by Kevin C Noel
Rummy nodded. “You just walk in, yes. Don’t forget to say hello to my grandson for me.”
The warmth of the Oneness enveloped him, and he was greeted by a pure white light. It faded almost instantly as he felt his stomach churn and fought a sandy feeling in his throat. His heart pumped in a centrifugal manner as he struggled to breathe. And then there was darkness. He was in a box— he was back in the coffin with the Blood Cravers rested on his chest. Before long, the lid was raised open by a familiar, although older, face.
“Welcome back, Master Garrick,” beamed Rumsfeld.
26
KAUNAS, LITHUANIA. 1972
Garrick was in and out of consciousness for another two weeks after he returned from Terraincardia. Rumsfeld had hired a masseuse to massage his idle muscles to speed up his recovery. Then he spent a few hours employing magic to make the entire house presentable again seeing as he was away in England for several years. Having spent so much time with and studying Incardians, he was fully capable of anticipating all of Garrick’s needs since his return. He knew Incardians’ first experience staying in the nether realms of Terraincardia for an extended period would put a strain on their bodies whenever they returned. Indeed, this was possibly the most vulnerable Garrick was ever going to be. But there was nothing to worry about. Even Octavius trusted Rumsfeld to keep him safe in the coming days. He may not have been an Incardian himself, but he was well-versed in the arcane. Octavius often said his skills almost compared to those of Atruman shamans.
When Garrick finally woke up from his extended slumber, he spent an hour in a bathtub. The different sensation of living in Terraincardia for so long became immediately apparent to him when he returned to his body. Even something as straightforward as breathing felt completely different.
Sixteen whole years had passed since he left. Time in Terraincardia was odd, he thought. He could have sworn he was gone for maybe five years. He had awoken in a whole new world with Rumsfeld as his guide. He was fine with the company.
“Your grandfather says hello,” Garrick told him at dinner later that evening. He missed the surge of strength he felt at night—but not so much the weakness of daytime. “You look even more like him now you’re older.”
Rumsfeld sat down because of Garrick’s insistence and smiled as he thought it was interesting how his grandfather, who was pretty much dead to the rest of the world, could send him messages as if from the afterlife. Before he could share this thought, however, there was a knock on the door.
A short clean-shaven man with a custom-tailored grey suit and holding a shiny leather briefcase grinned back at Rumsfeld when he opened the door. Behind him were two tall men in dark suits carrying cardboard boxes. Rumsfeld motioned for the men to enter and had them wait in the parlor.
“Master Garrick,” he said when he walked back into the dining room. “Mr. Aiden is here to see you.”
Garrick, who was taking so much pleasure in a piece of lamb, looked up in confusion. “Who?”
“Arnold Aiden, Attorney at-Law,” said the shortest of the three men Garrick met. He shook his hand excitedly and pulled out a business card from his breast pocket. “I’m an attorney from Willis, Ceesay & Joshua.”
Garrick read the extravagantly embossed business card. “A law firm?”
Arnold Aiden looked immensely pleased with himself as he showcased his snow-white teeth. “Among other things, yes. We’ve been taking care of your estate since your first Questioning.” Garrick looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised, at Rumsfeld. Noting this, Arnold Aiden continued. “I beg your pardon, sir. You are our first reincarnation so I’m not entirely sure how to address your relationship with the firm. May I sit down?” Garrick motioned toward a sofa. “You see, Volant Aurimas Kesgaila amassed a massive fortune not just as the General Elder of Samogitia or as the Master Commander of the Order of Shimshon, but also during the years that followed. My firm has a longstanding relationship with Atrumankind—especially the immortal ones.”
Driven by an abrupt impulse, Garrick examined the lawyer thoroughly. “And what kind of Atruman are you?” he asked when he was certain he wasn’t a fellow Incardian.
The man giggled oddly. “Oh, sir, I’m human!” he said amidst chuckles. “I am merely an Associate at the firm. The Name Partners are the only Atrumans. Our founders—Willis, Ceesay and Joshua—are Harpies.”
