by C. F. Waller
“The Queen let go before all of Anthony passed through me. What’s left over I kept. It did feel like I got better initially, but I hurt bad now. I can’t move my left arm much. It’s killing me where the spear passed through my shoulder blade.”
“What about the leg,” Arron asks, pressing a finger on her knee below the stab wound. “Oh, it’s swollen. Can you walk?”
Jenn shakes her head. Arron puts a hand on her forehead and then looks back at me. My guess is she has a fever. Stab wounds and infections will do that to a person. It’s remarkable that she’s sitting here so calm. I have witnessed men, less injured than she, cry out for help, even when none exists.
“Is it cold out here at night,” Arron asks, a hand still touching her forehead.
“Yes, but last night the guy in there,” she whispers, pointing at the iron maiden. “Threw a fit and Rhea came out and lit the fire.”
“What happened then?” I ask, all sorts of visuals in my head.
“He cried awhile then got quiet. The fire was warm.”
“As long as he doesn’t hurt you,” Arron nods.
“I don’t think he wants to hurt me at all,” Jenn whispers, a hand over her mouth. “I think he tricked them into lighting the fire for my benefit.”
“That’s preposterous,” I scoff, but a howl comes from the iron box, shaking dust off the huge padlock.
Jenn rolls her eyes and wags a thumb at the box. No one else speaks and the howl ends, leaving us in silence once again. When I look back at the table, Phoebe had paused her beauty ritual as if she may leave. Is it fear of what’s in the box or her deep seeded desire to be a tattle-tale?
“Who’s got the key to that,” Arron shudders, tapping a finger on the wide padlock.
“Maybe it’s in Phoebe’s bra,” I suggest.
“She doesn’t wear one and there is no key to the padlock,” Helen explains, walking up behind us. “Rhea had it melted down and caste into a pendant.”
“What sort?” Jenn mutters.
“Crucifix, but she doesn’t wear it anymore.”
“Can we get some clean towels and hot water to see after Jenn’s leg and shoulder?” Arron inquires.
Before Helen can answer, Phoebe shouts from across the hall.
“No medical,” she lectures, capping her nail polish. “Nothing that affects the wager.”
“That’s one downside of using a bet to stay your execution,” Helen sighs, then looks back at her nasty sister in immortality. “Is it okay if I help her up so she can get some water?”
“If she wants to drink corpse water,” Phoebe yammers, walking out. “Then go for it.”
Helen puts her hand out, but Jenn doesn’t take it. She looks at the fountain and cringes.
“The fountain is spring fed and near freezing cold. It flows out from here directly to the sea. It doesn’t circulate or return. It’s harmless, but that’s not why I am helping you up.”
“Making a run for it?” I whisper in jest.
“No, just give me your hand,” Helen suggests, reaching down.
“I’ll hurt you,” Jenn suggests, realizing what Helen is really offering.
“You won’t hurt me much, just take my hand.”
After a moment to confer with Arron, she reaches up and touches Helen’s outstretched hand. The normal flicker of light travels into Jenn, but then Helen pulls her to her feet and jerks her hand away. Jenn hops on one leg and uses her right hand to balance on the wall. After a moment she puts the foot down and wiggles her left elbow.
“Are you okay,” Jenn asks, reaching over her left shoulder and feeling for the wound.
“I’ll be fine, how’s the arm?”
“Still hurts, but the holes closed up.”
“Give it some time,” Helen assures her. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“At which point her health may be a moot point,” I suggest.
“Unless Mom shows up,” Jenn remarks, trying to be upbeat.
“Why is it the Queen thinks Rahnee is being detained or delayed?” I inquire.
“She sent four of us to stop her originally. Greta went this morning to check on them.”
“Who’s detaining who?” I grin thinking Rahnee might be a force to reckon with.
“So that’s five gone after Rahnee, one buried in Germany and four here?” Arron mutters aloud, scanning the hall.
“Me, Phoebe, Zerk and Prince.” Helen offers.
“Zerk and Prince?” I wince.
“Dark skinned guy is Zerk, the blonde is Prince.”
