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

by C. F. Waller

  Visit my website at cfwaller.com for links and book information

  Prologue

  Paris, France

  October 15th, 1307 AD

  I struggle to read my own handwriting in the dim light. The smallish journal contains some French phrases I was hoping to try during my stay. Outside the tavern, a crowd hoots and hollers at the grand spectacle of the executions. I scan the sullen faces of drunks and ruffians for my traveling companion, but it would appear he’s still outside.

  A full-figured barmaid, dressed in a loose white top and a brown burlap skirt, taps a cracked fingernail on the wooden table impatiently. She exhales theatrically, then eyes my empty mug. Communication is difficult as she speaks no Russian, my natural language. My French is poor on the best of days, thus a new language has been born out of necessity. I dig in my vest pocket and come back with a half dozen Deniers, then drop the lot of them in the mug. She’s covets them with her eyes and I nod, pushing the rough carved wooden chalice in her direction. My understanding is a portion of whatever this beverage might be costs about two Deniers, but I find if you give the lass a half dozen, she comes back very quickly. Money is the ultimate translator.

  The door is thrown inward, then Dorian stumbles past two men trying to leave. He looks a mess, a situation that says more about his inebriation, than sub-standard hygiene. The knees of his pants are torn from repeatedly falling down. His jacket sleeves are rolled up with the white shirt cuffs folded over, although they are likewise frayed and covered in dirt. He scans the room, landing on me after his eyes adjust to the darkness.

  “Edward,” he blurts drunkenly. “Edward, you simply must come outside and bear witness to this.”

  The barmaid returns, setting my drink on the table. She glares at Dorian, who stumbles over and drops on a rickety stool. He wraps his hands around my mug and drinks, dripping most of it down the front of his shirt. I nod, instructing the waitress to move on. She scrunches up her nose and grunts at my companion before she does

  On a previous visit, Dorian whispered a lewd offer of some sort in her ear. She clearly recalls this incident, bleeding disgust from every pore at the mere sight of him. Given the flavor of this establishment, the suggestion must have been particularly vulgar to pass under the low bar of decorum exhibited all around us.

  “Porcine,” she mutters, then threads her way through the crowd of miscreants.

  Dorian nods, or more a slight bow, but she’s already gone.

  “Porcine?”

  “Swine,” he shrugs. “You need to come outside.”

  “What’s wrong. Did they run out of wood again?”

  “No my friend, it’s far worse than that,” he exhales loudly, then takes a second two handed drink.

  “What pray tell is the fuss then?”

  “You must come see for yourself,” he demands, grabbing my arm roughly and dragging me towards the door. “Words cannot adequately describe the situation.”

  I extract my arm from his grasp, but agree to follow him, closing my notebook and slipping it into my jacket pocket. I try to be forgiving of my protégé’s eccentricity. He is after all, only a week removed from his one hundredth birthday party. Myself being a wee bit over three, I hold myself to a higher standard. I enjoy his exuberance, but try and be a stern mentor. Fair, but firm, I always say.

  The hulking tavern keeper shouts at us when we pass. I slow and try to discern what he wants, but Dorian plows to the door holding my mug. A patron on a stool leans over, tugging on my sleeve.

  “No take drink outside,” he coughs out in broken English.

  I nod my thanks for the translation, then wave at the brooding tavern owner. I dig out another half dozen deniers and drop them on the bar. Another shout from behind the bar jolts me, but my new friend translates.

  “He no take the cup outside,” he whispers, pantomiming drinking, then waving an imaginary mug in front of my face.

  “Yes, yes,” I nod, sprinkling the surface with more of their rubbish currency. “So very sorry.”

  Once in the sunlight, I adjust my vest and pull down the bottom of my jacket. Despite my best attempts, I am starting to look a bit worse for wear. Fifty yards away in the town square, a lazy trail of smoke works its way into the sky over several burning pyres. I see Dorian rushing ahead and follow reluctantly. Executions bore me.

  Two poles on the right contain the charred remains of whoever was burnt there, the fire’s almost out. The center pole is still engulfed in raging flames, but the poor wretch tied to it has long passed, leaving his flesh dripping off the bones.

