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

by C. F. Waller

  We cross the deserted road under dim street lights, then slip inside 320 Maple. She leans by the window watching the road. I make several calls and eventually arrange for my friend to fly us. He has a lucrative but not all together legal business ferrying goods from China to the States, but is indebted to me personally. I provided a large loan at a more than reasonable rate when he started his enterprise. He will take us the 6,200 miles to Beijing. The flight in his electric plane will take roughly thirty hours including a stopover on some un-named island. The news of the timeline tosses Jennifer into a tantrum. By her math, this will put us very close to the five-day barrier. Her emotional outburst startles me at first, but then I recall how Beatrix would become so angry with me, we would go years without speaking. This Jennifer is a hot head, but for now, our destinies seem to be aligned.

  Lights crisscross the curtains interrupting her emotional outburst. Leaning against the wall to sneak a peek, I pull the curtains back from the window with a finger. The two men I saw previously exit the car with one going to the front door and the other circling around back. I place a finger over my lips and receive a nod back indicating she understands. After several minutes, the front door opens from the inside, the second man having clearly broken in through the back of her house. Lights glow in every window as they search the tiny abode. I curl a finger drawing Jennifer to me. She crouches next to me as the men continue to toss her place.

  “Who is it exactly that is chasing you?”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  I frown at this jab, but say nothing and wait for an answer to my query.

  “They aren’t chasing just me,” she explains, her lips very near my ear. “Their organization’s mission statement is to eliminate every minor-immortal.”

  “Minor?” I beg, wondering what that designation might denote.

  “You, me, my father. We are all minor-immortals.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “We don’t age, but can be killed as easy as anyone else.”

  “Not aging is the very definition of immortal, is it not?”

  “If my father is right, those two across the street can’t die,” she suggests nodding her head at the window. “He claims the ones that came after him just kept getting up regardless of how many bullets mom put in them.”

  “Not very sporting,” I remark as one of the men exits the front door and makes a cell phone call from the front yard. “Did he by chance refer to them as the Primitus?”

  “Yes, you know about them?”

  “They are the subject of Myth,” I reply pausing to organize my thoughts. “It was a much debated topic amongst us.”

  “Dad says they are real.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t take his word as definitive proof,” I mutter dismissively. “He’s barley 100 years old.”

  Without warning, she pulls a handgun out of her backpack and dangles it in front of me. It’s dull grey with a white handle that may be ivory. It’s a revolver as opposed to a semi-automatic, probably a thirty-eight or smaller. When I don’t take it, she jiggles it.

  “You’re welcome to step outside and see for yourself,” she snorts, then covers her mouth with a hand to quiet the noise. “Take a few shots and see if they get up.”

  “I detest guns,” I declare pushing her gloved hand away. “And my refusal to engage in violence is not proof of anything.”

  “If you say so,” she sighs, replacing the gun in her pack.

  Outside, the second man exits and they converse over the roof of their automobile. Another phone call is placed before they climb in their car and leave. Relaxing against the wall, I release the tail edge of the curtain and hook my arms over my knees. They will certainly be watching the train stops, which are the only way we could reach the airstrip. It’s at least a three-hour ride via train and I already know Jennifer does not possess a car.

  “They will be watching the trains,” she declares before I can finish my thought. “Where we going?”

  “Lake Elsinore.”

  “That’s what? South of Los Angeles?”

  “Yes, from there we would need to take the D-Train to the end of the line, and then grab a cab the last ten miles.”

  “Why not take a cab from there?”

  “Fairly expensive,” I reply quickly, but realize how stupid that sounds. “Right, a cab it is.”

  We have one sent over, but give the address on the Oakmont street directly behind my house. We slip out the back and rendezvous with our transportation without being discovered. I take only a brief case with the minimum of supplies. A momentary discussion of my attire occurs when Jennifer suggests my grey suit with matching vest looks dated. I assure her that looking presentable is never out of style.

  Chapter Three

  I had hoped to press my partner for information during the cab ride, but once we get moving she dons a huge pair of blue headphones. The vibration of her music can be felt on the car seat. I pass the time paging through a journal containing notes taken at the Gathering in London circa 1450. Prior to the events of seventy years ago, which I am not yet privy to, our kind gathered in one place every hundred years. It was always a grand event complete with dancing and banquets. Great wealth was held by many and the Gatherings could last as long as a month.

  At this particular event, some of the eldest of us had a debate in a salon off the main ballroom. The topic that night was the myth of the Primitus. The facts, long held as fable, stated that if an immortal, apparently now demoted to minor-immortal, were discovered by common men, the Primitus would swoop down and eliminate both parties. This would in effect keep our existence the well-kept secret it has always been. The nature of the Primitus was never agreed upon, but the word itself is Latin and translates as In the beginning. They were assumed to be, some earlier incarnation of either us, or mankind in general.

  At this debate, an odd fellow named Anthony suggested that the Primitus were much older than recorded history. He went so far as to label them Angels. The assembled rabble might have laughed this off, but Anthony held a certain amount of respect due a man in his position. He was our grand record keeper known as the Cartographer. Either way, I took down his ideas in this journal and page through them now deep in thought.

