The Immortal Bind

by Traci Harding

  ‘Are you going to be all right? I can come over and get you out of there?’

  ‘I’ll answer the police questions and then see how I am. The authorities won’t be able to hold him.’ With the demon’s powers of persuasion and inability to die, he would be forced to reinvent himself, but it wouldn’t prevent him coming after her.

  ‘If he escapes you’re going to know about it. We’ll keep our eyes on the news for you. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything relevant.’

  ‘Thanks Willie, you’re a star.’ Sara didn’t have any other choice but to flee now. ‘I’ll get back to you.’ She hung up, shell-shocked, and moved to answer the door and speak with the police.

  After answering their queries as honestly as she could, and advising them that she was calling her engagement with Dr Baxter off, the police asked if Sara felt that Robert had misled her in any way, or if she had any charges she wanted to bring against him.

  ‘I honestly don’t remember anything at this point. I have work overseas for the next few weeks, but if anything comes to me, I’ll be sure and get in touch when I get back. Or you can reach me via my business manager.’ She passed them Liz’s card.

  ‘That’s fine,’ the officer concurred, as he and his partner stood. ‘Putting this case together could take some time.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do about the press?’ she asked, as it was going to be very difficult carting her luggage though them.

  ‘They may just be hanging around to get our statement, if you’re lucky.’

  That would be a no then. Sara crossed her fingers.

  ‘I’ll be sure and tell them you have no statement at this time.’ The policemen offered to show themselves out.

  The phone rang and it was Willie. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘I feel completely drained, to be honest, and it’s only three p.m.’

  ‘Do you want me to arrange an extraction this evening?’

  ‘I still have some work to finish up here, and as long as Robert is under lock and key, there’s no reason not to stay and finish it.’ Sara was having second thoughts about dragging Willie into this; he’d already died for her once.

  ‘Stay there tonight and we’ll see about getting you out in the morning, if the goon squad haven’t pissed off by then.’

  ‘I’ll see how long it takes me to get through this and give you a ring when I’m done.’ Sara felt she needed more time to organise herself.

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘Big love, Willie, speak soon.’ Although Sara felt like she could drop straight off to sleep where she sat, it was time to take decisive action; she needed a visa, a flight to India, and somewhere to hide out until the visa came through.

  * * *

  From inside a removal van across the road from Jon’s stately terrace, Simon watched his friend lock the front door and walk off down the road. Once Jon turned the corner at the end of the street, Simon gave the van driver the go ahead to do a U-turn and park in front of the terrace.

  His driver was not a small man, and even with their combined strength it was a real struggle to get the chair to the van.

  ‘I don’t remember . . . it being . . . this heavy . . . before.’ Simon strained as they got the weighty item past the front steps and set it down on the street so they could take a breather and open the van. ‘Holy smoke, I need to work out more.’

  Once recovered, they took hold of one chair arm each to lift it into the vehicle, but it would not budge — it was as if the chair was cemented in place.

  ‘Goddammit! This is ridiculous!’ Flushed with panic, Simon knew if Jon returned home and caught him in the act, he’d be furious.

  The sound of a jackhammer pounding away across the street presented a solution. Simon conscripted two large workmen to come shift the chair into the van.

  When they managed to place the chair in the back of the van without the slightest strain, Simon was left quietly fuming, but paid the workmen for their aid as promised.

  ‘Easy money, man . . . thanks.’ They looked him over as if he were a wimp. Simon forced a smile as he watched them return to their labour. But before the driver closed up the van, Simon climbed in the back and took hold of one side of the chair — he was further enraged when he lifted it with ease. ‘Son of a bitch!’

  He let it drop.

  As insane as it seemed, he knew there was something inexplicable about this piece of furniture — more and more it presented as his nemesis.

  You’ll get yours. He climbed out and allowed the driver to close the van doors, locking the antique within.

  At the junkyard, Simon did not feel safe simply dumping the extravagant piece for fear Jon might come looking for it, or someone else would take it home. He had to burn the damn thing.

  Unfortunately, the chair was not going to be put down easily and a lighter failed to so much as scorch the wood or the upholstery.

  ‘You will burn.’ Simon had prepared for this scenario and returned from the van with a can of petrol. He doused the chair all over, then stood back, lit a match and flicked it onto the seat.

