I have seen this before, he remembered, dredging the depths of his early youth when he had watched healers and embalmers as they went about their work, both careful and serious. She tipped a small ewer and filled a silvered cup, tipping it into his mouth. Her hand caressed his throat rhythmically, with a soft, mechanical precision to assure he did not choke. She had done this many times before, and each movement was fluid, but firm. The process did not end there, if anything, her actions became even more complex, until she was moving quickly enough to flare her heavy linen skirt. With each twirl, he saw deep plaits that rose and fell, captive to her dancing work. Her hands continued to flutter about him, but he began to feel the tidal pull to his body. This call to return was welcome to him, but also perplexing.
Even a new god in his state of becoming must have an immortal attendee. It is only just that I should be served in such a manner, he mused while floating, and decided that her services were a tacit confirmation of his rising. Finishing her opaque ritual, he sensed satisfaction from her as she gathered her things, a soft hum from her throat reaching his ears, along with such delicate notes of spice and—he tasted the air in his mind, and decided it was rain, or the river, but a vibrant memory of his youth no matter what it was. It was good, and he longed to see her face, but even as the ethereal traveler he had become snapped back home to his silent body, he caught the slimmest glance at her profile. A secret, lush smile curled her full lips, and as he heard his own breathing begin again, she was gone.
38
Florida
Over the years, Delphine had gone from being meek, to brave, and finally, settled into a compromise of sorts. She lived in a constant state of awareness, something that was as ingrained as her drive to seduce and feed, although mastering that instinct was something she could point to with pride, and she owed a great deal of that success to the past year of her life. Father Kevin, Ring, and even Wally and Risa had been instrumental in urging her to challenge and surmount an incorrigible desire that was as much a part of her as breathing—though technically, she would do quite nicely for an extended period without fresh air. Feeding from victims was a different sort of problem, and enduring the unique pain of immortal starvation was an experience she hoped to avoid for the remainder of time.
It was this desire to supersede the life of a simple predator that drove her efforts, and made the creation of a mastery over such needs into something that she sensed at the periphery of her psyche. It was close, very close indeed, and her willingness to intervene on behalf of newer Undying might be the final element in her quest for rebirth. Altruism aside, training a relatively young immortal benefitted both hunter and prey. An ugly truth about becoming one of the shadowy Undying was that the odds of living past your first century were heavily stacked against such luck. The problems faced by humanity were legion; the difficulties presented to the freshly minted immortal quite literally were Legion. Demons, dragons, vampires and all manner of ancient, seasoned beasts awaited the youthful indiscretions of the inexperienced immortal. It wasn’t just a cut throat world for such creatures, it was the only way many of them knew how to do business, and until a rank amateur Undying learned their place, as well as the arcane system of unspoken rules about hunting and behavior in general, they stood a better chance of being killed by one of their own than any other cause. It was a tough way to make a living, and that was one of the reasons that gods tended to stay incumbent for long periods of time. To campaign against them in the blood arena of human and immortal threats was plainly taxing, and nothing short of serious luck could get most Undying to the promised land of true power.
Delphine learned at an early age to run fast and pump her legs relentlessly until the hoof beats dropped away. Her natural aversion to the stupidity of pride had served her well. True, she grew accustomed to a certain type of lifestyle over the centuries, but her concept of landholding and security ended at the border of her usually modest farms. Never one for empire building, she dutifully avoided the greater conflicts that had raged across the continents with regularity, seeking to ply her trade in a more quiet manner. The nature of her needs granted her a particular advantage as long as she didn’t unduly press her position for too long in any one location. Men had always sought her out, making it easier for her to convince herself that the deaths she had created were oftentimes attributed elsewhere.
Her studies and therapeutic discussion with the only priest she’d ever trusted had led to an inevitable conclusion, one in which the acceptance of forgiveness was the litmus test for her growing humanity. The lies, many of which she repeated over a millennia, were no longer worth believing. Someday, she would receive her first honest kiss, and she meant to have a pure mouth ready to receive that tiny, normal declaration that someone cared for her. She felt the stirrings of such emotions during her last interlude with Ring, even knowing that as he climaxed in her, she would draw from his body, drinking deeply of the well that his spirit provided to her needs. Feeding from Ring had been doubly satisfying; she both cared for him and could feast with abandon, knowing that he would not die from the act.
Sometimes, the honesty of a human could be crude, other times, seductive. Ring was the latter. His single-minded pursuit of all things evil was a study in contrasts. At a glance, he didn’t run to his calling, he ambled, and if she hadn’t known better, she would judge him as careless and half-hearted in his efforts. Experience told her otherwise, and she knew that beneath his laconic body language, thrived a lively aggressor. He regarded his chosen occupation as something more than a job, but less than an obsession, a curious mix that functioned as a panacea for every challenge he and his partners had faced over the past fifteen years. Ring wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of zealotry because he knew that Risa and Wally would leap into such destructive waters right along with him. His love for them—buoyant and cheerfully intense—made that mindset alien and distasteful to his pragmatic, loving soul.
