by C. F. Waller
Rhea stops in the aisle and raises her hands over her head to stretch, lifting her blouse up to the bottom of her ribs. She has no noticeable chest, but I avert my eyes out of habit.
“Man you people are repressed,” she chastises me, shaking her head and arching her back. “You figure out what you want to ask yet?”
“Let’s see,” I stall, determined to ask something this time. “How does it work?”
“Please be more specific,” she sighs, still stretching in the aisle. “I deplore poorly phrased questions.”
“The hit by a truck thing? I saw one of your guys go down and stay down. When Shelly closed the box lid it dismembered him,” I toss out, causing a frown to cross her lips. “How would he ever be one piece again? His head was chopped off for Christ’s sake.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she blurts out, putting a finger over my lips. “Let’s not bring him into this mess.”
“Who?”
She doesn’t answer, but points a finger at the roof of the plane and grimaces.
“Really?” I ask surprised. “You mean . . .”
“Let it go,” she interrupts me, her eyes wide and green. “You want to see the magic trick or not?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, that’s a fair request. It shows intelligence and curiosity. I’ll grant you this one.”
She spins and goes to the rear, returning with a very sharp looking knife from the kitchenette. Seeing something on the blade she picks at it with her thumb and then drags it back and forth on the top of a seat cushion to clean it off.
“Don’t want to get an infection,” she explains, then winks as the implication finally dawns on me my.
“Cute.”
“Alright, the magic trick,” she announces, holding the knife up to her lips and running her tongue down the sharp edge.
“You’re not going to…?” I stammer, but she cuts me off.
“Slit my throat?” she grins. “No, too messy. Just a little demonstration as you requested.”
“You don’t have to hurt yourself for me,” I blabber, feeling horrible now.
“Arron, stop,” she orders putting a hand on my forehead as she stands in the aisle. “Just watch. I have done this many, many times. Mortals in general have to see before they believe.”
“We do?”
“Yes, it’s one of your greatest weaknesses,” she insists.
I nod and she takes her pinky finger, putting her thumb on top, with the knife under it, gripped in her hand as if she were going to peel a piece of fruit. She winks at me and then jerks her hand back, severing the end of her pinky in the process. My initial reaction is to throw up, but as she stands there holding the amputated finger between the knife and her thumb, it slowly starts to fade away. She turns her hand over, palm up and opens it, dropping the knife and shows me the silver and gold smoke that the pinky becomes.
“Now watch,” she orders, holding up the hand which is missing the digit.
As she holds it, the same silver and gold smoke glitters around the stump. Gradually, within sixty seconds, the end of the finger is whole again. The deep blue nail polish is as shiny as it was before she hacked the finger off.
“Whatever gets cut off just dissolves and grows right back,” she explains as she picks up the knife and taps it on her new finger. “I have seen beheadings. Take a guess, does the head vanish and reappear on the torso, or the other way around?”
“Other way around?” I guess. “Torso dissolves and reforms under the head.”
“Bzzzzzzzzzzz, no.” she jokes, seeming to enjoy making the buzzer sound. “You’d think that, but the head poofs.”
“Ever happen to you?”
“You mean has my head every poofed?” she grins.
“Sure.”
“Nah,” she replies, holding up the knife to see if it’s straight. “Nothing like that.”
“But you have seen it?”
“Sadly yes,” she admits. “Man’s inhumanity to man.”
“Or man’s inhumanity to immortals,” I offer.
“Man tends to be indiscriminant with his lack of compassion.”
“Sad commentary,” I nod. “So why don’t your guys just reform in the box or is it that they can’t get out?”
“Oh, they could get out,” she nods. “If not right away, then over time. That little witch has the thing separated with dividers. The limbs can’t grow back in that space so they don’t.”
“Once you open the box?”
“It’s a pretty traumatic injury,” she replies, looking away to think as she talks. “Arms and legs, not to mention the head. I’d say give them ten minutes. In that time, he’d be up and moving.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, trying to imagine it.
“Take longer for the scars to go away, but moving in say ten.”
“Hard to believe,” I wince, instantly trying to erase the visual I just imagined.
“If everything goes as planned,” she grins as she pulls her arm back and throws the knife at the cockpit door, sticking it in with a thud. “You will get to see it for yourself.”
She slips down in the seat next to me and grabs onto her pinky, flexing it back and forth as if it was stiff. Before I can speak, the cockpit door flies open, the point of the knife visibly poking through on the inside.
“Sorry,” she calls out, raising her hand. “Turbulence.”
Decker looks at the door and then at Rhea. Once the shock of it wears off, he frowns and goes back inside. Rhea looks at me and covers her mouth to hide the laughter.
I’m watching her and trying to reconcile her school girl innocence with being the leader of the immortals. Its baffles me, except she did say she lives virtually alone. Possibly after centuries of roaming free in the world of mortals, being removed from them has been torture for her. I ponder why she couldn’t have any number of men at the Estate, whatever that is. I imagine a clandestine castle hidden away somewhere in the mountains. This is probably over thinking on my part. For all I know, it could be a farmhouse in Ohio.
