by C. F. Waller
“She’s like a conduit,” I begin. “She put a hand on your henchman, then touched Rahnee.”
“And boom she’s up?”
“No, there’s light. Tiny embers flowed out of your guy and into Jenn.”
“You could see this?”
I nod.
“So she could just drain him and become twice as strong,” Rhea suggests, revealing her own narcissistic desires. “Why not just keep it.”
“It’s not like that. She’s a conduit between two things not a container, at least that’s how she put it,” I stammer in an attempt to describe something I can barely believe. “Over time she’s developed a small tolerance, but for the most part it has to go somewhere.”
“And if there isn’t anywhere? If she just grabbed one of my people in the open?”
“There was a delay getting Rahnee’s corpse in reach of her hand and the light started running backwards,” I explain. “It would have returned to your guy.”
“Devine, she is relatively harmless in the open then.”
“She’d take you down at the touch. Your guy froze like he’d been shot. One-on-one she’ll be able to stun and escape.”
“Then we will have to make sure no one’s alone,” she chuckles and raises the apple for a bite.
“It’s for her,” I shout, surprised how loud it sounds in the hall. “For Annie.”
“Touchy, touchy,” she frowns. “Here, take her down to her room and let the beast have it.”
The partial apple is handed to the young man that is helping her. I receive a nod from Annie as she stands on wobbly legs and turns to go. I once gave a homeless girl sitting on a curb some loose change and the look was the same. You can see honest gratitude in a person’s eyes.
“No, give her the apple in front of me,” I demand.
“You don’t trust me?”
I shake my head and point to the apple in the man’s hand.
“Fine,” Rhea snarls. “Give it to her, but make sure she’s cleaned up to serve dinner. I want her out here so the others can alter their wagers accordingly.”
The man hands over the apple and she tears at it with her teeth. In a matter of seconds, she has what’s left inside her mouth, core and all, as if they might try to take it back. Rhea groans and exhibits a disgusted look as they slowly exit.
“How is this a punishment for the brother?”
“He has to watch,” Rhea replies, dropping her legs off the table and sitting up.
“When?”
“That’s him with her,” she shrugs, pointing her walking stick at the feeble girl’s helper. “Gutless coward spends every moment of every day with her.”
“Why doesn’t she kill him.”
“She’s too weak now, besides that’s not the punishment. You have to play by the rules.”
“So, your people bet on her life expectancy?”
“Yes, that and if the brother will attempt to save her?” she remarks, wiping apple juice from her hand onto her pant leg. “Fat chance of that, but the odds are outrageous.”
“Technically, you’ve altered the rules by giving her the apple,” I point out. “Her life expectancy only remains a constant if she eats by the rules.”
She listens and frowns, a finger over her lips.
“Your own inability to follow the rules dooms the game itself,” I jab at her.
“That’s only true if I participate,” she snaps her fingers and then points at me.
“You don’t bet?”
She pauses as if a lie is on the tip of her tongue, then looks exasperated and rolls her eyes.
“Well, I certainly won’t the next time,” she groans. “What are you anyway, the Fun Police?”
I shake my head in disgust, my temples pounding from a hangover that lingers. I finish the water and wait for the next edict. Rhea watches me then hops off the table, leaning on her walking stick. She sniffs the air, then, looks at me with a repulsed expression.
“You are foul.”
“I was kidnapped mid-hangover.”
“Helen,” she shouts like a loudspeaker, the words echoing around the chamber.
Lashes appears from the hall to the left of the table and Rhea joins her, leaving me alone in the chair. She’s changed into a similar outfit as Rhea now, except for tan ballet flats on her feet. The two girls have an intimate conversation with Lashes, whose real name is apparently Helen, arm wrapped around Rhea’s waist. The two whisper and several giggles float across the hall. After a few marginally erotic moments and one kiss, Rhea slips away and disappears from view. Helen curls a finger at me to join her. I rise, setting my glass on the table where the Queen was so recently laying. Helen stands impatiently waiting, one shoe tapping the floor.
“So you’re Helen?” I ask, then hold out my hand. “We were not properly introduced before. I’m Edward.”
“Maybe after you clean up,” she winces, not shaking my hand. “Follow me.”
Her declining my hand makes me the slightest bit self-conscious. Over the past three days, at least four people have outright refused to shake my hand. How is that possible? I follow along trying to sniff my own shirt.
Chapter Seventeen
We stroll for five minutes through passageways that twist and turn. I am completely lost by the time we arrive. One man stands guard over the door. Helen greets him with a disinterested look that seems to infuriate him. Another Immortal minion then. Once ignored by Helen he looks angrily at me, apparently assuming that I am the reason. Not missing a thing, Helen kisses me on the cheek, then, leaves me standing there. I can only assume he is an unhappy ex-boyfriend. In truth, for all I know, it could be her husband.
“Edward,” I recite, offering my hand.
“For the time being,” he answers gruffly, holding the door open.
“No, I suppose you don’t want to shake,” I mutter as I pass. “Why start now.”
