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

by C. F. Waller

  “How long is the flight to where you are taking me?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the private jet, a discussion occurs between my captors and the minion that escaped the church. He had exchanged words with the newly resurrected Rahnee before running off. He goes with the shorter woman, in Long Lashes place, to search for Jennifer. I am herded onto the jet and handcuffed to an aisle seat. Once we get airborne, a day of drinking catches up with me and Long Lashes is forced to handcuff me to a bathroom fixture. I sleep fitfully on the floor, more passed out than asleep. It’s early morning by the time we land in Greece.

  A plain Jane looking sedan picks us up. On the way to the Estate, I ask why they didn’t put a bag over my head or something. Long Lashes finds this amusing, but fails to offer anything more. I am left feeling uneasy. It’s clear they didn’t cover my face because they are never going to let me go. It doesn’t matter if a condemned man knows the location of his own execution.

  The road hugs the curve of a cliff. The sea boils a hundred feet below as I stare, handcuffed, out the passenger rear window. It’s beautiful here, the sun just coming up over the ocean. What a perfect place for true Immortals to live. Stone pillars several stories high mark the entrance. The iron gates are a shiny black and opened by two men on each side rather than hydraulics. These don’t look like immortal guard dogs, just hired security. Once past the gates, I get a ride in an elevator that drops an unknown number of stories down. At the bottom we exit into a courtyard. It’s overlooks the ocean, and is virtually at sea level as opposed to the road above. On three sides of the carved out courtyard, shear rock walls rise at least five stories up. The open side faces the water, leaving nowhere to run, were I so inclined.

  Long Lashes pushes me ahead of her through the courtyard and up to a tall wooden door. Two men and a woman stand near it. They are all dressed in expensive clothes. These are not hired guards and all share similar green eyes. The men open the door, although we have clearly interrupted a discussion. The woman shares a quick hug with Long Lashes and we pass into a three story high domed court. It’s like a miniature Pantheon. The room is circular, maybe twenty yards across. There is an outer walkway that circles the open space. Here the ceiling is only two stories and encircled by columns that hold up the shorter ceiling. Each column is an individual carved statue. The figures are in random poses, some with weapons and others in more typical Hellenistic poses. There are both male and female carvings and I count an even dozen. These would appear to be the Twelve Titians. The column closest to me bears a striking resemblance to Long Lashes.

  Steps lead down from the tall wooden doors onto the marble tiled floor. There is a long table on the far side as if the medieval king would sit in the center to eat. As a matter of fact, it’s a perfect replica of every Emperor holding court I have seen. Chairs line the far side of the table, all tall and decorative. On either side, the outer walkway, corridors seem to disappear into another structure, leading me to believe there is far more carved into the side of this cliff. While the ceiling is a dome, it’s not completely closed. Light from the rising sun is reflected from an unseen surface and supplies moderate light to the center space. Torches burn in bronze looking holders, one on every other column making a flickering yellow pattern on the cream colored tile.

  The oddest thing visible is an enormous iron maiden type coffin held to the left wall with huge bronze bolts. It’s sealed with the exception of a steel grate over the face, but from here I cannot see into it. Underneath is what looks like a barbeque pit in a half circle coming out of the wall behind it. The inference being that you could light up the fire and roast the person inside. Is this a device to torture Immortals? The front half is sealed by a padlock at least 6 inches wide and ten inches thick.

  “Un-cuff the poor man,” a feminine voice echoes in the room. “He is our guest.”

  Lashes pulls my hands together roughly, unlocking them and spinning me around. Across the room a figure stands in the torchlight looking amused. She’s tall, maybe six feet in heels. The shoes are black leather, a style I dislike, reminding me of gladiator sandals on stilts. She wears a sheer golden tunic top with a deep v-shaped neckline. The pants are of the same material and straight legged. She’s athletic looking, but slim. Her waist is small and her shoulders a bit too wide visually. There’s no hint of a bosom creating an overall androgynous impression. Her skin is a light caramel, the hair halfway between and afro and a perm. It’s bound to her head buy a horseshoe band, but looks as if it’s fighting to get free. Most hypnotizing are her glowing green eyes. Far brighter than her minions, but green never the less.