Garrick stifled a chuckle. “That’s no way to talk about your employers, Mr. Aiden.”
Rumsfeld cleared his throat. “No, sir,” he said. “They are actual Harpies.”
Garrick finally let himself laugh as he came to terms with his new odd life. Arnold Aiden laughed disingenuously as he continued. “Normally, they would be here themselves but the three of them aren’t exactly fond of you—or the you before you reincarnated,” he said clumsily. “And they sent me to keep this visit strictly professional.”
“What did Volant do to them?” asked Garrick.
“I’m not privy to that information, sir,” replied Arnold Aiden. “Now,” he opened his briefcase, “if we can get down to business?”
Garrick sat on the chair opposite the lawyer. “What business?” he asked, as he stared intently at his ominous briefcase.
“Well your…. former self? Predecessor? Volant…granted power of attorney to Octavius LeGrey. And he has managed your assets very well for you. As a matter of fact, it is safe to say we’ve built you a bit of an empire through investments here and there. These documents should keep you in the loop. We’ll need your signature to transfer all your assets to…well… to you.” He passed Garrick a stack of papers and then passed him a booklet. “As per his instructions, we’ve provided you with a new identity which more explicitly acknowledges your heritage. This is your passport.”
Garrick was handed an American passport and smirked when he noticed the name beside a stone-faced picture of himself.
Garrick Volant Kesgaila
“Where did you get this picture?”
“The partners have their ways.”
Garrick smirked as he recalled a similar answer from Octavius the first time he made him a passport. A few short minutes later, one of the taller men presented Garrick with a small box. Inside was a pouch of blue sand Garrick instantly recognized was skydust.
“No doubt that’s to get around,” said Arnold Aiden. “The Soviets are still in this part of the world, after all. And your Questioner says you’ll need to do some traveling.” The other man dropped his own box on the table and opened it revealing stacks of pristine US dollar bills. “That’s half a million to get you back on your feet,” said Arnold Aiden. Shortly after, Arnold Aiden was on his feet and bid them both farewell as he and his men left. Garrick was too carried away by the money on the table and the information in the documents he was handed. Not only did he own the Manor they were in, he had several more mansions in Lithuania, the United States and England. There was also a lot of technical stuff he could not comprehend, but one thing was abundantly clear.
Garrick was a millionaire.
This realization planted a seed in his mind that germinated at record speed. A malevolent grin had formed on his features as he looked at Rumsfeld. With so much money there was only one place he wanted to check out immediately. “Tell me, Rumsfeld,” he began as he picked up a stack of one hundred-dollar bills. “Have you ever been to the City of Angels?”
Garrick let Rumsfeld go ahead of him because he knew it would take him much longer to get to Los Angeles with skydust. Humans could only travel so far with skydust without dying from the strain. Considering this, Rumsfeld had to take several carefully calculated pit stops before he arrived at Los Angeles to book a suite at the Chateau Marmont. Garrick, not bound by human limitations anymore, followed a few hours later. He was fully energetic after recovering from his more than decade-long slumber and the night sky’s soothing touch.
“Back in Terraincardia I heard there were Varney Nightspots in LA. Know of any?”
“There’s a MoltSang not
too far from here,” responded Rumsfeld as he flipped through the pages of a journal.
“MoltSang’s on earth as well? This should be good.”
“I cannot follow you, for obvious reasons.”
Garrick had forgotten Varney Nightspots were solely for Atrumans. “Well, don’t hold back at my expense. Get whatever you want. You deserve it, Rumsfeld.”
Rumsfeld did not betray his excitement and merely bowed his head in thanks.
The Moltsang in LA looked like an exact copy of the one in Terraincardia. The only clear difference was the apparent mixture of Atrumans in attendance ranging from the subtle-looking ones to the in your face Atrumans Garrick could not distinguish. A bouncer at the door let him pass without incident. Garrick assumed the flashy custom-made suit he wore inspired the special treatment, but soon found out it was something else entirely when the owner of the establishment, an Atruman who introduced himself as Cadmus, offered him a table in the VIP section.