Once I am inside, the door closes abruptly, brushing my backside. I don’t hear any locking mechanisms or latches, but I assume the guard dog is there to keep me inside. The walls are all sandstone, although the ceiling might be granite. I run my hand down one smooth wall and it comes back lightly dusted by fine powder. Halogen torch lamps fill the corners of the room leaving orange extension cords on the floor. As I move to the center, it’s clear the next, larger space is lighted the same way. The first room was barren, but the second features a table and chairs. These look out of place in this stone tomb décor. The chairs are metallic and brand new in appearance. The glass top table is made of the same metal as the chairs. Maybe they ordered all the furniture from IKEA.
“Edward Grey,” a familiar voice calls out. “I was feeling special until now. Clearly they will let anyone in here.”
I turn and find myself face to face with Anthony. It’s been hundreds of years, but he’s an odd man who’s hard to forget. He’s not as tall as myself with short cut hair and tiny square spectacles that are tipped up on his head. A blue vest over an open necked dress shirt cover his full figured paunch. I wonder if he has extra clothes I might borrow. We embrace and I struggle to recall exactly how long it’s been.
“Did you vomit on yourself?” he groans, taking a step back and eyeing me suspiciously.
“Probably. How long has it been?”
“Since you vomited?”
“No, since we have seen each other,” I shake my head.
“Good question,” he shrugs, turning away and scratching his head. “Were you in in Arlington?”
“That’s what,” I sigh, trying to do the math. “1750?”
“Earlier, but you weren’t there.”
“You’re right, how about Algiers in 1850?”
“Yes, yes, I was there,” he grins. “The Arabian dancers on the midnight sands?”
Being that the 1950 Gathering was cancelled, due to the Nazi’s, this would have been my last chance to run into him. I can’t recall if Michelle was there or not. I’ve drifted off and he stares at me waiting for some words to fall out.
Was he talking about the Dancers?
“Right, let’s not begin with talk of the illicit or obscene,” I shrug. “We were both clearly in attendance.”
“Agreed,” he mutters, turning and going down a hallway. “Do forgive me for saying this, but I was under the impression you were quite dead.”
“You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”
I follow and at the end of the dark hall, the flicker of candles glows yellow on the walls. This room is very long with floor to ceiling shelves down two walls. Leather covered books, or journals, fill every shelf along with random stacks of parchment. A long wooden table runs down the middle and is filled with textbooks and dripping candle wax. Nothing here is from IKEA. Everything looks very old and more at home in this setting. Pausing to sift through a stack of papers, Anthony mumbles to himself. He always was a strange duck. Annoyed, he suddenly drops the stack of papers and puts his hands on his hips.
“Not here,” he mutters, looking stumped.
Before I can ask, he tips his head up and begins pointing at the ceiling. He backs up slowly as if he is tracing a line with his finger. Following his gaze, I am surprised to see the entire ceiling is a mural. There are names in red and what appears to be locations and dates, but it’s in a combination of languages. Tilting my head and moving slowly down the room I find Latin, Greek and some form of ancient Persian that only vaguely looks familiar. On one branch of a family tree are several names I recognize, but my Latin is rusty so there is no telling. Am I looking at the infamous Calling Tree?
“Yes, yes, Moffat, Moffat,” he muses, then, looks away from the mural to me. “Beatrix Moffat reported you deceased in 2004.”
“I believe she was trying to keep me from actually being dead.”
“Reporting a deliberate miss-truth to the Cartographer is in very poor form,” he complains, climbing on the table and painting over something with a tiny bottle of white out.
“Also bad form when the Cartographer starts working for the enemy.”
“Not so, not so,” he protests, never taking his eyes off his white out paint job. “I am a captive here, the same as you.”
“But you have been helping them?”
“The Calling Tree,” he asserts, confirming the mural on the ceiling is the family tree of minor-immortals. “Was out in the open before I came to be imprisoned here.”
“But you are helping Rhea or she’d have had you killed years ago.”
“We came to an arrangement,” he admits, then blows on the ceiling to dry his work. “I gave her the occasion tidbit of valid information and in return she promised to kill me last.”
“Kill you last?”
“Her goal is to exterminate all of us, thus the best deal I could negotiate was last.”
“That’s a pretty low bar.”
“If I am the last, then the Tree can be completed,” he explains. “I’d hate to leave it unfinished.”
“Still, you traded the lives of our kind to extend your own.”
“You’re overstating my part in this extinction event,” he smirks, pulling out a large pen of some kind and writing over his white spot. “For every truth given, I wove a hundred lies. They have been chasing their tails on my fictions for decades.”
“Speaking of lies, I shared a meal with a friend of yours a few days past.”
“Who might that be?” he inquires, squinting at the writing, then adding a bit more. “Based on my calculations there is virtually no one left who would know me.”
“Michelle,” I reveal, then watch as he freezes, pen in hand. “I believe her twin was the infamous Sindri.”
“How unfortunate,” he sighs, lowering his hand and slumping. “Dearest Shelly. Are you reporting her demise or just a sighting? I do hope it’s the latter.”
“Still breathing, but she inferred you altered the Calling Tree to hide her.”
“Guilty, guilty, guilty as charged,” he moans, slowly lowering himself to a seated position and then slipping back to the floor. “In my defense, her sister went completely rogue and had I not interceded, our own kind might have done her harm.”