I notice she’s watching me in that serious way she was earlier. She leans forward and puts her nose to my ear and sniffs me. I start to pull away, but she hops up, crossing her arms in the aisle looking puzzled.
“Who are you really?” she demands. “I know something’s off here.”
“You come to that conclusion from smelling me?”
“You have an odd vibe,” she accuses me. “Call it an aura.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Clearly,” she frowns. “I’m watching you,” she mouths at me as she backs down the aisle and points two fingers at her eyes and then at me.”
“I’m honored,” I say, bowing my head just slightly.
“You should be,” she remarks as her head disappears behind the seats.
After ten minutes of silence, I hop up and take a look. She’s curled up in Rahnee’s nest of blankets, her hair covering her eyes. Her breath comes in long even strokes, hardly audible. Sitting on the edge of the seat across the aisle, I lean my head on the back of the seat and watch her sleep.
My mind reels as it occurs to me that Rhea is quite possibly the single, most amazing life form on Earth or anywhere for that matter. On the flip side, she is likely more dangerous than I am giving her credit for. That knife toss was a bit scary. If a person had thousands of years to pass the time, they could learn anything they wanted. Whether they possessed an affinity for the task or not, time and practice would win out. Is she a warrior or a princess? Probably a little of both.
I watch her for an unknown length of time until Rahnee opens the cockpit door and slinks down to me. She sees Rhea sleeping and then tugs at my arm to follow her. Once we’re in the cockpit, Decker leaves and goes for a nap. Rahnee tells me we are flying a loop on auto pilot. She thinks we are safer in the air, than sitting on a runway sleeping. I’m not sure who we are hiding from at this point. Don’t we have the bad guys or in this case girl on our side?
Rahnee ignores these suggestions and asks me about Rhea.
“So, what were you two lovebirds talking about?”
“Nothing, she’s crazy,” I mutter, still angry with Rahnee over her agreement to kill Dorian and Bee, and a teeny-tiny bit jealous about Decker.
“You’re not buying her Taylor Swift act are you Arron?”
“Taylor what?” I whisper, pushing the cockpit door all the way closed.
“You see it,” Rahnee nods at me. “She’s real serious and then she’s practically in your lap. I walked in on her sitting in Coop’s lap earlier.”
“Coop’s?”
“Decker, Cooper Decker,” she groans, annoyed by the things I do not know.
“Her and Decker?” I sigh, secretly jealous and hating Decker more by the minute.
“No dummy, not her and Decker. Just her and whoever. She’s wrapping the two of you around her finger. I don’t know why, but at some point she’s going use that against us.”
“How do you figure?”
“If we do this thing for her,” she lectures, lowering her head and glaring at me. “When it’s over, what’s to stop her from killing us?”
“I’m not sure there is anything stopping her,” I shrug. “We either take her at her word or not.”
“So it might be in our best interest to wait until the party gets started and do her before she can do us,” she suggests, lifting one eyebrow.
“Why would you say that?” I blurt out under my breath.
“There it is,” she mutters and points at me. “Right there. I posed that question to Decker and he reacted in a similar fashion. She has you under some spell. You’re already protecting her and you don’t even know it.”
“That’s unfair,” I argue. “Maybe I just don’t like to double cross a friend.”
“She’s the reason we were running in the first place. All of a sudden, her side starts taking some losses and she turns up here putting on the cutie pie routine.”
“Oh come on Rahnee,” I grumble, putting my hands over my face. “I’m too tired for this.”
“I’m not blaming you, but you need to wake up,” she lectures. “Maybe it’s some immortal thing. You mortal men can’t resist them. All I do know is that it’s not affecting me. I’m watching you and Decker and it’s scaring me.”
“You seem pretty hard to scare,” I nod at her.
A silent moment passes before she speaks. While I find Rhea interesting, I am not under any sort of mind control. I can’t speak for Decker, as I haven’t been there each time they were together.
“Decker and I are not an exclusive, but we have been around the world together,” she tells me, sounding emotional for the first time.
“Yeah,” I grumble. “I was aware of the nonexclusive part.”
“Grow up Arron,” she snaps.
“Fine,” I whine, now feeling jealous as well as fatigued.
“We have been in some bad situations, but I could always talk to him and he would listen to me. This afternoon he told me to mind my own business and he pushed me.”
“This is odd for him?”
“He has never put his hands on me before,” she sighs. “It was like he was someone else.”
“Never put his hands on,” I whisper, shaking my head at the wording.
“Oh good Lord,” she moans. “Little boys and their feelings.”
“Sorry.”
Stopping to think about what Rahnee said, I pause. Do I have any feelings of loyalty to Rhea? I’m pretty sure I’m not feeling anything other than curiosity. Then again, I do tend to be a puppy on a pork chop with the ladies. Given her slightly androgynous appearance, I start to ask Rahnee if she’s sure about not falling under her spell herself, but don’t. The pained look on her face tells me it’s not the case.
“So let’s keep an eye on Decker,” I suggest.
“What about you?” she groans. “Any suggestions on how to keep you from becoming a Rhea zombie?”