“And five of them chasing Mom,” Jenn replies.
“I know, right,” Arron sings in a cheery voice for Jenn’s benefit. “They are gonna need more guys to make it a fair fight.”
This puts a smile on Jenn’s face. She refuses the fountain water at first but we all take a drink to prove it’s harmless. In truth, I nearly vomit at the thought, but give her a thumbs up after swallowing. Zerk marches in ten minutes later and shoes us back to Anthony’s lockdown. Helen promises to return for breakfast, but the look on her face is grave. Her cheeks are ashen and her lips dusky. How much life force did she share with Jennifer?
“The reality is that this time tomorrow there will be a banquet in the main hall,” Helen warns. “And if your wife doesn’t come strolling in the front door Rhea’s going to line the three of you up and kill you. Nothing I say or do can change that.”
“It’s in God’s hands now,” I recite, trying to keep it positive.
“Pay attention,” Helen groans and thumps her finger on my forehead three times. “Your fate is in someone’s hands, but it’s not God.”
Why is it in our minds we always feel like the good guys? I look down at the ground and try to decide. If assistance was offered, do I really want help from below?
Chapter Twenty-Four
There is no sign of Helen and by lunchtime we appear to have been deserted. Arron resorts to drinking on the terrace, while I browse over Anthony’s parchments. His work is spectacular in its detail and neatness. I lay on the center table and gaze up at the mural overhead. On the left side of the room, my name appears under that of Beatrix Moffat. Beside it is Dorian Faust. These are all scrolled in Latin using black ink. Under Dorian, written in a sharpie marker is Arron Faust, a pink circle around it.
“He did hate having to change things,” I chuckle. “Alas poor Anthony, I knew him a little.”
Arron bursts in from the terrace and looks wildly around the room.
“What?” I ask, looking back over my head as I lay on the table.
“Big ruckus up top. I was on the terrace and you can hear the yelling.
“Well then,” I announce, slipping off the table and onto my feet. “Your wife has arrived.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“In the few days I spent with her she seemed a fairly single minded woman. She also rose from the dead and drank a fifth of Crown Royal with a straw so anything is possible.”
“She drank what?” Arron begs, confused.
“She never eats or sleeps and only consumes hard spirits,” I explain, putting a hand on his shoulder, then, turning him towards the front door. “It’s eccentric, but it’s not like she’s feasting on human souls or anything.”
“Humans souls,” he stutters as I pull on my suit jacket and button up my vest.
“You really need to relax and grow a sense of humor,” I advise, cinching up my tie. “We have a front seat to our own murders. The least we can do is enjoy it.”
“How?”
“Embrace the horror,” I remark in jest, but notice Arron’s lack of excitement.
“Easy for you to say,” he frowns, becoming increasingly aware that I am pulling his leg. “You’re over a thousand years old. You’ve lived awhile. I just turned a hundred.”
“It’s not so much the years, but rather the mileage.”
“What?”
“Let me ask you this,” I pause, moving the conversation away from snarky comments. “Have yo
u ever been in love?”
“Excuse me?”
“Love, have you ever been in love?” I repeat. “Head over heels, can’t live without her, sweaty palms and butterflies in your stomach love?”
“Yes,” he replies solemnly. “Jennifer’s mother.”
“Me as well. The time I spent with Beatrix defines my entire existence, even if that is ten times longer than yours.”
“Your suggesting that love transcends time?”
“I’m suggesting that most people never experience true love,” I correct him, then pause. “Although the way you described it sounds far better. It would appear you are more quotable than I am.”
When I pull open the door, the passageway is empty. We step cautiously into the dim light and ponder our options. My guess is, they were called to the battlefront so to speak, if danger has arrived. I can imagine no other cause of this perceived abandonment. Arron starts to the main hall without alerting me. I tag along understanding his need to assist Jennifer. As we scurry along, I realize my Scotch swilling description of Rahnee Ben-Ahron was only partial fictional. Arron is about to get a shock.