“Still,” I argue, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Bad form.”
He nods, removing a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiping his brow. Should I mention her tragic aging or not? It’s likely he will never leave here and that being so, why worry him. They were clearly an item at some point in the past.
“Where did you dine?”
“We had a bite in Swathpol, then, stayed over at one of her homes.”
“We?” he mutters innocently, wiping his glasses on the handkerchief. “You and who else?”
“You probably don’t know her. She’s not one of us.”
“A lady friend of yours?” he chuckles, replacing his glasses atop his balding head. “I thought your heart was forever in the hands of Miss Moffat?”
“I assure you it will always be so. We dined with Rahnee Ben-Ahron,” I explain. “Romantically entangled with Arron Faust.”
He looks puzzled, then, crosses his arms over his chest.
“I’m not sure how much they tell you in here,” I sigh, “but she and Arron have a daughter who’s quite an interesting case.”
“I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Ben Ahron, but it was over seventy years ago. I was lead to believe she passed giving birth to the daughter you mentioned.”
“Yes, that’s accurate,” I agree, then, pause to try and organize my explanation. “To explain Rahnee, I would first have to tell you about Arron’s daughter, Jennifer.”
“Is that a fact,” a male voice calls out from behind me. “I’d love to hear your version of events regarding Jennifer.”
Turning, I am faced with a tall man leaning in the doorway. Unkempt sandy brown hair and several days’ growth of a beard are the first things discernable in the weak candlelight. I step forward and see his dark dress pants and white collared shirt are wrinkled and soiled. Blue eyes glint in the light and I struggle to place his face. He seems the slightest bit familiar.
“Arron, this chap claims to have been to dinner with your wife,” Anthony remarks.
“That’s interesting,” he tilts his head and pauses. “She’s not running around on me I hope.”
I shake my head somewhat stunned. I have not laid close eyes on Dorian’s son since he was five. Given yesterday was his one-hundredth birthday, that’s a long time. Look at Arron, all grown up.
“I’m kidding,” he grins and then pauses. “Well, is she here?”
I shake my head again, the adrenaline subsiding.
“That’s probably for the best. How’d she look?”
“Given her situation,” I stammer, curious why he isn’t more surprised, then recalling he had exhumed her previously. He knows full well what his daughter is capable of. “Her appearance was outstanding.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Arron steps forward offering his hand. “You’d be Edward then.”
I nod, feeling around for a reply as I shake. At least someone agreed to shake my hand.
“Why don’t we all have a glass of wine and chat,” Anthony suggests, passing by and heading to another room. “It would seem there is much to discuss.”
“After you,” Arron waves a hand for me to proceed him.
I follow Anthony into an adjacent room. Things are getting more complicated by the minute. I wonder what I would have to offer Rhea to be last?
Chapter Eighteen
There are a dozen rooms in Anthony’s well-guarded prison. One room opens up onto the sea with a spectacular view. An iron cage rises two stories over the mini balcony in case he wanted to try and swim for it, but none of us would ever try. There is what I would describe as a Roman bathhouse. Steaming water fills a square basin in the center of one room. I am told the water is heated by a fire and then pumped through pipes underneath. There is a swimming pool sized spa elsewhere for the truly Immortal occupants, but this one is very nice. Two women dressed like poor Annie, but not starve
d half to death, bring towels and soaps. They pass unmolested in and out of this area and never speak a word. I try to talk to one of them, but all I get in return are blank faces. Are they slaves or employees?
I spend the better part of the day in the mini bathhouse getting clean. Anthony and Arron join me for brief periods, but conversation is light. There is a closet full of dress shirt, jackets and suit pants. I can’t find any t-shirts or casual outfits, but then recall this is Anthony’s prison. He clearly never wears anything else, which suits me just fine. Clothing of other sizes has been added and I dress for dinner, but then we receive a message via a Helen-a-gram as Anthony puts it.
“You won’t be dining with Rhea this evening,” she informs us in the empty room by the front door.
“Did she happen to mention why?” Anthony inquires.
“More pressing matters.”
“You will bring us the banquet meal however?” he states, assuming this is the case.
“No one is dinning in the main hall so there’s nothing to bring,” she huffs. “You’ll have to make your own.”
“Sometimes I feel like and animal in a cage,” he whines.
“Oh, you do get it then,” Helen sighs. “I thought we were being too subtle.”
With that, she slips back out of the door leaving us all standing there dressed for a party. Our disappointed trio migrates to a wide open kitchen area with a long channel cut into the rock over a gas stove. Fans pull any smoke out of the channel, but another iron grate covers the end in case anyone wants to climb out. Where to, do they think we are running? There’s a center island with cupboards filled with ingredients. A round table with three chairs sits under a rough cut wooden triangle holding burning candles. There is an electric light over the workspaces, but candle light invades every room here. Are they Anthony’s choice or just part of the culture? Arron and I watch him prepare food and sip on some excellent wine stored in another area that features a wall of bottles in carved out nooks.
“He rolls the pasta by hand,” Arron tells me. “The sauce is amazing. We had it last week when I arrived.”
