The Last Knight

by Candace Sams

  “Hello, old friend.” He paused and spoke thereafter with reverence. “She’s here, James. I know you sent her. There’s no getting around that, you old war horse!” He took a deep breath before making his vow. “I promise, I’ll look after her. No harm will ever come to her. You had my back all those years ago, this is my chance to return the favor. I may have had doubts at first, but I won’t let you down. I swear it…on my honor!”

  Chapter 3

  She’d been warned.

  At almost seven feet, and at least three hundred muscular pounds, Garrett Bloodnight was a fearsome site.

  Those in the London agency governing the whereabouts of all UK immortals said that he looked like an action hero from a comic book. He had shaggy brown hair, dark eyes, and a god-like handsome face. He was altogether overwhelming as a gladiator want-to-be in a modern, ancient Cumbrian castle that everyone else referred to as his estate.

  She’d also been told that he was one of the most respected and deadly fighters when it came to defending the country’s safety. He should have been fearsome. She should have gone running in the night, but he opened his mouth and she’d suddenly lost all dread.

  He might look ferocious, but his words had been quite calming. For some reason, she believed that his heart was in the right place. That contradicted everything she’d formerly believed of immortals in general.

  As a human, what little she’d allowed herself to absorb on the subject led her to accept as truth that immortals were up to no good. They’d been around since time began, living among humans, but they were an unnatural source of strength on earth. Oddly, when she’d ever mentioned the subject to her parents, they’d told her to be more open-minded; that the country’s freedom was due in no small part to immortal intervention during two world wars. They’d never mentioned her great grandfather having collaborated with one during WWII.

  She shook her head. There was no sense thinking about the past. Doing so only brought back memories of dead loved ones, and the pain she’d suffered on learning she, alone, survived.

  She preferred to think about the image of Garrett Bloodnight’s face when he’d first seen her. Seems they’d been similarly shocked. He’d stared a little too long, and looked her over a bit too intensely.

  As she’d been told by others in the agency, immortals’ photos were left out of files as much as possible, before their outing to the world. None of that tactfulness in meeting minimal lawful guidelines kept groupies or media hounds from surreptitiously taking pictures of immortals after their names were announced. She hadn’t cared about any of that since the subject had never applied to her. She wasn’t into stalking anybody on any kind of phone or computer. That meant she was ignorant of what went on regarding social network sites where immortals were debated. She’d had her own life to lead, and she’d done so.

  She did know one thing. There was one painful fact she couldn’t ignore.

  Nobody respected any outed immortal’s right to privacy.

  Now, she’d be one of those men and women who’d have no rights to live among normal citizens without having news of their every move posted next to some movie star or pop idol’s photo.

  She’d have to endure it. Only those disobeying the laws were left off social media sites simply because no one knew about them. However, people hiding their immortality from the authorities—those who ran—were hunted. That, among other things, was what made them rogues.

  Guilt provided the reason as to her dislike of immortality.

  If she knew the names of these men and women and their backgrounds—as posted through the government’s registry—then she’d have to acknowledge that they were human at one time, and might not be the monsters she’d made of them.

  Now, she was among the very creatures she’d once believed were so irregular.

  There were about a thousand questions pouring through her mind, a million possible permutations. To make sense of it all, she grabbed a pad and pen from her pocketbook and quickly started writing thoughts.

  Garrett Bloodnight, with his sinister name, would be her trainer. After training was deemed complete, by whatever standards the agency set, she’d have three options. Garrett assumed she’d take the first one as did everyone at home office. Laws were different in other countries. She understood that immortals in the United States didn’t have to register at all. Their privacy fell under rights provided by their constitution. As a citizen of Great Britain, however, such freedom was not to be her lot. Her three choices were stipulated in fine detail.

  First. She could stay with the agency as one of its operatives, remain at Bloodnight Hall, and work with Garrett Bloodnight. She’d share his claviger, which was an unusual situation as she understood the rules, but not unheard of. Sometimes, as she’d learned, there were groups of immortals who preferred to work together. When this happened, they’d share one human babysitter, or claviger. That person’s job was to make sure that none of their immortal charges ever used their powers to harm others or break the laws.

  In return for living under such rigid rules—rules never inflicted on any other British citizen—obscene amounts of money were paid for the use of any or all an immortal’s preternatural abilities. Such powers included the ability to sense other immortals nearby, and perform great feats of physical strength.

  Agency immortals, as they were called, agreed to undergo certain secret missions concerning the capture or destruction of criminals or terrorists. Certainly, Bloodnight had acquiesced to this option admirably, hence his ability to afford such a massive estate and the attached land. After so many decades of governmental subservience, he’d done quite well for himself.

  Second. She could decide to go out into life, on her own, but still after being outed to the public as an immortal. Regarding this option, the government still believed that, by telling the public who these all-powerful individuals were, reps from the governing agencies avoided any intimation of colluding with immortal beings that many in the general population feared. Even the clergy seemed reluctant to recognize immortals as worthy of rights in and of themselves. On the whole, immortals were beings to be watched and suspected. At all times.