We peek into the main hall from the right corridor. From here, we can’t see Jenn or the Iron Maiden. Rhea resides in the center of the hall staring at the huge wooden doors. Helen and Prince stand on either side of her holding large handguns. It’s an odd visual given the spear and sword gladiator mentality around here. Clearly, playtime is over. As if by smell or sensing us, Rhea turns and directs Phoebe to stop us. We get just into the hall when she pins us to the wall with one of the long spears. Up close, she seems much more formidable, even in a skimpy dress and high heels. I have to keep reminding myself. These are not people; they are supernatural beings. Or in truth, clay statues, but she looks more dangerous than that on this occasion.
Across the hall, we can now see Jenn huddled next to the Iron coffin, her chain gathered about her feet. Prince goes to the door and puts his ear to it. There is a sudden knock and the door vibrates. The door is pounded again, dust floating in the air from the impact. Prince looks to Rhea who waves an annoyed hand for the door to be opened. He pulls the right side halfway open and looks out.
“Well,” Rhea shouts angrily. “It was Greta’s code that sent the elevator up. Do you see her?”
He slips farther out, only his shoes dragging inside the door, then the room lights up as if the roof was peeled off during a mid-day sun. Prince staggers backwards in the doorway. One foot hits the stairs, then his leg breaks off and tumbles away. My perception reels, desperately trying to put the visual together all at once. When the rest of Prince hits the ground, he is being consumed by fire. Bright embers gnaw away at him, one arm joining the leg at the bottom of the stairs. As I watch, even these are consumed by flames that burn only on his body parts. In the end all that’s left is a trail of ash and a half burnt skull with blonde hair on one side.
“Hell fire,” Rhea howls. “How is that possible?”
Rahnee strides in the door holding the shotgun I saw earlier at Rhett’s gun shop. She’s sporting black dress slacks and a white blouse with a low neckline. The slick leather jacket I saw earlier is open in the front. Her hair has a red ribbon holding a small pony tail back, ending in a bow. Is she dressed for a party or perhaps a funeral? When I sneak a peek at Arron he stares with his mouth open. I can’t quite make sense of the outfit, but her entrance was spectacular.
Rhea seems to pause for Helen to fire, but she does a very odd thing. When Rahnee turns the shotgun on her Helen holds her gun at arm’s length. As Rhea stares, Helen releases her grip allowing it to clatter harmlessly at her feet. Flashing Rhea a half smile, she stretches her arms out to her sides.
“Helen,” Rhea bellows.
Before any reply can be heard, the shotgun barks and a fireball erupts out of the end, tailing a line of black smoke. It strikes Helen in her mid-section, toppling her over in flames. In a pile on the marble tiles, her body is consumed by white hot fire until only ash remains. Why did she just give up? Could it be she didn’t want to do Rhea’s bidding any longer? There is little time to ponder this as Rahnee levels the gun on Rhea and fires. Instead of the bark and fireball, we are treated to only a click.
“That’s why I prefer swords to guns,” Rhea taunts, stepping back three steps and retrieving Jenn’s sword off of the table. “They never run out of bullets.”
Rahnee calmly cracks the shotgun in half and pulls out a cylindrical metal sleeve, dropping it. From inside her jacket she draws a similar sleeve, this one full of shells, and slips it in, snapping the gun closed.
“Long time no see,” Rahnee shouts, lifting the butt of the gun to her shoulder. “You look better than the pile of ash I left in Long Beach.”
“Quite a bit of time has passed, but I am feeling much better,” Rhea pauses, turning the sword over in her hands. “How is the Dark Prince these days?”
“Irritable,” she replies, leveling the shotgun.
The barrel explodes again, but the sound is lost in a thunder clap that vibrates the very stones we stand on. A burst of wind nearly takes us all to the ground. Burning fragments of Helen and Price swirl in the air. Even with everything I have seen up to now, there is no way anyone could be prepared to witness what happens next. I trace my hand over my chest in the pattern of a cross more out of fear than a desire to be saved. I do not believe my eyes.
When the gun fires, Rhea moves her feet in a wider stance and a towering wing explodes from her back. It’s round at the top and curved to a point at the bottom. Just as one would expect from an angel. Taller than her by several feet, it is also long, a string of feathers dragging the ground behind her. The color is dingy grey, although was possibly white at some time in the past. The feathers on the sides are blackened by oil or mud. Arron did suggest fallen angel, did he not?