  The stately piece ignited into flame and Simon smiled in silent satisfaction as it was engulfed. His sights became transfixed on the jewel as it began to glow first yellow then white; his expectation was that it would pop, or melt, but the glow from the crystal only became brighter and more mesmerising.

  ‘I took the liberty of purchasing two chairs. I had thought of selling them back to her directly, but then it occurred to me that they might be of some interest to you.’

  A vision of himself in a great medieval hall filled his perception. He was speaking with a Viking warlord of dubious appearance.

  ‘What’s in it for you?’ The warlord asked.

  Simon tried to shake off the almost filmic vision, but it was replaced by another.

  Simon saw himself confronting Jon with a sword outside an old wheelhouse.

  ‘I don’t want to fight you, Stephen,’ Jon insisted.

  ‘That’s because you know you’ll lose.’ Simon lashed out with his blade and sliced a bloody rip on his friend’s upper arm. ‘Hand her over. No woman is worth dying for.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ Jon stood guarding the woman in his painting.

  ‘Stop!’ Simon backed away from the light, but the strength of the visions was not diminished.

  He saw a pirate in a grand foyer, poised to kiss the hand of the same young woman. Simon found the sight infuriating. Yet the woman recoiled from the pirate’s attention, who bore more than a striking resemblance to the Viking in his first vision. In this instance however, Simon did not seem as disposed toward striking a bargain with him, and came to stand between the wretch and the young woman. ‘Stay away from her.’

  ‘For now,’ the pirate backed off. ‘You consider my proposal, Baron.’

  ‘I will not,’ he insisted.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ the pirate assured him.

  In the next instant he was speaking with a much younger version of his best friend. ‘Keep her safe, Monsieur Delafonse . . . she trusts you and in a crisis will listen to you.’

  ‘Your will is my will,’ the lad vowed.

  The stone popped out of its setting and broke the enchantment, leaving Simon reeling as he found his consciousness back in the present. The chair was disintegrating before his eyes, and the stone lay at his feet appearing completely unharmed.

  ‘What have I done?’

  He suddenly felt a great panic inside him; and daring to crouch down and touch the stone, he found it cool to the touch.

  ‘Are we going?’ The van driver was growing inpatient. ‘Or are we going to wait for it to be ash?’

  Rattled though he was, Simon placed the stone in his pocket and returned to take a seat in the passenger side of the transport. ‘Drop me back at my car.’ A deep feeling of dread grew inside of him; he’d thought he was doing his friend a service, but now he feared quite the opposite was true. He was compelled to confess this ill deed immediately, and prayed t
here was a means to make amends.

  * * *

  Around midnight, Sara hung the last of her finished samples on the metal rod inside the large wardrobe box and then taped it closed, ready to go to the manufacturers. All the fabrics for the garments were sealed in other boxes — stacked and ready to be collected.

  ‘Done.’ Sara breathed a sigh of relief; she could book a pick-up first thing tomorrow.

  She trudged upstairs towards a good night’s sleep, knowing there would be no adventures into another time this evening — the karma stone was now stored safely away in her luggage — the fact was both comforting and mournful. Once upstairs she switched off the lights downstairs and wandered over to her storage area, which overlooked the street below. The news vans were still there, but all was quiet in the media camp. This might have been the perfect time to make a getaway, had she not felt so completely wasted. If she was going to escape this lot, she’d need to have her wits about her.

  ‘Sleep,’ she instructed herself, as it seemed the greatest gift right now.

  She turned back into the darkened warehouse and was alarmed to see a red glow like a fire emanating from her room. Sara ran through the darkness and upon entering her bedroom she found her chair smouldering red, as if completely consumed by fire — only there were no flames or heat, the chair was just slowly disintegrating into ash before her eyes.

  ‘No!’ She wanted to stop it but had no idea how. ‘Why is this happening?’ She feared removing the stone had been an error. ‘Am I doing the wrong thing?’ She didn’t want to find the man to whom her soul was bound, for fear she’d get him killed, yet the thought of not finding him tore at her inside — surely they had earned the right to have one lifetime together?

  Her phone rang and she reeled in her surging emotions and panic to answer the call. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Sara had to stop herself from gasping. ‘Robert?’ Her first reaction was to hang straight up, but surely he wasn’t allowed to just make calls from prison?