  In this second option, as she’d been told, she’d have a claviger to report her whereabouts, but would not enjoy any perks. No money, no help. Nothing. She’d still be outed to the public, and must find secure locations to live, hoping the paparazzi didn’t get her address. She’d have no protection from in-your-face hordes of gawking, stalking, media hounds or groupies. She’d be given no missions, and could live her life as she pleased. She’d still be required to explain if or when she used her immortal powers. If she jumped over a fence that a normal human couldn’t have climbed—even if that athletic feat was engaged to get away from paparazzi—her claviger would tell the government. She’d be censored and fined for using powers others didn’t have. If she used her supernaturally enhanced strength enough, she’d be incarcerated.

  As yet, none of these powers were showing themselves in her life though she’d been told they would.

  Third. With this last option, she could leave and not tell anyone. She’d have to simply escape, though she’d be without the ever watchful eye of any claviger. She could attempt to hide in the population. Even if she never broke a law, she’d still be hunted by those who represented authority. It’d be assumed she was up to no good. This kind of life would be terribly, terribly hard to maintain given others with powers equal to or surpassing her own would constantly pursue her. She’d eventually be caught and imprisoned. She might also be discovered by rogues who, if she didn’t fall in line with them or their gangs, might kill her. They could sense her presence just as she’d be able to sense any other immortal’s. She’d have to watch out for them constantly.

  According to information provided to her by the organization, others had tried this third option. Some had died while trying to take an agency immortal’s head. Many of these rogues showed aggression toward any governing body who’d contain their p
owers or their rights, hence their danger to everyone. Many rogues, as she now knew, were the source of so much chaos on earth. They sometimes thought themselves above mankind, above rules, above any laws.

  This last choice—to become a rogue—was no choice at all. She’d never received so much as a parking citation, and couldn’t imagine trying to hide in a world where a satellite could find anything on the planet’s surface.

  Then, there was the reputation of her family to consider.

  How could she cast disparagement on good people who’d raised her to be honorable and trustworthy? How could she refuse obedience to that which her great grandfather, grandparents and parents adhered?

  No. Illegalities notwithstanding, she couldn’t let her family down. Right was right. Proper was proper.

  She’d previously believed in the laws concerning immortals wholeheartedly. Now, she saw things quite differently. Now, she didn’t understand why an immortal’s name should be released to the public, as though they’d done something wrong. Why could they not work for the greater good without having their photos released? She’d had no choice in what she’d become. No one did. It wasn’t like anybody asked for the lifestyle.

  Previously, she’d actually been among so many who had insisted that this law was for the best and should always be obeyed. Too late, she realized her biases were based on ignorance.

  Karma was, indeed, a most stringent bitch.

  If many immortals didn’t seem to mind the regulations, and agreed to work with the agency, then who was she to argue? In fact, a great many of the immortals she’d recently learned about seemed to relish their roles as saviors to humanity. Because of their efforts to save lives, there were some in the mortal population who now defended immortals’ rights.

  Confusion. Utter and total.

  She didn’t like being registered like an animal. Nor did she want to be counted as someone who thought they were above the law. Then again, she never wanted this life to begin with.

  As she’d hated, she’d become the very object of that hate and now had to live with the consequences. There were still enough people in the general population who’d love to see all immortals dead. Though she’d never gone that far with her own objections, she’d had friends who’d immediately had nothing to do with her, and who had actually cut all ties. A few had messaged her cell to never speak to them again. Their social media listings concerning her life prior to the accident had somehow been wiped off the internet. She found no mention of her in her former friends’ existences. The government would announce her in their own good time, anyone who tried to do so before that would be imprisoned. That was the law. She at least had a right to learn to defend herself from the rogues and haters of the world, before having her immortality publicized.

  One certainty remained. She was now one of the freaks in the world. She’d cried at first. Then she’d got over it. At least, she told herself she was over it.

  She shrugged and put her notepad back in her pocketbook. She could make a life for herself or not. It was up to her.

  Staring at her surroundings, and noting how amazingly well the much-vaunted Garrett Bloodnight had done for himself, perhaps option one could at least take the sting from living a life alone, childless and friendless.

  There were worse motivations than money. If the government was going to make her sign up and report her whereabouts like a prized heifer, then she’d bargain her way into her own fortune and live like a queen.

  Was she capable of being the kind of immortal who could hunt down a suspect or a terrorist and bring them to ground? Could she kill if she had to?

  So much to think about.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, then lunged for the trunk containing her parents’ photo.

  Once she had it in her hands, she placed it on the nightstand, next to her bed. It was the first of her photos to be displayed in this room, in this brand new world.

  Anna Gast had already helped unpack most of her clothing. Her wardrobe now hung in a monstrously large walk-in closet. All her shoes, coats, jackets, and boots had been meticulously organized. She’d been grateful for Anna’s help, but had told the older woman to leave her framed photos and fabric bundles alone. Those had to have special places. Thankfully, there were hundreds of nooks and crannies available for that purpose.