“It’s not an issue,” I shake my head slightly. “Besides, it sounds like Decker is far more susceptible to her than I am. For the record, I still don’t think it’s a good idea to turn on her.”
“Noted,” she shrugs. “You have any experience with guns?”
“None to speak of.”
“Go get the ones I gave you and come back. Let me run through the basics with you. I’m thinking we might need another shooter if things go sideways.”
“No sleep then?” I whine.
“We all can’t sleep while we’re flying on auto pilot,” she sighs. “Go get your shooters and I’ll walk you through it.”
I flash her a faux salute and wander back into the cabin. Decker is asleep in the first row, snoring loudly. My bag is in the second row, but after retrieving one of the guns, I slip back to check on Rhea.
When I get to her row, she’s still asleep. She turns, possibly as a result of me making noise, and rolls over. As she does her hand comes to rest on her cheek. The spot where she cut off her pinky has a red splotch. Leaning closer I can see a fresh drop of blood appear as if it dissolved through her skin. Its rests there a moment and then she takes a deep breath and shifts her hand. The drop rolls off, dripping onto her shirt, only it doesn’t leave a mark. A wisp of silver and gold smoke rises from her shirt and in an instant, it’s gone. Chilled, I head back to the cockpit.
“Not quite as quick to heal as you lead me to believe,” I mouth to myself.
Chapter Nineteen
Dominick Dunn
The view from the foredeck of the Queen Mary is beautiful. Blue water splashes against the side of the hull some fourteen stories below. The state room is luxurious in the extreme. Two double beds in one area and a folding door that opens into a private library. It feels like we have traveled back in time and I wonder how that makes Bee and Dorian feel? Have they been on this ship before? The information left in the room indicates that this ship launched in the 1930’s and was in service until 1967. For a brief time it served as a troop carrier during WWII, but was put back into commercial travel soon after. Without knowing more about them, I can’t gauge the odds as to their having been here before.
The sun is reaching its peak, and checking my watch I see it’s a tad after noon. A gust of wind comes over the bow giving my nostrils a salty spritz. I start back down the left side, running one hand along the steel railing as I go. Here, the wooden deck runs under life boats hung on arms that swing out to allow them to be lowered into the water. I pass by several older couples walking along, some holding hands, a few snapping selfies near the railing. At a distance, I spy Bee and Dorian reclining on deck chairs in the shade. It’s an odd visual as neither has changed into different clothes. This leaves Dorian in his same suit, although his jacket is folded in his lap. Bee wears her summer dress, but has an oversized handbag clutched across her lap.
I had directed them to the shops, as the hotel has a wide array of stores from which to purchase almost anything. It seems the only thing they bought was the bag. They are locked in conversation as I approach. I slow down and try to hear what they’re talking about before they notice me.
“You doing alright?” Bee asks in a soft voice. “Had to have been a shock seeing him.”
“At first, but once I approached him it was easier.”
“I had no idea it was him,” Bee tells Dorian. “How long has it been?”
“Thirty years or more,” he offers. “I thought you might want to know.”
“I would have liked to know before now.”
“Loose lips,” Dorian moans, rolling his eyes.
“Sink ships,” she jokes, looking at the deck of the boat.
“Unintentional pun.”
“With you my dear friend,” she sighs, putting a hand on his. “There are no unintentional statements. Everything you say is leading.”
“I object your honor,” he states somberly.
“Overruled,” she declares, patting his hand.
This is normal for them. Words fly back and
forth in this quick banter, with little information being discernable. Enough spying on them for now.
“Can I get a sidebar?,” I toss out, stepping into view.
“Mr. Dunn,” Dorian stammers, eyeing me curiously. “Do you have a legal background?”
“Does watching the Good Wife count?”
“Good Wife?” Bee utters, looking confused.
“It’s television dear,” Dorian translates. “All they do now is stare at their lighted boxes. Hypnotized dullards every one of them.”
“Then no,” I admit, annoyed at the inference everyone but them is a dullard. “No legal background.”
“Then you may not have a sidebar,” Bee lectures. “Obviously.”
I start to ask if one of them was an attorney at some point in history, but I don’t really want a thirty minute explanation. Up close now, I see that Dorian has purchased a set of hipster sunglasses, small square lenses in a rose color. He’s holding a drink in his lap as he reclines. The rocks glass carries an amber liquid that is most likely scotch or bourbon.
“What cha drinking?” I inquire, leaning on the railing.
“Scotch,” he replies, lifting it in a toasting gesture and taking a sip.
“Nothing for you?” I ask Bee.
“I had some coffee before,” she says quietly.
“I thought Sir Winston’s looked good for dinner,” I suggest, referring to one of the five choices on board. “We got in too late to have a proper meal last night.
“Outstanding choice,” Dorian nods, then drags himself to a seated position, dangling his glass off one knee. “Shall we say seven o’clock?”
“Okay,” I agree slowly, wondering why they want to eat so late.
“A word,” Dorian whispers, leading me down the deck.
“Something wrong?” I beg, looking over his shoulder at Bee staring off into the ocean.
“What is the time frame for this little ambush exactly?”