The single wing curls around in front of her and the fireball explodes into a shower of embers. It doesn’t go through, but a blue flame burns on the feathers as if doused in sterno. She swings the wing away from her face, then snaps it out, shaking off embers. I have not known Rahnee for long, but the look of surprise on her face doesn’t suit her.
“I’m sorry,” Rhea remarks, curling the wing and using the sword to scrape off burning feathers. “Was I supposed to lay down and die?”
“To be honest I didn’t think one shot would do it,” Rahnee grunts, pumping the shotgun and firing a second time.
The lone wing takes the brunt of the fireball again, some deflected embers hitting Phoebe’s arm causing her to shake the limb frantically. In the mayhem we might have run past her, but to where? Across the hall Jennifer crouches by the Iron Coffin, but worrying seems a waste of time. She’s as safe as any of us.
“Long range weapon of cowards,” Rhea hisses, snapping the wing to douse the flames. “Your daughter had the decency to fight me up close with honor.”
“She doesn’t know you as well as I do,” Rahnee grunts, pulling the trigger.
For a third time the wing stops the fireball, but it’s clear the fires not going out. She has scraped off a layer of feathers, but they still burn on the floor. What is Hellfire exactly? Rahnee raises the gun again, but another thunder clap vibrates the room, the second wing snapping out of thin air. The rush of wind blows Rahnee off her feet, slamming her into the door. When she rolls to her knees Rhea spins a half turn and uses her still smoldering wing to blow her adversary into the door with a shock wave of air, the shotgun clanking to the ground.
“Enough,” she shouts in a deep voice that is more like the cannon shot sound of her wings than speech.
“She needs our help,” Arron whispers.
“Have at her,” I stammer, stepping to my right and waving a hand at the melee. “She’s all yours.”
He tries, but Phoebe shoves him back with the spear. He wants to assist his true love.
“How did you get Hellfire across to this side? What did he offer you to confront me?” Rhea complains angrily, flapping the wing covered in
blue flickers of flame. “Did Lucifer offer you freedom to smite me?”
“Sure, but, I would have done it for free,” she coughs, sitting up with her back on the door.
“You all fight as if you are on the side of light, but you’re not,” she lectures, walking slowly toward Jenn and the fountain. “You struggle in vain while pathetically serving the Dark Prince.”
“I’m just playing for the team that drafted me,” Rahnee argues, laying over on her side in an attempt to reach the shotgun.
Rhea is preoccupied by her burning wing and pays no attention to Jenn as she stuffs the oversize appendage into the fountain. Water splashes on the tiles when she draws it out, but the fire still burns. Her expression is one of surprise. Rahnee did warn Rhett at the gun store that water wouldn’t put it out. The Queen dunks the wing a second time, but brings it back even more engulfed. It’s as if the water is making it worse. The appendage is smaller now, as if melting. A low growl fills the room as she wiggles it. It’s now very clear to me why the shepherds were afraid.
“Witchcraft,” Rhea howls, but as she turns another fireball flies from the shotgun as Rahnee sits with her back against the door.
As if it had a mind of its own the second, undamaged wing, curls over her, taking the shot squarely in the center. Embers float in the air and Jennifer moves away, as far as the chain will allow, her wrist pulling the shackle tight. In seething anger, Rhea moves toward Rahnee as another fireball flies. She bends down with her hands over her head, the second wing in front of her as she moves in on the source of the flames. Burning feathers explode in the air when the shot lands.
“The key,” Arron whispers, leading me with his gaze to Phoebe’s chest.
As she strains to look over her shoulder, the very top of the key is visible. Arron raises an eyebrow and tries to engage me to help, but I cannot see how starting a brawl with Phoebe works in anyone’s favor. Apparently, he isn’t waiting for my involvement and he reaches out and grabs the key from her cleavage. In her haste to bludgeon him with the butt of the spear, I am knocked down. Arron takes a shot to the side of his head and crumples, going down hard on the tile.