  “Hey, Bookmobile,” Jennifer whispers as she jabs me with her elbow.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think we arrived. Is this your buddy’s airstrip?”

  Peering out into the early dawn light, I can see we have in fact arrived. I pay the driver with my swipe card as we exit. We are avoiding using Jennifer’s money, as they will almost certainly be monitoring it. Geno is cranky from being dragged out of bed, but escorts us to the plane. It’s very sleek and seats only six passengers. Past the seats, an open area carries the important cargo, possibly drugs, but more likely counterfeit cell phones. There is only one other passenger, an elderly woman with an oxygen tank beside her. Plastic tubing snakes over her shoulder, ending in her nose where a constant whistle can be heard. She’s sleeping and doesn’t seem to notice us when we take our seats.

  There is a violent hum when the plane begins down the runway. As a rule, we minor-immortals, if I must use that term, do not fly unless forced. Given our fragile constitution, it’s an un-necessary risk. If you were going to live for centuries, why tempt fate on an airplane. Being in a hurry is for mortals. This being the case, I grip the arms of the chair tightly until we are well into the sky. Jennifer reaches for her headphones immediately, but I put a hand on her forearm to stop her.

  “Don’t,” she shouts and jerks her arm away.

  I must look flabbergasted as after a quick glance to make sure we didn’t rouse the sleeping woman she nods an un-spoken apology.

  “Sorry, I don’t like to be touched.”

  “Germaphobe?”

  “Not exactly,” she sighs. “Did you need something?”

  “I was hoping to pick your brain about Dorian?”

  “Sure you do,” she grins.

  “Y
ou’re inferring I don’t?”

  “That picture I gave you,” she smirks. “It’s not the only one my father showed me. You want to know about Beatrix.”

  This strikes me silent. She is correct of course, but the hint at further pictures tweaks my interest. Lord knows there were many taken out at the lake. It was a melancholy time for the four of us. Beatrix and I did not always co-exist. While our bickering fueled our affection for the most part, but we spent decades on opposite ends of the Earth embroiled in petty arguments. Dorian with his mortal bride Jennifer, the grandmother of my traveling companion, were staying in Michigan on a permanent basis. The word permanent being a mortal construct. When you entangle yourself with one, time becomes so very important. Dorian spent every moment possible with his love.

  Removing the photo from my vest pocket, I trace a finger over the faded image of the pregnant beauty on Dorians lap. Mortal women almost never become pregnant from our kind. It’s not unheard of, but has a tragic result. Jennifer’s Grandmother was no exception and did not survive the birth of her son Arron. The horror was that we all knew this sad truth beforehand, even the mother to be. The pregnancy was obviously un-planned and Dorian held himself completely to blame. In light of the situation, one would expect a maudlin mood, but the doomed woman would not allow it. She cooked and we played card games and danced. The four of us stayed at the lake together the final six months.

  “Hello,” Jenn’s soft voice inquires. “Earth to Edward.”

  “Yes, sorry, my mind does tend to slip away.”

  “You wanted to know about Beatrix?”

  “No,” I utter almost too quiet to make out, staring at the picture. “Not right now.”

  She seems surprised, but doesn’t press, donning her head phones and drifting off. She doesn’t favor her namesake in appearance. She has a somewhat Persian look, although watered down by Arron’s European gene pool. In my years of surveillance, I hadn’t come across anything regarding Jennifer’s mother. It would seem she and Arron were together only a brief time prior to conception and her resulting death. I wonder if this poor girl knows anything about her.

  “Excuse me,” the elderly woman croaks.

  I rise and step back a row, then kneel down to get on eye level.

  “Could you get my dog for me?” she begs. “They put her behind my seat, but I can’t reach.”

  I nod, and peeking behind the row, find a small plastic dog carrier. Inside sleeps a tiny bit of fur, most likely tranquilized for the long flight. Placing it on the seat across the aisle, I nod and start back to my seat.

  “Your daughter is beautiful,” she adds.

  I turn and nearly correct her, then realize what this must look like to outsiders. I stopped aging in my mid-forties. Given Jennifer’s young appearance, it might seem as if she’s my daughter. The truth of the matter is our births are separated by just over a thousand years. Rather than be perceived as a cradle robber I decide to play along.

  “Thank you.”

  …

  The island is barley long enough for the runway. It’s unlikely anything other than a small charter could manage. There are three volcanic high points with a cobblestone landing strip cut between them. A large turbine uses the ocean currents to produce the necessary electricity to re-charge the plane. Outside of the one huge concrete structure, there aren’t any other buildings per se, leaving us waiting it out on a picnic table just off the runway. Palm trees sway overhead as we choke down some pre-packaged sandwiches from the galley of the plane. Literally choke down, as they are dry as sand. The tiny dog lays in the grass on its leash, having done it business twice over. His owner remains on the plane in a state of perpetual napping.

  “It’s seems an opportune time to share information,” I suggest.

  “Sure,” she agrees, “but let’s start with you. You, Beatrix and Dorian were all there when my father was born. My Grandmother died in childbirth leaving my father with the three of you.”

