look comes over her face and she reaches behind her back to where her guns would normally be. As she brings her empty hand back slowly, I pull one of hers from my waist band. When she looks up I have it pointed at her chest. This seems to amuse her.

  “Last week you’re a bartender and now you’re a killer?” she chuckles. “Give that back before you hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t think so,” I stammer, my voice cracking as I back up a step.

  My hand twitches and a cold sweat forms on my neck. I have never pointed a gun at anyone before tonight. I can’t say if its anger or just the violent nature of the l
ast twenty-four hours that gives me the resolve. In my mind I imagine any number of movies where the timid character winds up pointing a gun at someone. They rarely fire and this will probably be the case with me. I don’t really want to hurt Rahnee, do I? I’m angry, but not sure at whom.

  “You’re not going to shoot me, so stop being a baby,” she taunts me, pausing to see if I cave.

  “You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she snorts. “Stop pretending you do.”

  “Call your guy and find out where they are,” I demand.

  She doesn’t react. Hands on hips, she simply gives me a blank stare.

  “I mean it,” I stammer, the gun wiggling as I try and hold it steady.

  “Fine, keep the guns. I have new ones on order,” she declares dismissively.

  “Wait a minute,” I order with a shaky grip.

  Seemingly unconcerned she waits, hands on hips for me to fire, which I don’t. Once my bluff is called she turns and walks into the open, heading to the street. Without consciously deciding to, I pull the trigger. The gun clicks open, out of rounds. This leaves me standing there looking silly.

  For some reason a rush of adrenaline washes over me. I’m in shock that I just pulled the trigger and at the same time feeling more confident for having done so. I can say the number of times I have experienced feeling tough in my life is a small one. Rahnee doesn’t stop and it takes me a few minutes to tuck the firearm back into my pants and arrange myself so as not to be arrested on sight.

  A smaller path leads off the main concrete pool area. I follow it, going around the long way to the front. There aren’t any lights on this side of the hotel and I nearly trip over a garden hose left abandoned by some gardener.

  A circle driveway with baggage men standing by empty carts and a valet stand are bathed in the first rays of daybreak. A taxi pulls slowly up the drive, landing in front of Rahnee. She looks amazingly fresh and well-dressed given the frackus we just survived. I dart up the sidewalk and grab the door handle before the taxi can pull away. I slap the roof with an open hand to get the driver’s attention. The taxi jerks to a stop as he tries to figure out who he might have run over. Inside, Rahnee scowls at me when the door is pulled open. She begrudgingly slides over and allows me to climb in.

  “Where to?” the driver grunts, his coffee breath laced with alcohol of some kind.

  “Where to Sport?” Rahnee nods at me.

  “Pioneer,” I declare.

  “Right, you want the Pioneer?” the driver repeats.

  “Yeah,” I say confidently as the car pulls away from the curb, heading out to the road.

  We ride in silence until we start down Colorado Drive with her looking out the window.

  “How did you know the gun wasn’t loaded?” I whisper.

  “I knew one of them wasn’t loaded,” she confesses, keeping her gaze out the window.

  I pull both pistols out and hand her the one I pointed at her earlier. Popping out the clip on its twin, I have to hold it up to the window to see if there are any bullets. I count three, before slapping it back in. We ride along a moment before she speaks.

  “Honestly, I didn’t think you had the stones to shoot me,” she smirks, looking away from the window.

  “I’m full of surprises,” I respond in my newly confident voice.

  “And if you blew my brains all over the pool area, your plan was what?” she pauses, holding out her hand for the gun.

  “Hadn’t planned that far ahead,” I admit, leaning forward and putting the gun back in my waistband.

  “Okay,” she eyes me quizzically, amused that I kept the gun. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Find my friends and get out of Laughlin,” I announce without thinking about it.

  “I doubt they are still in Laughlin.”

  “Still have to find them.”

  “You going to fend off the next immortal all by yourself?” she asks bluntly. “You and two bullets?”

  “Three,” I correct her.

  “Huge difference, two or three.”

  “Not as big a difference as one and none,” I advise, inferring she’d be dead if there had been one bullet in the other gun.

  “You ready to go into battle now?”

  “The last battle ended with you shooting the guy point blank in the head for sport.”

  “I didn’t want him getting up again,” she snorts. “Did you?”

  “Not on your life.”

  She studies me, looking somewhat confused. I remain silent, fixing the collar on my shirt and running a hand through my hair.

  “You got a car at this place?” she inquires, audibly downshifting her voice into helpless mode.

  “I thought you were bailing on me?”