“Incardians get the very best,” he said through his thick moustache. “Especially one as renowned as yourself.”
“Renowned?” Garrick noticed two women ogling at him from the bar and sensed they were Incardians as well. As Cadmus looked over at them several times while he spoke, Garrick deduced the two must have seen him in Terraincardia and regaled the club owner with exaggerated stories about his encounter with a member of the Gore Council. Regardless, Garrick chose not to complain. He embraced the attention and, before long, was surrounded by several cheerful women. Cadmus, who struck Garrick as the type of person who’d strategically keep himself close to Atrumans of note and influence, sat beside Garrick and bought him all manner of drinks.
“Where are you going from here?” he asked as he took a swig of his cocktail later that night.
“My hotel.”
“Hotel? No, the night’s still young. There’s a Hollywood party we could attend. Should be fun.”
Garrick inched closer to him. “Among humans? Is that a good idea?
Cadmus seemed slightly taken aback by this. “Can’t control yourself around humans, Garrick? What are you? A vampire?”
Garrick almost jumped. “Are vampires real?”
Cadmus’ sudden cachinnation startled the Incardian. “No, of course not! I was fucking with you! You’re a funny one!”
Cadmus drove them to a house in Beverly Hills in a blue Ford Capri Garrick had already grown attached to (and took a mental note to purchase later).
“I own a few high-end human clubs as well,” said Cadmus as they alighted the vehicle. “And every so often I am graced by the presence of Hollywood royalty. This party is hosted by a movie producer. You like movies, Garrick?”
“Yes. Haven’t seen any from the last decade though,” he responded, awed by the massive mansion. It wasn’t bigger than his house in Kaunas, but it was more modern. “Do your human acquaintances know you’re an Atruman?”
Cadmus merely scoffed without giving a definite answer and Garrick saw no reason to push as soon as they were inside the ostentatious home. Being away for so long, Garrick doubted he’d know many of the young and beautiful celebrities in attendance, but kept his eyes peeled in case he found a veteran he was fond of. He mostly strolled around and admired the décor. Because of his new pecuniary-fueled arrogance, he considered purchasing a similar house in the area. Due to his fascination with his surroundings, he mostly ignored the other guests while Cadmus, on the other hand, was completely working the room. It wasn’t long before he had begun to introduce Garrick to people as a Lithuanian aristocrat visiting Hollywood on holiday. This was enough to fascinate the host who spent a great deal of time talking to him about the golden age of cinema. His enthusiasm for the topic intrigued Garrick, but he had to pretend he knew most of the newer movies he referenced. Furthermore, Garrick fought a surprising sensation of dread at the news of Bogart’s death in 57—he was admittedly surprised by his own reaction.
As late as it was, more people trooped into the house for the party. At some point, many guests were carried away by the presence of a young lady with lively blonde glamour waves reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe’s who had walked in wearing a long glittery dress and a mink coat. One look at her and a fist had clenched up in Garrick’s stomach. His heart had felt a few pounds heavier and his eyes warmed up like a flame had been lit within them.
She was possibly the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. Her stride was hypnotic. Her smile was infectious. Her smell was disarming. But none of that mattered—because it was none other than Celina Hagen.
Garrick needed confirmation. His obsession with Celina had been a huge part of his life until a short time ago. He would perfectly understand if he was seeing things. He had to confirm. With eyes fixed on her face, grinning from all the attention she received, he tapped a random man’s shoulder and asked, “who is that woman?”
“You must be joking! That’s Celina Hagen. She’s one of the hottest movie stars of our time! Where have you been the last ten or eight years?”
Garrick had squeezed his fists so tightly they had begun to twitch and bleed. He stumbled toward an elated Cadmus and struggled to speak. “Get me out of here,” he finally said.
Cadmus drove Garrick back to his hotel without protest. Standing at the lobby as if he were looking for his errant child, Rumsfeld noted his boss being helped out of an unfamiliar car. He ran toward them and assisted Cadmus.
“Who are you?” asked Rumsfeld. “What did you give him?”