  The room she’d been given was exquisite. Most of her friends hadn’t had an entire flat as large as the space in which she found herself. A beige carpet spread out to oak walls where landscape oil paintings hung, according to subject matter. Some paintings showed pastures filled with sheep, others depicted fat cattle. Still others displayed beautiful, purebred horses.

  Some might have said the décor—with all the oak wood and forest green upholstered furniture, and a giant armoire turned into an elaborate entertainment section—was decidedly male. She loved it, then felt guilty for doing so.

  This wasn’t her real apartment. This wasn’t her little dress shop; a place she’d scrimped and saved for.

  Now, Ye Olde Fashions by Jean was a thing of the past. The store was closed, returned to her landlord. All her fabrics and findings had been hastily wrapped in brown paper. At the time of her transformation some months ago, she hadn’t decided if she’d ever open her sewing bundles again. Now, she was glad to have the packages with her.

  It was a lot of stuff to carry around, but she’d refused to leave every single item that’d made up her life. Like her family photos, she decided to unpack her fabric bundles herself.

  She got up to start that task.

  As she sifted through reproductions of Victorian gowns, feminine, floaty Georgette dresses, hard-to-find chintz skirts, and filmy blouses, she wanted to cry all over again. These garments had originally been meant for customers. Some of the fashions were uncompleted.

  She shrugged. Why shouldn’t she have them for herself? Each one was a one-of-a-kind design. Each had been researched for historic accuracy.

  “I won’t get rid of these. I won’t! If they make me stand out, too bad!”

  She’d finish every single garment, and put them in special places in the big closet. It wasn’t like she didn’t have room.

  Even if she were given missions at some future point, she must still have time to sew. An entire eternity lay ahead. She couldn’t chase bad guys all the damned time.

  A gentle knock on the door made her jump.

  Jean glanced at the clock on the huge oak mantle, surprised to see that she’d been sewing for many, many hours. Only two dresses were left unfinished.

  “Come in,” she told the knocker.

  Anna Gast breezed into the room wearing polished brown loafers, a red plaid skirt and white blouse. For a woman in her fifties, she was slender as a reed and moved with grace that Jean found admirable. Then again, what would she ever know about being that age?

  “I’ve come to get you for supper, dear. I had the day off, but got worried when I got a call from kitchen staff. Seems you missed tea, and didn’t even come down for a snack. What in the world have you been up to?”

  “I’m so, so very sorry about mucking up your day off!” she genuinely apologized. “I was working and totally lost track of time. Please, forgive me?”

  The older woman walked forward, then gazed at the finished dresses now carefully aligned on the huge bed.

  “Where did these come from?” she asked.

  “They were all bundled in the trunks. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with them until I saw the storage space in this room. They were in the shop I used to own before…well…just before,” Jean finished.

  “I’ve never seen such lovely garments. May I?” Anna asked as she pointed at one of the chintz-patterned dresses sitting on the top of the pile.

  “Of course!”

  Jean got off the bed, to let Anna get a better look without feeling crowded. The look on Anna’s face said a lot. She was clearly awed by the dresses.

  “You sewed all these?” Anna asked.

  “They were almost
finished anyhow.”

  “Oh…Jean…you have a wonderful gift! These are so very romantic-looking.”

  “Why don’t you try one on?”

  “Me? Oh, goodness, dear. I’d look like an old frump in one of these floating, pretty things.”

  “Nonsense. That chintz one on the top has ties in back that can adjust it to any frame. I’m taller than you and it fits me just fine. Go on. Try it! Go in there,” Jean suggested, pointing to the walk-in closet where a massive, full-length mirror stood at the far end.

  “Jean, dear…as much as I’d love to…you’re late for the evening meal as it is.”

  That might be true, but Anna’s expression revealed that she dearly wanted to try on that chintz dress.

  “Look, I need to change anyhow,” Jean began, “so, while you get into that dress, I’ll pick one and we’ll go down together. I assume you’re still eating with me, even if you do have the night off.”

  “Well, of course I will, my girl!”

  “Okay. Then, we’ll go to dinner in whichever of these dresses we choose. It’s my first night here. I-I’d kind of like to make a good impression. Or at least try to. All right?” Jean cheerfully told her.

  “Mercy! Well…if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. But, even if we’re late, we must do our hair, makeup and pick shoes to match the dresses. I know exactly what we need. I used to help all the women who bought gowns from my shop. I know how the ladies who wore such styles should have looked in them. So, let’s get started!”

  Anna smiled so broadly that Jean suddenly felt lighthearted. Things didn’t have to be so glum all the time, did they? If she could make a friend, shouldn’t she?

  The older woman rushed into the closet with the dress of her choice.

  This was the first time since the accident that Jean felt something akin to real joy.

  Gart stood by the fireplace in the formal dining room. He fully expected that Anna and Ben Gast, and Hingus Tate, would join him. Though he’d given them the day off, they’d still eat at home. Or he assumed they would. There’d been no discussion about visiting the local pub for fish and chips. They were well known there as no one minded serving the local immortal and his staff.