  “Do you have a car here or not?” she presses me and pauses as the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of the Pioneer.

  “Maybe,” I stall.

  “I assume that means you have a room as well?”

  “Your point?”

  “I could use a shower,” she remarks, putting on a big fake smile. “And a cat nap.”

  “I’m not sure I know you well enough,” I sigh, shaking my head as the driver pulls the door open on my side. “And to be honest you’re not my type.”

  Once I am out, she slides over and the driver pulls her onto her feet. Her gaze remains on me as if she’s trying to see what I might do. I pay the driver, tipping appropriately, and then step away from the curb. Rahnee plays with her hair and straightens her blouse. I back away, hands in my pockets watching her. The look of confusion on her face is priceless. It’s short lived however as she seems to sense my bravado slip away.

  “I’m everyone’s type,” she declares, slipping her hand into the crook of my elbow and turning me toward the front doors.

  “This feels a little forced,” I tease as we walk.

  “Are you saying you don’t want to take me to your hotel room?”

  I fail to respond to this. Part of me realizes the true nature of her interest. Part of me recalls Dorian telling me that it doesn’t matter why Aimee agreed to go out with him, just that she did.

  “I don’t want to be rude,” I say casually. “Since you’re so eager.”

  “We just met and you already annoy me.”

  The lobby is deserted as it’s not quite 5 AM. We pass unnoticed to the lifts and then walk arm in arm down a hallway littered with last night’s room service trays. Also in front of the doors are newspapers left for today. I wonder to myself if the shoot-out made the first run.

  The room is deserted, but the three rolling suitcases we brought are still sitting by the nightstand. Rahnee asks me if I need to use the bathroom, but I decline. She tosses her empty gun down on the bed and kicks her shoes off. When she flicks her ankle a bit too hard, one shoe hits the curtains in front of the patio sliders with a thump. This draws an oopsie face from her and a chuckling head shake from me.

  A sudden tinge of anxiety washes over me when I think she is going to disrobe right in front of me, but she only gets her top half unbuttoned before she heads to the bathroom door. Honestly, I assumed this was all good-natured kidding between us. I had no illusions about waking up next to her.

  I imagine Rahnee can read my body language, as she pauses in the doorway. I don’t move, feeling frozen. There is a short pause during which time the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Why am I such a putz?”

  “Ah hem, she coughs, looking back over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow.

  Seconds feel like minutes as she remains silent and posed, leaning on the door frame. A look of disappointment blooms on her face, although it could be the look you have when you call someone’s bluff.

  “Nothing,” she blurts out, cocking her head to one side.

  I search for something witty to say, but my lips won’t move.

  “Alright, suit yourself.”

  The door closes behind her and I sit on the end of th
e bed pondering the events of the past few hours. There is a high probability that one or both of us will both be dead in the next few days. For some reason this is less disturbing to me than it should be. Then again, I have seen some very strange stuff of late. Anyone’s paradigm would take a beating. My thoughts float back to Dorian and Aimee.

  “Miss every shot you don’t take,” I whisper under my breath.

  Drawing on the knowledge that Rahnee will probably be gone when I wake up, thus eliminating any potential embarrassment, I kick off my shoes and head to the bathroom door. Pausing with my hand on the knob, I take a deep breath and push the door inward. Steam flows past me into the room and I subconsciously look down when I catch a glimpse of Rahnee’s silhouette through the frosted doors of the shower. She must feel the cool air pass into the room as she speaks without turning around.

  “Thought I wasn’t your type?” she shouts over the rushing water.

  “You’re growing on me,” I explain, shutting the door to keep the steamy air inside.

  I am crushed when I wake up to an empty room, but Rahnee returns soon after, having stepped out to make a phone call. The sun cuts in the windows like long knives and I move to the other side of the bed to avoid them. The red lights on the nightstand clock read 12:47PM alerting me that I have slept away a good portion of the day. She hands me her coffee, a Styrofoam cup with a plastic lid, and goes in the bathroom, leaving the door open. The coffee is black and strong, giving me a jolt before I even swallow it. Rolling over onto my side, and into the dreaded sunlight, I peek into the bathroom.

  Rahnee has removed her pants and has one leg up on the counter rubbing something on her thigh. The night before, I caught a glimpse of the wound looking red and painful, closed by uneven black stitches that appear like they were done in a rush. She has a matching mess on the backside of her thigh, which I accidently grabbed in the shower, causing her to curse me to hell. She didn’t want to talk about it, so I roll back over to the shady side of the bed and keep my questions to myself.