  “How is he?”

  “Spent the entire flight barfing,” my captor reports. “He probably smells worse than he feels, but you’d have to ask him.”

  “Thank you dear,” she smiles and waves to the hall to the right of the table. “Get cleaned up for dinner.”

  Lashes bows her head slightly then slinks past. As she moves, she trails a hand off Rhea’s shoulder and down her stomach, snaking around her like a serpent. When she finally drips off the Queen her eyes follow me until she’s out of sight. I rub my wrists, which are red from the cuffs. Rhea sits her butt down on the front of the table and waves me forward. In one hand is a walking stick. It’s shiny black with a bronze ball on the top and a similar cap on the bottom. I join her, but stay back ten feet or so.

  “How was your flight?”

  “You’re Rhea?” I remark, ignoring her actual question. “Queen of the Immortals?”

  “You’ve been talking to the recently resurrected Miss Ben-Ahron. That was her pet name for me. I’d prefer Rhea, but whatever you find appropriate.”

  I pull my vest down in front and try to straighten my tie, but Lashes was right and I smell like vomit. Rhea watches me and then I get a start. A grey patch of skin migrates up her exposed neck to her shoulder. When it runs down her arm it’s as if I am watching an x-ray. The oval patch passes down her forearm and as it does, charred bones and burnt flesh are revealed. Once it passes, the skin is left as perfect as the before, but when it hits her hand, bones covered in burnt tendons are revealed. Reaching the end, it reverses and slowly winds its way back to her shoulder, then passes over her face revealing a skull with green eyeballs in burnt sockets. Eventually it disappears into her tunic, presumably on some un-seen part of her. I’m frozen in thought when I hear her foot tapping. The entire thing might have lasted several minutes or more. I have fallen into a daze again.

  “I’ll usually answer one question, two if you’re lucky,” she remarks.

  “Answer what?”

  “A question. Was I somehow unclear?”

  “What type” I wince, seeing the ashen grey oval pass over her toes.

  “Who knows,” she sighs. “Everyone’s different.”

  “How about we start with your skin?”

  “Astute and to the point,” she tilts her head. “I’ll grant you an answer.”

  She reaches over the table with inhuman strength and pulls the high-backed chair over and drops it on the marble tile. With one foot she pushes it halfway between us. The legs squeal on the marble as it spins toward me. Happy with her work, she hops up on the long wooden table and waits for me to sit. When I don’t, she frowns and points with her walking stick. Unable to find an upside to refusing her, I do as she wishes.

  “You’re a friend of the late Dorian Faust are you not?”

  I nod, wondering if Beatrix’s name will come up.

  “Right, well, Dorian’s last act of rebellion was burning us both to ash with some sort of modern day Greek fire.”

  “Thermite,” I toss out, recalling it from a previous conversation, but amused she referenced a three-thousand-year old technique.

  “Yes, that’s it. Stood right in front of me smiled while he did it. Honestly I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “That would be out of character for him.”

  “On most occasions,” she moves her head from side to s
ide. “He was trying to give his son time to escape. Probably the only unselfish thing he ever did.”

  “It seems to have worked.”

  “True, I was turned to ash,” she nods, then, frowns as if recalling something painful. “Your question was specifically about the roving ash on my body, correct?”

  I nod.

  “Right, well, even as a pillar of ash I chased down his son—.”

  “Arron,” I interrupt.

  “Yes, Arron.”

  “He’s here somewhere?”

  She nods at me this time, then the patch crosses her face and pauses over one eye socket causing me to turn away. It’s as if was peering through a hole in her body. When I look back she wears a scowl. It’s not anger that I looked away, or at her unflattering infirmary, but more that it slowed down her explanation. It feels like she craves center stage.