  A raised platform, taller than a man could reach with his hand, runs behind all the fires. To the left, a great commotion takes place behind an unlit wood pile. The crowd jeers and hoots, tossing rocks at the men doing the burning. What have we here?

  Dorian pauses when he notices my lagging behind and waits, frantically waving. I catch up to him just outside the ring of humanity gawking at the spectacle. He offers me a drink from my own glass, but it’s empty when I take it. Probably for the best.

  “What’s the commotion?” I groan, handing the cup to a beggar working the back of the crowd. “Why are they throwing rocks?”

  “It’s a woman. They are going to burn a woman.”

  “I thought they were burning Templars?”

  “She’s one of them,” he nods, hands on his hips. “Or she was with one of them. Either way, there’s going to be a riot if they light it.”

  I start moving through the crowd, being jostled back and forth as I go. While I am not as big a fan of executions as my friend, I have seen women burned at the stake on previous occasions. I try and recall where this occurred, but can’t place it. Possibly it’s bad form here in France, but I can’t imagine why. These people are as barbaric as anywhere else.

  “What do you plan on doing?” Dorian shouts over my shoulder as we fight our way to the front. “I simply must know what you’re planning.”

  “I just want to get a closer look.”

  Once at the front, the sea of sweaty peasants presses us together. A garrison of men ring the front for crowd control. On the previous day, when they burned the management types, Dorian had bribed a ranking officer to sit on the podium in seats generally reserved for religious officiants or wealthy socialites. After a few burnings, I retreated back to the tavern, but Dorians stayed all day, making friends with the upper class gawkers.

  “Think you can get me up there?”

  “Sounds like a challenge,” he remarks, trying to pull his soiled jacket together as he pushes past me and bumps into a sword toting security man.

  “Pardon,” he demands, then leans close to whisper.

  The exchange happens in French, leaving me unsure of what’s being said. A handful of coins are passed between them, changing the guard’s attitude. He then turns and has a whispered conversation with a comrade. Dorian slips the second man a similar bribe, winking back at me.

  On the raised platform, three men wrestle with a woman. Her hair is a wild nest of brown curls, partially obstructing my view of her face. She has been stripped down to a long white nightshirt, but it’s dirty, as if she’s been jailed overnight. Foul language flies back and forth between her and the men. Her repertoire of cuss words is impressive. A few of the more colorful ones actually seem to offend the crowd. Dorian suddenly grabs my arm.

  “Let’s go.”

  “You worked it out?”

  “Some of my new friends greased the skids for me,” he boasts. “I’ve inadvertently becomes quite popular here.”

  “Delightful,” I groan, waving him forward.

  We climb a dozen wooden stairs, coming out far to the side of the debacle. A half dozen well-dressed men and women wave us over. They sit at several tables drinking champagne and eating tiny white cakes off a platter. White powdered wigs sit atop the men’s heads, sweat creating grey lines on their temples. Ornately stitched socks run from shiny leather loafers to knee length satin knickers. A girl in servant’
s attire stands to one side, but looks ill from the proceedings. Dorian plows into the group, glad handing the men and kissing at least two of the women on the cheek. He is a social butterfly, that’s for sure.

  Leaving him to investigate, I wander to the platform as a man in purple robes and a ridiculously tall hat resembling a penis, steps forward and raises a hand to the crowd. After he dodges one rock and what looks like a handful of potatoes, he unfurls a parchment and begins to read.

  “Dorian,” I shout, but turn and see him whispering in a lady’s ear. “Dorian, get over here.”

  The three men still hold the woman as she struggles. Her back is to me, but during the struggle she bites one of her captors on the forearm. The officiant reading the parchment has to pause as the bite victim screams, releasing his grip on her. One of the other men punches her in the mouth and she falls on her knees facing me. Her hands are bound, but when she raises her chin, our eyes meet.

  “What,” Dorian complains in my ear, wiping white frosting off his lips. “Where’s the fire?”