“Cadmus!” he responded. “And I don’t know what he had! One minute he was fine and then he seemed to be in pain.”
Garrick muttered something under his breath which made Rumsfeld’s eyes widen in acknowledgment. “Are you Cadmus, the Satyr manager of the North American MoltSang Varney nightspots?”
Cadmus was half unsure of how honest he needed to be with this human but took a leap and answered truthfully. “I am.”
“Great!” exclaimed Rumsfeld. “Satyrs are strong. I’m going to need your assistance with a lot more than carrying him to his room, Mr. Cadmus.”
“What can I do?”
As they got into the elevator, Rumsfeld retrieved a small pouch from his jacket pocket. “In here is a powder made from a blend of ash leaves, wood betony, bromeliad and poinsettia. Mixed by anyone this mixture is inconsequential. But mixed by someone like me it becomes useful for a barrier spell.”
Cadmus nodded. “I’m familiar with the mixture and its applications. So, you’re a Shaman?” Rumsfeld nodded. “What do you need it for?”
Rumsfeld placed his hand on Garrick’s jaw and gently raised his droopy head to reveal his face. His eyes were closed, but his slightly opened mouth revealed his sharper teeth, his skin had turned to bleached white, and his brow was more pronounced. What had initially sounded like moans of pain had turned into short growling, almost roaring, sounds. “This, sir, is the Nephilim’s Glare. Incardians are most dangerous when they are like this. We need to make sure he doesn’t have access to anyone when he regains consciousness, in the event he hasn’t overcome it by then.”
The elevator door opened, and Rumsfeld let Cadmus pick Garrick up alone effortlessly.
“We need to restrain him, Mr. Cadmus,” he said, “or we’re both dead.”
27
Kolten quietly enjoyed Octavius’ gift—a chest-warming cup of 40-year-old Laphroaig scotch. He often craved the smoky aftertaste after a night out. His deductive abilities interfered with his desire for peace and quiet, and the act of stifling himself from understanding and predicting the lives of everyone he encountered whenever he left his house was an arduous chore. During a short ten-minute walk to the store, he had deduced a man’s infidelity; a lady’s kleptomania; and a young policeman’s deleterious gambling habit.
It was all so enlightening yet debilitating.
He stoked the fire with some firewood he had chopped earlier, helped himself to another glass of scotch and sat down on his soft sofa as he absorbed the heat with closed eyes and relished
the absence of noise save for the crackling firewood. He began to drift as a sensation like falling from a great height overcame him. He was still seated and aware of his surroundings, however. So aware, he could tell he had an unexpected caller sitting on a wooden stool behind him.
Kolten smirked once he deduced who it was without looking over his shoulder based solely on the means his guest employed to appear behind him.
“Cousin,” he said as he raised his glass. “I’d offer you some if you were actually here to drink it.”
Garrick was bewildered by the simplicity of Kolten’s lodgings. “Is Thoreau your roommate?” he asked in jest.
“Amusing,” snapped Kolten. “I live far away from civilization because it’s the only way I get peace from deducing everything. It’s the only thing I miss about Terraincardia—my abilities are better controlled there.”
Garrick nodded slowly. “So, where are you?”
“Cape York,” he replied, now looking back at his visitor. “And I see you’ve masterfully applied the Fourth.”
Garrick beamed as he remembered the countless times they had communicated with their minds back on Terraincardia. It was easier to accomplish back there, however, as he felt a lot of strain to keep up the connection as he sat. “I’ve been restrained, Kolten. I’ve had a moment of… of instability.”
Kolten stood up with a knowing look on his face, downed the remaining scotch and simply said, “Miss Hagen?” Garrick nodded. “I thought you were going to stay away from her.”
“I was. I am. I’m not in Reading right now. I came to Los Angeles to have a little fun. Turns out this is where she lives now.”
“And this troubles you?”
“The moment I saw her I Glared, Kolten. I thought I had the Glare under control but just one look at Celina and I was ready to give into my most feral instincts. I had to fight off the urge to kill her then and there.”