  “Now, where was I? Oh, right, I chased Arron down and Miss Ben-Ahron came to his aid. A slight slip and fall shattered me briefly into an ashen cloud,” she sighs, fanning her face with her free hand. “Miss Ben-Ahron accidently inhaled a tiny amount of these ashes.”

  “And you’d like to get them back from her?”

  “No, she passed them on to her daughter,” Rhea rises and leans forward on her stick. “Technically, my daughter has her gift as a result of my contribution.”

  “Jennifer is not your daughter.”

  “Not completely,” she hums, putting a finger on her nose and pointing it at me. “But it’s her I need, not the dead girl. If I could get them from her surrogate mother, I would have dug her up decades ago.”

  It would appear that Rhea believes she can get her missing piece back from Jenn. I doubt this, but then again virtually everything I have seen the past week has been impossible. Who knows what’s next in this theater of the absurd. My attention is drawn away by a pencil thin girl carrying a tray with two glasses on it. She’s wearing a linen tunic style dress, her blonde hair in a tight bun on her head. She is flanked by a young man in similar dress, although his are cut as pants and a top. He is of average body type, maybe even slightly overweight. He walks along next to her as if to catch her if she collapses.

  “Annie,” Rhea chirps. “You can bring that to our guest.”

  The girl flashes a smile that’s at best an attempt to please. She stumbles, nearly losing the water, but the man keeps her upright. When she arrives next to my chair, she kneels and presents the tray. Two tall glasses, the type you’d expect a mint julip to be served in, hold what is presumably water. The girls eyes are painted in an overdone Egyptian look, dark mascara running out of the corners of her eyes. Pencil thin doesn’t begin to describe her, as up close, I am confronted with a concentration camp survivor.

  “Take it,” Rhea presses me. “Before the poor thing falls over.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, taking the tall glass and frowning at Rhea.

  Without standing, she shuffles on her knees to her Queen. She holds the tray up over her head trying not to spill the glass. Rhea sits on the table again and after watching the girl’s arms waver, she plucks the glass up just before the tray falls. The exhausted girl scrambles to pick it up, but her ragged breathing turns into a cough and she trembles as she gags. Rhea takes a sip and sets the glass on the table. She leans back and plucks a green apple off a massive bowl of fruit. Polishing it on her tunic, she encourages me to drink.

  “What’s wrong with the girl.”

  “My dear Annie?” Rhea mumbles, pointing a finger at her feet.

  “Yes.”

  “Poor things suffering through a bit of a punishment.”

  “For what?” I shrug, watching her regain her breath, still trembling on the floor.

  “Nothing she did,” Rhea explains, biting the apple and then talking with her mouthful. “Her brother palmed a dinner knife off the table during service and stabbed one of my people.”

  “But she’s being punished for it?”

  Rhea nods, chewing with her mouth partially open.

  “What’s her punishment?”

  “She is slowly losing her food privileges. The first of every month we take one thing off her food allowance.”

  “How long has this been going on? It looks like she’s starving to death.”

  “Yes, quite so,” Rhea nods, watching the girl on the floor. “Must be a year and half.”

  “How long does the punishment go on?”

  “Only as long as her brother allows.”

  “Why doesn’t he stop it?”

  “He’d have to slit his throat with the stolen knife,” she explains, then rolls her eyes. “First Saturday of every month I offer him the knife, but thus far he has refused to take it.”

  This is unimaginable. Her brother is letting her starve for his transgression. While slitting one’s own throat would be hard for anyone to accept, it’s astonishing. The more I think about it, the realization that the brother is not really the bad guy, becomes apparent. Rhea is the one imposing these arbitrary punishments. In reality, stabbing one of her immortals is pointless, so no actual crime has been committed. Is this all done for my behalf or have I stumbled into a morbid looking glass?

  “His cowardice aside, how long does this punishment last?”

