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

by C. F. Waller

  “If you kill any of them, it alters the game,” Helen argues. “If she thinks they are dead she would never come.”

  “She won’t know they are dead,” the Queen argues.

  “Still, it’s prudent to wait,” Helen suggests.

  “I say we wait,” Phoebe shouts and is joined by the other minions. “Wait, wait, wait.”

  I am suddenly converted to a Phoebe fan. A little peer pressure seems to solidify Helens challenge. Rhea lets go of Arron and in one quick movement, runs Helen clean through with her spear. Helen grabs it before Rhea can withdraw it, blood pouring over her hands.

  “Seventy-two hours,” Helen croaks, blood on her lips.

  “You’re very close to the line dear Helen,” Rhea warns through gritted teeth. “You did this on purpose. You have some twisted affection for them. I suggest you re-think this position. They are but simple livestock.”

  “That still sounded like a wager,” I cough, then swallow hard.

  “You never declared your bet,” Rhea demands, pulling the spear out with a jerk spilling Helen’s blood on my clothes and Arron’s.

  “I declare the affirmative,” she gags, wiping the blood off her lips with her forearm. “The true mother will return.”

  “It’s not wise to always bet the other way,” Rhea warns again. “At some point your loyalty could come under review.”

  “Loyalty plays no part in my wager.”

  “It plays a large part in my tolerance of your existence,” Rhea hisses.

  Helen nods and covers her wound with her hands, pressing down. She’s healing quickly, the blood stopping already. Unlike Rhea, there is no swirling glitter. She is not a fallen angel, just an immortal minion. I am appalled by the idea that the Immortals can stab each other over the slightest drama. How bizarre.

  “How about her,” Rhea shouts, pointing her spear at the forgotten Michelle sitting by the fountain. “She isn’t one of them anymore.”

  “Still it might affect the outcome,” Helen argues.

  “Nonsense,” Rhea frowns. “Rahnee Ben-Ahron didn’t climb out of her grave for this old woman.”

  Michelle gets up and raises her hands, but Rhea walks right through them, grabbing her by the throat. With uncanny, strength she pushes her over the edge of the fountain, bending her back awkwardly. The Queen holds her head under until the legs stop kicking, then leaves the corpse in the water and storms across the hall.

  “Put the men back in Anthony’s prison and chain the girl to Cronus’s box,” she orders. “Leave her in the hall and don’t feed her. Am I understood?”

  This is universally answered with affirmatives from her people, including Helen. While they were jovial, bordering on a mutiny during the wagers, they return to strict obedience now.

  “Thanks,” I whisper as the blonde minion grabs me by the arm and starts pulling me away.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Helen shrugs. “I only bought you a few days.”

  Arron is dragged away with me and points at Jenn, who is being shoved to the huge Iron Maiden box on the wall.

  “Keep an eye on her,” he pleads.

  Helen winks and watches us as we are dragged around a corner and into the passageway. Whose side is she really on?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Arron is inconsolable, but understandably so. The only thing he’s certain of is that his beloved Rahnee will arrive to confront the Queen. He’s less optimistic about her odds of success. I sit on the terrace alone with my thoughts long after he passes out. His frantic worry wore him out and he now sits snoring in Anthony’s library. Salty mist floats across the terrace leaving a film on my forearm. What now?

  While my mind should be on more pressing matters, Annie’s sobbing face haunts my thoughts. I’m positive Rhea suckered me into killing her brother, but was it for the best? Her fate was sealed long before the knife plunged into his chest. No amount of food is likely to repair the wasted condition that’s befallen her. It’s a miracle she’s moving at all. My greatest regret is that while her prospects have not changed, I may have stolen from her the last thing that was truly hers. I have left her without hope.

  I remain outside sipping brandy until sunrise, then crawl into bed and fall into a fitful sleep. It’s midafternoon before I awake to find myself crippled by a headache. Centuries without drinking more than a few glasses of wine and in a week’s time, I have suffered hangovers on two occasions. My recent decision-making has been very poor. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, I find myself still adorned in my clothes from the previous evening. I have to tug at the bottom of the vest just to lower it to my belly button. I’m also eating too much.

  I discover a bleary eyed Arron in the library holding a candle over a sheet of parchment. Wax drips off the candle forming a tiny mountain, which obscures the text. I lean over his shoulder and gaze upon the words.

  “It’s Greek,” I whisper so as not to startle him. “It’s a confession regarding his deliberate misrepresentation of Michelle’s identity.”

  “It hardly mattered.”

  “To him it did. Once he became aware we knew the truth, he felt an obligation to record his lie of omission.”

  “They are both dead now so no harm no foul,” he sighs, replacing the candle in its holder.

  “Our kind has followed a set of rules for thousands of years. Until recent events intervened, they kept us safe.”

  He nods, but wears the look of a beaten man.

  “I need to ask you something,” I begin, sliding my backside onto the table so I can face him. “I was told you spent some time with Beatrix during her last days.”

  Arron nods in the affirmative.

  “Vain as this query might be,” I admit, then pause. “Did she happen to mention me in your presence?”

  “Let me think,” he mutters, tapping his finger on the table in thought.