  When I don’t laugh at his joke, he pauses to explain it, but I am fixated on the woman’s face. Blood runs down her chin, either from the blow or a tiny chunk of the guard’s forearm in her mouth. I’m trying to place her face, but in an odd way it seems like she’s trying to place mine. The man in the penis hat resumes his oratory.

  “What is he saying?”

  “Hmmm, let me see,” Dorian mutters, a finger on his chin. “It’s a decree of some kind. Feels very official.”

  “Yes, I had guessed that much,” I snap. “Can you give me the gist?”

  “It would seem that this poor wench was in entangled romantically with one of the Templars. A high ranking one at that,” he translates, one hand to his right ear. “Oh, and apparently she’s a witch.”

  “A what?”

  “Bab-la,” he says slowly, which translates to sorceress in Russian. “You must—.”

  “I got it.”

  “They must have burned her boyfriend yesterday,” he rambles on. “That would indicate she’s technically available. Do you fancy her?”

  “Shut up,” I shout through gritted teeth. “Why is she a sorceress?”

  “Some nuns accused her of being ageless. One in-particular testified that she’s been the same age since her mother was a wee girl.”

  I turn back and watch them drag her to her feet. She cranes her head back in my direction, her eyes wild. Who is this poor wretch to me?

  “Did you say ageless?”

  “I did and apparently well documented,” Dorian bobs his head as the server from his friend’s table hands him a flute of champagne. “Single and rather fetching. Wonderful cheek bones and a scandalously busty figure. Bad luck on the burning part though. A tragic loss for men around the world.”

  “Par ordonnance de cette Cour,” the man in the hat reads, pointing at the soon to be victim. “Vous Beatrix Moffat sont coupable ou la sorcellerie.”

  “That last bit was witchcraft,” Dorian offers, bumping his shoulder on mine. “The la sorcellerie part. With French, it’s really all about the vowels.”

  The guard who was bitten gains his composure and the three begin the task of binding her to the pole. Dorian continues talking, but I am lost in the odd coincidence at hand. They accuse her of being ageless. As her hands are bound behind the pole, she cranes her head around, large round eyes visible through long tangles of brown hair.

  “How long would it take a girl to get over her previous beaux being burned at the stake?” Dorian pokes me in the ribs. “I mean before she’s ready to pursue a new relationship?” he pauses to sip his champagne. “Although, I suppose she hasn’t really got the time, given her rather sticky legal situation.”

  “I know her,” I whisper, but when I look back, she mouths a message that’s clear to me.

  We are the same.

  “Alexandria,” I exhale, grabbing Dorian by the shoulders as hard as I can muster.

  “What about it?”

  “The Gathering in 1050 was in Alexandria.”

  “Yes, well, technically I hadn’t been born yet so whatever it was,” he raises his eyebrows indignantly. “I didn’t do it.”

  “No,” I turn my head into his ear and whisper. “She was in Alexandria at the Gathering in 1050.”

  “Oh, I see your angle” he nods, then burps. “Defiantly a witch then. Well spotted.”

  “No you buffoon,” I growl, trying to keep my voice down. “She’s one of us.”

  It takes a moment for my words to filter through the many days of alcohol and little sleep. After a moment, he leans around me to gaze upon her, then puts a finger on his lips and tries to speak, but nothing comes out. A rare occurrence on his part.

  A profanity laden tirade explodes from the woman as a man down below arrives holding a torch. Her head spins back quickly and her eyes plead with me to assist her. Before I can make a move, a huge stone flies past nearly beaning Dorian. A second stone hits the man wearing the ludicrous hat in the face and he crumples to the wooden boards. The crowd explodes; people rush the line of armed guards.

  “You need to explain to your rich friends that a riot is about to start,” I shout, but notice one of them pulling out a set of opera glasses and pointing out the fighting below. “Oh Lord, I hate the French,” I mutter under my breath.

  “It does appear the peasants are getting ready to overthrow the jailers,” Dorian nods. “You want me to see about the girl then?”

  “Yes,” I snap, causing him to jump from my aggressive tone. “Pay whatever they want, but get her off the pyre.”