  “Till the girl dies or the brother takes the knife,” she remarks through apple chunks, juice running down her chin. “Honestly there is quite a bit of wagering on this particular situation. Smart money says the girl’s almost done. There isn’t much more we can take from her at this point.”

  “What are you feeding her?”

  “Grapes.”

  “How many?”

  Rhea holds up three fingers as she bites the apple again.

  “Three times a day?”

  “Three grapes,” she chokes out, catching a loose bit of apple with her free hand. “Three grapes a day for another two weeks, then we take one away. If she makes it to the next reduction, it’s really going to throw a wrench in the betting pool. We might have to start cutting the grapes in half.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Not at all,” she assures me, then locks eyes on her brother. “No cutting for you,” she frowns, wagging a finger at him. “Only one stabbing per servant is allowed.”

  “You’re betting on life and death?”

  “Yes, but I am cheering for you dear,” Rhea purrs, reaching down and putting a hand under the waif’s chin. “You’re showing a lot of determination.”

  “You’re sadistic in the extreme,” I swallow hard, finally taking a sip of my water and hoping it’s not poisoned.

  “Would you care to help poor Annie?”

  When the question is posed, she sits up straight on the table and leers at me, eyebrows widening. Tilting slightly forward, her blouse wavers provocatively. She’s holding what’s left of the apple, looking like the snake from the garden might have looked to Eve. Whatever her offer is will be self-serving, but the pathetic girl glances up and tries to smile. Her cheeks are sunken and if she closed her eyes, anyone passing would assume her dead. Anything they feed her is likely wasted. She is going to die either way. Deciding to play along, I motion with my hand for the Queen to continue.

  “You witnessed the resurrection?” she asks, dangling the apple in front of the girl.

  “I did.”

  “Tell me how it works?” she winks, “and I’ll give Annie my apple.”

  “You’ve eaten nearly all of it already.”

  “He doesn’t think you want it?” she whispers to the girl, then eyes me. “Now who’s making life and death decisions?”

  On the floor, I receive a wide eyed stare from the girl. Her posture remains defeated, but her eyes burn. It’s as if I am looking at a drowning victim who is just under the water line. She wants to plead, but knows better than to speak. I hesitate to share what I know, even though it’s very little. Just the fact that Rhea wants the information makes me think it’s dangerous for Jenn if I tell. Rhea dangles the apple over Annie’s head and grins
at me. When I don’t answer she takes a small bite and chews loudly.

  “Tick tock said the clock.”

  I shake my head slowly, but watch the apple suffer another small nibble. On the floor, tears begin to run down the girl’s face, leaving lines in her make up. The only appearance of life she has is blush and mascara. Rhea puts a hand on her head to steady her, then, dangles the apple close to her face. The girl’s nostril flare, as she smells the fruit. She flinches towards it, but Rhea pulls it back and hisses at her.

  “Stop it,” I complain.

  “Tell me what I want. Why are you withholding food from this girl? Are you that fond of your precious Jennifer?”

  “I’m not withholding—.”

  “Tick, tock,” she remarks, taking another small bite. “Tick, tock said the clock.”

  As I sit frozen, she puts a hand on the girl’s head and then lowers the apple until the core side is touching her cheek. I try to look away, but sit transfixed. The Queen rubs it against the waif’s face, then sits back up and releases her head. As I watch the starving girl wipes the back of her hand on her cheek then licks it. It’s like a cat cleaning itself, except in reverse. Rhea lifts the apple to her mouth, but I can’t watch this any further. Everything has a breaking point.

  “Fine, just give her what’s left.”

  “Not until you answer my questions,” she explains, setting the ground rules.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “You really can’t,” she admits. “I am untrustworthy by nature.”

  “But you will give her something to eat?”

  “Apple for the answers, apple for the answers,” she recites in a way that reminds me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.

  I nod my head and smile at the girl, but her eyes are glued on the apple.

  “How does it work?” Rhea demands, pulling her legs up and laying on her side across the long table. “Are there magic potions or incantations?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Then how?” she sighs, setting the apple on the edge of the table.