On sheer physical evidence, sex with Ring was exquisite, but she’d been fucked by the most irrepressible Lotharios that had walked the planet, so a skilled lover was common in her long history of coupling with men—and women—to quell her conditional needs. She craved him because of how he held her face, and the way he constantly repositioned her for comfort, caring for her well-being, even as he stroked into her without hesitation. She also found the afterwards addicting. Where so many faces of her conquests looked slack, or triumphant, Ring looked at her in the exact same manner as just before he entered her; longingly, and with a heat that made her wonder how much of it was her, and how much of it was his need. It was, she decided, a beautiful problem to have, and she made her mind up that in the event they were ever together again, she would make certain to mirror his appreciation of her presence.
She’d walked to the beach while ruminating and sat, alone at a table, simmering in the brilliant midday sunshine. A waitress hastily took her order, returned quickly, and deposited a bottle of beer with a plastic cup, hurrying away to a table of tourists who squinted as if the sun pained them. It probably did. As a woman whose own blood hailed from a land of weak sun and long winters, she empathized with their discomfort. Delphine had chosen the blank slate of the beach as a place to consider and evaluate where and when she would seek Undying. Exactly what she would do if she found them was another point of contention with her natural tendency towards self-preservation. To approach upon discovering another immortal may be seen as too aggressive. To remain unobtrusive might be seen in the same light in the event that she did make contact, since it was a fine line between reconnaissance and courtesy.
Where to begin? When I hunted, I would seek men. That was a simple enough task, but far too broad to be efficient. While it was true that she had a bounty of time, her spiritual compulsion for renewal demanded a pace that was brisk as well as productive. There were men everywhere, but finding concentrations of vulnerable men was the key.
Or was it? Sipping her beer, she deconstructed her conclusion. Where are vul
nerable men who are alone? That, she decided, was a much more likely method to find immortals. Tracing a fine fingertip across the acrylic table, she whiled away a moment as she selected and discarded possible locations for her hunt to begin.
“I will hunt the hunters,” she said softly, pulling a strand of hair from her eyes. The dogged breeze whipped her locks and she began to reconsider the beauty of the beach from sheer annoyance. “I will save those who can be saved. Like I have been saved.”
“I will help you.” The voice was young, girlish, and underneath it all, seasoned.
Delphine looked at her guest with mild surprise, and gestured at the chair opposite her. A woman, a girl, really, sat down and smiled with green eyes that were deep and experienced. No child, then, but what manner of Undying? Delphine wondered, only to have her unspoken question answered with an odd grin.
“I am Esther. But if you have heard of me, it would be a different name, and I too am changing. For the better, I hope,” she added. There was a light mechanical intonation to her voice that was at odds with an otherwise youthful appearance.
Delphine cocked her head. “I suspect you already know my name, Esther”—the smile she received did nothing to disabuse her of that notion—“but I must ask, if only because you heard my musings. How can you help me? What I hope to do isn’t just complex, I suspect it’s rather different than how you’ve lived in the past. Am I right?”
There was no threat within the question, merely an invitation to elaborate on what Delphine suspected was a very colorful personal history. Esther smiled wider, this time without a hint of reserve, and then she laughed, unable to keep her mirth at bay.
“Colorful yes, but mostly red. I have been killing for”—and her eyes lost focus momentarily—“since the last great earthquakes, I think. I am only very recently returned to this state of domestication.”
“Earthquakes?” Delphine asked, puzzled. “And what state are you referring to? Your body?”
Esther nodded, and held out a hand, pointing west. “There were . . . four, I think, giant earthquakes. They destroyed a city made of pyramids near the river. I was living nearby as a shaman when the river took the entire people. Brick made of mud, even sun baked, is not harder than the river. It was a very sad sight, I had friends among them. I did not feed so . . . I did not kill then. I took life in other ways. I remember being peaceful.” She smiled bitterly at the memory, which was hazy at best judging by the furrows in her brow. “I became lonely, and very sad, and so I chose to roam, and within a few seasons, I was a beast. But I never forgot, not totally.”
“And now you are more human again? Why?” Delphine asked quietly. She began revising her estimate of Esther’s age even as they spoke. Age carried a weight all its own, and this slip of a girl was laden with the depths of history. Delphine could feel it.
“I had to stop a killer. Someone I made,” she said, without emotion, and somehow, her terse explanation carried echoes of a death that must have been painful and just. Where that left Esther on the morality scale was yet to be determined, but Delphine sat and devoted the entirety of her attention to a fellow immortal who, for the moment, was more cipher than saint.
“Where are my manners? Would you care for a beer, Esther?” Delphine asked, wrestling her composure to heel.
Esther wrinkled her brow in thought, and then shrugged. “It depends. Does it have bubbles?”