  “It’s a silly thing to wonder, but we had lost touch—,”

  “Yeah, she and Dorian were talking about you in front of me.”

  “Might I ask the content of said discussion?”

  “We had just run into her and they were catching up. She told him you weren’t picking up her calls and she feared you dead.”

  This is curious as she clearly misrepresented my demise to everyone in hopes of protecting me. It would appear that even Dorian was not above suspicion. Why am I so preoccupied with thoughts of her with Dorian? I’m daydreaming again and Arron taps my leg.

  “You still here?”

  “Sorry, was there anything else?”

  “Dorian said he would miss you,” he offers, voice trailing off at the end.

  I don’t reply and my face must look grim to Arron, who goes on.

  “He said you were an amazing card player,” he remarks, then pauses. “And horsemanship. They both agreed you were good on horses.”

  “It sounds as if they thought well of me.”

  He nods, unsure what to say. What did I expect to hear? Did I hope she would have carpeted the room with flowery verses of love? She was never like that. Bee kept her personal life to herself.

  “One other thing that’s been picking at my brain,” I raise a finger and think hard how to phrase my inquiry. “Do you think the two of them were romantically involved in any way?”

  He looks shocked at the question, mouth agape.

  “You needn’t answer if the question makes you uncomfortable.”

  “No, that’s not it. I have seen the pictures from my birthday party. I was under the impression you and Beatrix were a couple.”

  “We were, but it was an explosive romance at times. She and Dorian always went so well together. They could talk for hours and say virtually nothing.”

  “Agreed,” he chuckles. “It was impossible to get a word in edgewise with them arguing some tiny detail of the past.”

  I nod. “They were in some respects, a perfect couple.”

  “But no,” he blurts, watching my face. “Like brother and sister, but nothing illicit. I’d bet
my life on it.”

  Given his life expectancy, this isn’t a large wager, but is reassuring none the less. My concern over this facet of her life is pointless, but Dorian was a very interesting fellow. While I counted him as a close friend, affairs of the flesh were never his strong suit. Dorian would hit on a Nun as he knelt at the communion rail.

  “One additional thing if I may,” I pause, but receive a gesture indicating I may continue. “Her remains were cremated in the fire? There isn’t any chance they may have been spared?”

  I receive a suspicious nod in reply. Am I so transparent?

  “Understood.”

  “We can both catch up with her very soon I fear,” he sighs.

  “Do you think a person meets their past friends in the afterlife?”

  “I can’t say with any certainty, but I hope so.”

  “Have you given any thought to your ultimate destination?” I groan, hopping off the table and stretching my arms over my head. “What I mean is, do you think you’re going up or down?”

  “Edward,” he shakes his head. “Have you not been paying attention? We are all going down.”

  “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “The Almighty,” he rolls his eyes and points up. “Sent Rhea here to kill us because our survival was a mistake. Our kind have resisted his edict for five thousand years. Worse than that even, we have received assistance from his mortal enemy,” he smirks, pointing down. “Trust me when I tell you this. When we are finally dealt with, our destination,” he lectures using air quotes. “Will be cloud free.”

  “All true, but neither you nor I were a charter member of this club. We are mere descendants of those who did the deifying. I was not even aware of the technical aspects of this predicament until recently. How am I to be held accountable for previous deceptions?”

  “The sins of the father,” he recites, then lets his voice trail off.

  “Are visited on the son.”

  “Or daughter,” he shrugs and stands. “I once asked Rhea if Jesus was the Son of God. Do you know what she told me?”

  For lack of an answer, I shake my head and wait for him to speak.

  “She told me it was a question she could not answer. Not because she didn’t know, but because telling me would be like stealing my immortal soul.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “She explained it this way. If she answered the question, my belief would be based on her tangible knowledge and not faith. Rhea was adamant the only true way to be saved was to believe by faith and faith alone.”

  “So we are doomed because our forefathers defied him and doubly so because we know of his existence by unfair knowledge and not blind faith?”

  “Yup,” he chuckles.

  “It seems we have been dealt a poor hand deliberately.”

  “Is that what you think? Answer me this. Did you believe before a week ago?”

  “I should think not.”

  “Then you have your answer. You believe only because of what you have seen.”

  This annoying young lad is correct, much to my great consternation.

  “What was your profession before having your eternal existence stamped out with foreknowledge?” I ask.

  “Bartender,” he sighs. “Or mixologist. Rhea called me a mixologist. Why?”

  “From this discussion I would have thought you either a Priest or a Scientist.”

  “Why?”

  “Stoic pessimism,” I moan. “A virtue espoused by either profession.”

  …

  No one comes to see us the rest of the day. I poke my head out of the door around dinner time and the blonde minion blabbers something in Sumerian and pushes the door shut. My retort that he could press it into a clay tablet goes unnoticed. Do I look old enough to understand Sumerian? I should think not.

  By the next afternoon Arron suggests we try to overwhelm the guard, but since I won’t join his crusade, he pouts on the terrace alone. Just after lunch, Helen knocks on the door and wanders in looking for us. Apparently, it’s her turn to play guard dog. We circle around the small kitchen table while Arron prepares cold-cut sandwiches.