  “Yes, that’s accurate.”

  “It’s considered bad form to procreate with mortal women so you didn’t report his existence to the powers that be, thus keeping my dad off the Calling Tree.”

  I’m stunned by the depth of her knowledge. The Calling Tree was a genetic map created by The Cartographer, a man I previously mentioned. Prior to our near extinction, we had created what amounts to firewalls between the others and ourselves. The Tree was a pyramid of sorts. Each one of us was assigned two others to contact. These communications could be information about the next Gathering or warnings of imminent danger. Each of us only had contact with the two people we called and the one person who called us. In this way, anyone discovered could only divulge the names and whereabouts of three others. Of course, in a perfect world we wouldn’t reveal anything, but rumor has it the torture was fairly wicked. The two people under Beatrix were Dorian and myself. The order was not determined oldest to youngest as I was Bee’s senior, and Dorian was quite a bit younger than either of us. A fact he never let us forget.

  Although it was a hard rule, Dorian did not report Arron’s birth up the chain. In this way, his son would not appear on the Calling Tree and could never be exposed. Beatrix and I went along, although my own participation in the cover up was only to appease her. She organized an adoption for the lad and we all hung around until he was perhaps five years of age. At that point, Bee and I excused ourselves leaving Dorian to handle his own mess. Sensing his presence was a danger to the young lad, he slipped away without telling Arron or his step family that he was in fact, immortal. Word has it that he kept an eye on his progeny, but was waiting until he stopped aging to break the news.

  “Hey, Bookmobile,” she pokes me out of my thoughts.

  “Yes, right, that’s all accurate.”

  “My mother was employed by the very mortals hunting you,” she reveals, stunning me yet again. “Mom claimed she nabbed this Cartographer about ten years prior to the Long Beach bonfire.”

  “Beach Bonfire?”

  “Never mind, we will get to that. Were you aware the Calling Tree was out in the open?”

  “It was generally assumed,” I admit woefully. “Minor-immortals began disappearing in short order.

  “Consider it confirmed. My mother was the one who nabbed him. She in turn passed the Tree onto her employers.”

  “No offense, but I’m not a huge fan of your mother at this point.”

  “None taken.”

  A golf cart comes down the tarmac causing the dog to bark rabidly. Even after it passes, the diminutive canine remains agitated. Jennifer slips off her left glove and leans down, scratching him behind the ears. Almost immediately the ruckus subsides, leaving the animal silent and sleeping.

  “He’s likes you,” I remark.

  “Something like that. Where were we?”

  “The Calling Tree was in the open.”

  “Right, it was a whooper of a list,” she nods. “About ten years after the Tree gets out there’s scarcely any of us left.”

  “Bee warned me via a coded message in a newspaper. She suggested I go into hiding.”

  “Lucky for you,” she sighs raising her eyebrows. “So, Dorian turns up in Vegas and makes contact with my father.”

  “Was you’re father aware who Dorian was?”

  “No, and he didn’t tell him about being immortal either,” she complains.

  “To what end?”

  “Only Dorian knows and he’s long gone from this Earth. Beatrix had contacted him and called for a meeting. Soon after Dorian makes contact with my father, Beatrix showed up.”

  “When was this?” I beg, trying to fill in any blanks regarding my dearest.

  “The fall of 2015,” she discloses. “And Beatrix tells my father everything.”

  This does not surprise me in the least. Bee was, if nothing else, straight to the point. At that time, I was in New York City, ensconced in a brownstone. Over three years’ time I rarely ventured outside its walls, having anything needed delivered dir
ectly. The realization that Bee was fighting for her life while I ate takeout and drank expensive wine pains me, even though those were her instructions. I scan through my memory for images of her. They flash past until I reach one of her sleeping; a mass of brown curls nearly covering her face. Streaks of crimson lipstick trail down the pillow case, her eyes moving under lids doused in blue mascara. Before I can advance this memory further, Jennifer snaps her fingers in front of my face.

  “Wakey, wakey,” she crows. “You have the attention span of a gnat.”

  “Yes, what was it you were saying?”

  “Pilot’s calling us. Rest period is over.”

  I nod, running a finger under my right eye to check for moisture. Finding none, I rise, noticing the dog has not moved. In truth, he displays no movement at all. Before I can comment, Jennifer leans down and scratches him behind the ears again. His chest immediately heaves as he takes a deep breath. At once, he jumps to his feet, shaking his head as if he was wet. She gathers up the leash and we start back to the plane.

  “Dogs a deep sleeper,” I remark.

  “Yeah, he sleeps like the dead.”

  Chapter Four

  We fly around the southern tip of Japan rather than as the crow flies. North Korean airspace has been off limits due to the radioactive green glow of Pyongyang for decades. A testament to the trouble that comes with idol threats. I gaze out the window at the coastline, the Jennifer stirs from her slumber. Her headphones have slipped down, one oval ear pad covering her mouth, rousing her. She jerks awake, then notices me watching. Removing her head gear, she leans over me to peek out.

  “How long?” she yawns.