  “Right, no need to be so aggressive,” he complains, then turns his focused line of patter on the uniformed men presiding over the platform.

  The men have finished binding her now and step back. She wiggles and squirms, but the ropes are too tight. She’s suspended at least four feet off the pyre, literally hanging by her bonds. I slip past the three men as they back away from the poor girl. Her own perspiration has soaked her nightshirt, leaving little to the imagination. Dorian was not wrong regarding the woman’s beauty. Her gaze is glued on the man with the torch. I place a hand on her arm as it’s bound at her side. Leaning into her ear I whisper, although with the impending riot, secrecy may not be all that necessary.

  “You were at the Gathering in Alexandria?”

  “I was,” she gulps, turning her head back and forth between me and the torch bearer. “I recognized you as well.”

  “Edward, Edward Grey.”

  “Beatrix Moffat,” she chokes out, still watching below. “Although I will soon be a charred corpse.”

  “My friend is attempting to negotiate your release.”

  “You mean that idiot,” she growls, leading me to the other side of the platform with her eyes.

  When I turn, Dorian is sipping on another flute of champagne as he chats up the three uniformed men. Each of the men has received a flute of their own from the server girl. Dorian pats the girl on the behind as she turns to go, then notices me glaring at him. He nods, looking annoyed, then takes the centermost man by the elbow, turning him away from the others. The two begin an animated negotiation and then Dorian reaches into his vest pocket and removes a small pouch, slipping it into his palm.

  “Any luck?” Beatrix shouts with eyes glued on the riot in front of her. “Things are heating up over here.”

  “Yes, I believe a deal is in the making,” I sigh, offering my best comforting smile.

  Below, the crowd pushes forward and the torch bearer is knocked to the ground in the mallei. I watch in horror as the burning stick of wood caroms off a rioter and lands at the foot of the pyre. The look on Beatrix’s face chills me as the kerosene they soaked the wood in explodes as a wall of flames. I am thrown back by Dorian, then dragged by the collar of my jacket a safe distance away. The screams are haunting.

  Once the accelerant burns off, the flames recede. The three men, having received new orders from Dorian’s bribe victim, cut down t
he badly burnt woman. They lay her at my feet and I cover her with my jacket as her nightshirt has burned away with the exception of the collar. Her midsection and thighs are roasted raw. I argue with Dorian until he hands his jacket over so I can cover her scalded legs.

  “Try and stay calm,” I implore her. “We will take you to the doctor.”

  “Thank you,” she gasps, then her breathing quickens as shock sets in.

  “Go round-up some men to carry her,” I poke Dorian in the back as he surveys the full on riot now in progress. “Let’s go, be quick about it.”

  “Already done,” he assures me, seemingly unconcerned for her or his own safety. “These three lads are going to carry her to the chapel on the next street. The nuns provide the best care in Paris, or so I’m told.”

  “These wouldn’t be the same nuns who labeled her a witch would they?”

  “Probably, but half the city will be on fire by tonight. Might be safer in God’s house than out here.”

  “On that score, you are no doubt correct,” I agree, watching a group of villagers beating the formerly armed line of guards with rakes and farm implements. “Once we get her up, run ahead to the Chapel and prepare a place for her.”

  “And where are you going to be?”

  “With her,” I sigh, kneeling down next to her and squeezing her hand. “I’ll stay with her.”

  She tries to smile up at me, but instead takes deep breaths in fits and starts. Her whole body shakes as if cold. Dorian leans over her and puts a hand lightly on her forehead. He suddenly kisses her on the tip of her shaking nose. Her eyes bulge out, locked onto him.

  “Be calm lass,” he whispers. “I have the strangest feeling you and I are going be the best of friends.”

  Chapter One

  Archangel Gabriel

  New York City

  A coffee cart sits at the corner of 58th and Broadway. Steam bleeds off a vent as a grey-haired man in a white apron waits on a short line of prospective coffee drinkers. The sky is cobalt blue, not a cloud in sight. They have been repaving sidewalks all summer, and the fresh concrete is only a block away from Columbus Circle. A short burst of chilly air washes over my face, reminding me that summer is past.