  “How goes it for you after thwarting the Queen’s attempt to execute us?” I ask.

  “I am universally detested and considered untrustworthy.”

  “That’s regrettable. Will it be a serious issue for you?”

  “Over thousands of years each one of us has fallen out of favor dozens of times,” she yawns. “She’s tried to kill all of us at least once.”

  “But she can’t?”

  “Stab me and cause me pain, yes. Kill me?” she mumbles, pointing at herself. “Not that I am aware.”

  “Given what I saw Jennifer do to one of your Immortals, you might want to be careful.”

  “You only say that because from your perspective, death is to be feared.”

  “You’re not the least bit worried about dying?”

  “I’m not like you,” she explains, but notices the confusion on my face. “Okay, let me try this. I wasn’t born into flesh like the rest of you. My creation was for the express purpose of assisting Rhea in her mission.”

  “To wipe us out?”

  “Yes, but you’re missing my point,” she pauses. “I look real, but take a guess at what I actually am?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t born; I am not an Angel or a spirit. How do you think I came into being?”

  “God pulled you out of a hat?” I joke, but she frowns.

  “In truth, I am a clay statue no taller than this,” she illustrates, holding her hands a foot apart. “Somewhere on high, I sit on a shelf next to nine others. We were all fashioned for this task.”

  “So if you’re killed you go back to being a knick-knack?”

  To this, she shrugs.

  “But that’s not what Rhea is?”

  “No, Rhea was one of his chosen, but she was cast out.”

  “What did she do?”

  “No idea,” Helen thrums her fingers on the table. “I wasn’t yet fashioned.”

  “Lunch is served,” Arron announces, setting a plate in front of each of us.

  Helen scoops hers up and takes a bite. When I curl an eyebrow and stare, she starts laughing with her mouth full.

  “Even a clay statue gets hungry,” she argues.

  …

  After lunch, she offers to take us to see Jennifer. I’m not sure why she didn’t lead with this, but Arron is ecstatic. We follow along to the main hall where Phoebe sits on the long table painting her nails. She’s wearing a green dress this time, also short. Her black high heels lay on the floor under her feet as she swings them back and forth. She looks like a demented toddler sitting on a playground swing.

  “Helping your friends escape,” she snorts, pointing a neon yellow fingernail at Helen.

  “Funny,” she rolls her eyes. “Rhea said they could have a half hour. Toss me the key so I can unchain her.”

  Phoebe reaches down the front of her top and removes an ugly grey skeleton key. She holds it out, but when Helen tries to take it, she pulls it away. Helen takes two steps in what appears to be the start of a wrestling match over the key, but the Dark skinned minion appears from the other side of the hall.

  “Rhea didn’t say anything about unchaining her,” he lectures. “They can visit, but leave her leashed.”

  Phoebe slowly slips the key into the front of her dress, then, adjusts her bosom with both hands. Helen mutters something I cannot make out, but might have also been Sumerian. Phoebe pouts and leans back on the table pushing out her chest.

  “Come get it baby,” she purrs. “I won’t stop ya.”

  “Been there, done that,” Helen frowns as she turns her back.

  “Not in a long time,” Phoebe teases.

  “I don’t like waiting in line,” Helen huffs, waving a disgusted hand.

  Across the hall, Jennifer sits next to the giant iron coffin bolted to the wall. The chain is maybe ten feet long
and the links are huge, maybe a half inch in diameter. Given the weight of the ponderous chain, it’s doubtful she’s been moving much. A few feet away, the fountain bubbles, and Michelle’s feet still dangle over the edge. One black shoe, a moderate heel, lay on its side, having fallen off her lifeless foot. Jenn’s eyes are sunken and dark. My guess is they left the chain long enough for her to drink, but too short to pull the corpse out of the fountain. Rhea is seriously cruel, but admittedly in a very imaginative way. It appears than Jenn is dehydrated more than starving.

  “I hope you brought a pizza,” she sighs, forcing a smile.

  “Sorry no,” Arron admits. “They give you anything to drink that didn’t come out of this fountain?”

  “Nope, Rhea said it takes four days to die of dehydration and I was only gonna live three, thus it’s not a problem.”

  Helen frowns and reaches in the fountain. She pulls Michelle out by the front of her coat, then, drags her limp corpse along the tile to the front door. Her skin is a pasty grey, fogged over eye’s wide, jaw slack. I shade my eyes, but hear the thumping as she’s dragged up the steps. I’m tempted to point out the shoe, but Helen might not appreciate being treated as the clean-up crew. Once the door shuts, Arron sits next to his daughter, leaning on the wall as they chat. The only other person in the hall is Phoebe, but she’s blowing on her nails trying to dry them.

  Jenn hugs her right arm over her left shoulder in a protective way. This draws me to the blood spot on her thigh as well. I had assumed these healed, but the blood on her jeans is still wet. I study her face, but only a scar remains on her forehead, a raised red line that actually appears infected when viewed up close.

  “You didn’t heal?” I wonder aloud.

  “I’m not like them,” she shrugs, puffing air up and fluffing her bangs. “I’m like you.”

  “But when you were fighting it looked like you recovered.”