39
Virginia
“Think you can manage to sit here without causing a riot?” Risa glared at Wally, who obliged her by pulling out her phone and looking bored. In the interest of a quiet entry and interaction, they decided that only Risa would go inside New River Portage, the dual purpose home and business of Boots and Ella Tolson. It was a rather charming building, with a wide porch and sweeping metal roof. Risa could hear the sounds of water nearby, where a small creek splashed vigorously through the wooded lot to the left of the gravel parking area. A three sided barn held racks of canoes and various inflatable boats, all emblazoned with a utilitarian NRP logo on their sides. It was just after ten in the morning. Scarlett had tipped them off that this was the first lull of the day, and would be the best time to approach. According to their plans, which were formed during an uneventful plane ride into Richmond and the subsequent rental car journey past Blacksburg and Radford, the general idea was to be honest. The landscape demanded as much from them, as they were both charmed by the rugged hills and thick forests that rose up from the river valley. Each town, each home, and each person they met seemed to belong here, right down to the swaggering students who strutted about in their distinct school colors, which changed between towns. The hills and trees remained a constant, and then they had spied the broad, roaming loops of the river as it cut through Southwestern Virginia, leaving the layers of ancient rock open to the curiosity of the sun, and the barbs of winters.
Honesty worked well for Risa. Everything worked well for Wally, which dictated that in the interest of a fruitful meeting, Boots couldn’t be exposed to Wally’s high wattage until they had some context within which to work. Risa accepted the fact with only minor grumbling, and a little more than a day later, she prepared to walk into the doors of a relatively unknown situation in the Tolsons’ home turf and boldly announce her intentions. There had been better plans, but based on Scarlett’s opinion, direct was best. Risa tended to believe her, since much of what formed her opinion was based on pillow talk between Scarlett and Boots. Wally and Risa both knew men well enough to believe that utterances while in a post-coital state were usually accurate, and more detailed than had the man been fully clothed and not fighting the type of narcolepsy that only a stellar orgasm could induce.
The door swung open heavily to a crowded, unique space, filled in the manner that real age can bring, but is often imitated poorly by newer businesses trying to project atmosphere. Various animal mounts lurked above—a deer, dusty and majestic, another deer with wildly atypical horns, a wildcat, and a fox that was faded and tattered with age. All had eyes that gleamed with the internal fire of favorite marbles. Old paddles crossed like swords above the sales counter, and signs declaring the “Radford Twist” to be the finest tobacco in the world hung in testament to a time before such things were bad, and people were trusted to make their own decisions. A barometer of burled wood and glass nestled in between a clock with two still hands, and a curiously sharp looking scythe hung on the wall, with a handle that was ribbed and bleached from years in the sun. The floor creaked comfortably, and coolers of drinks hummed with quietly contemplative clicks, positioned strategically behind the ubiquitous racks of t-shirts that touted the New River as the center of all things outdoors. After all, without a shirt, there could be no confirmation of an activity actually having taken place, so the presence of the garishly colored shirts only made sense. A hand drawn sign declared No Sandwiches Today and Risa took that as evidence that, frankly, Boots and Ella didn’t have their shit together all of the time.
A robust tenor voice greeted her from the corner. “Hello, what can I do for you?” The accent was lightly southern, educated, and male. He sounded friendly and honest, to Risa’s expert ear. She made her way to the desk as he stood, and stuck out her hand.
“Hi, Boots.” Risa smiled as he looked at her and, realizing he didn’t recognize her face, allowed confusion to cover his own. He was a nice looking six feet of thin, angular man, with short brown hair and gray eyes. Stubble dotted his handsome face, and Risa found herself understanding why Scarlett had found him to be worthy of her efforts.
“Hello?” It was a question of many parts.
Risa sat down in the chair, settling herself as Boots awkwardly took his own seat, unsure what was happening in his own place, but for the moment, just going along with the mood.
She put her hands on the edge of his desk, then thought better of it and folded her arms. Her smile faded and she leaned forward, crowding his space imperceptibly. His eyes narrowed.
“What can I do for you, Miss
. . .?” He allowed his question to linger.
“It’s Wexler, but you might only know my first name. Risa. Wally’s out in the car and Ring is still in Florida. I think we have some things to discuss. Since Ella isn’t here, the process might go much more smoothly. I’m sure you understand.” She all but chirped at him, knowing he was on the defensive.
He nodded, and checked the door out of instinct. Too late for that, Boots, Risa’s eyes said as she read his thoughts. He wasn’t much of a poker player, of that she was certain. He leaned back in his chair and acceptance colored his face as he began to fidget with a small sculpture of a seal. It looked well-worn and old. “How did you find us?” He grinned bitterly, unhappy that the meeting wasn’t on his own terms.
Risa didn’t hesitate. “We had help. We would have discovered you, easily, I might add, but Kasey gave you up. She’s at my house as we speak, having a little vacation of sorts.”
He shook his head wearily. “I figured. Did she—what did she tell you?” A hint of shame passed through his eyes, and Risa took pity on him.
“Look, we know everything about you, as well as the issues with your sister. We also know exactly why you’re in this constant state of warfare, as well as your history of killing Swimmers.” When Boots inhaled sharply, Risa held up a palm, saying, “We understand, Boots. It’s what we do for a living. We’re not here to judge you, and we certainly aren’t here to visit any kind of frontier justice upon you or Ella.” When he visibly relaxed, she went on, “Let’s start with some basics. Why us?” She sat back and waited. The answer would influence the entirety of their meeting, and he knew it.
Box Set: The Fearless 1-3 Page 64