  ‘It’s not true what they are saying about me,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I’ve been set up.’

  His lies turned her fear to anger. ‘Of course you have.’ She couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll be out of there in no time.’

  ‘I’m already out.’

  The news sent another sharp pang of fear through her. ‘They dropped the charges?’ Her mind was in a panic. Was he on her doorstep? The media circus outside was suddenly a great comfort to her.

  ‘That’s not important, what is important is whether I still have your love and support?’

  ‘But Robert, my love.’ She played dumb, just like he’d programmed her, and thought it best to give him fair warning. ‘If the police dropped the charges then why is the media still camped outside my door?’

  ‘Damn it. You’ll have to meet me somewhere . . .’

  ‘But the police said I’m not allowed to leave.’ She began to smile, as he became frustrated.

  ‘Fuck the police, just listen to me. Who do you love, Sara?’

  Sara’s fury mounted upon recognising that Robert asked her this series of questions every time he wanted to get his own way. Was this part of her programming? Well she wasn’t going to play along this time, in fact, she was tired of playing games and running in fear; this was the moment to take back her power and strike the fear of the gods into her adversary.

  ‘My dear Lord Thorkell, I have a message for you to give to your Isa, Vasudahara.’ This man and his demon had been rocking along their merry path of torture and destruction for a thousand years, she felt it was time to end their little bromance.

  ‘What are you talking about? Who is Vasudahara?’ He was really angry now, but she noted he didn’t asked who Thorkell was.

  ‘Why, he was your Isa, and you his obedient Dasa,’ she informed him. ‘Not quite what you were led to believe, I suspect. It was he who stole from the Lord Shiva and was cursed. He led you to your death, entombed with him, and you took off his head in revenge.’

  ‘What?’ Robert was attempting to sound like he had no idea what she was saying, but he was processing well enough.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must feel like to discover you have been deceived for a thousand years,’ her cynicism reached a crescendo.

  ‘Oh wait, I lie . . . I do know how that feels!’

  ‘Sara, listen to me—’

  ‘No. You listen to me, Thorkell, you have nothing to do with this. This is Vasudahara’s vendetta, not yours. So you tell your demon lord that his curse is coming for him.’

  She hung up the phone, hyperventilating at the liberation and terror of what she’d just done. She’d exposed her knowledge, but she had stricken him with inner conflict at the same time.

  The phone rang again, and Sara near switched it straight off, but as it was Willie, she took the call.

  ‘Willie, Robert’s escaped!’

  ‘You know!’

  ‘He called.’

  ‘Sit tight, girlfriend, I’m coming for you. Be there within the hour.’

  ‘Will—’ The line went dead.

  Once her luggage was in order, Sara had a tea-filled anxious wait for about forty-five minutes, before an express courier truck pulled up outside. Sara watched from behind blinds as the media circus sprang to life.

  ‘What the hell, Willie?’ She watched through her blinds as he climbed out of the truck into the gathering of reporters. ‘And what are you wearing?’ He was attired in work overalls and Sara had never seen Willie-Jay Perilli look so ordinary before.

  ‘Are you here to see Sara Dash?’ the press were demanding to know.

  ‘I don’t know, I’m just here to pick up a delivery.’ He made his way through them towards to door.

  ‘But it’s two o’clock in the morning,’ one of the reporters pointed out.

  Willie puffed out his chest and directed the reporter to the embroidered patch on the pocket. ‘What does that say?’

  ‘Twenty-four-hour Express Couriers,’ read the reporter.

  ‘Twenty-four-hour,’ Willie emphasised. ‘Now get the fuck out of my face and let me do my job.’

  Sara near burst out laughing when they all backed up a few paces, and with all camera lights focused on him, Willie knocked at the door.

  Sara concealed herself behind the door and opened it just enough to allow him inside and then closed it behind him. ‘Willie, you’re so clever!’ She hugged him tightly but briefly. ‘We can just conceal me and my luggage in a couple of my wardrobe boxes.’

  ‘You got it!’ He winked at her.

  ‘I have a timer on the lights down here, I’ll time them to switch off ten minutes or so after we leave.’ She ran to grab some empty wardrobe boxes and some tape.

  ‘Give them the impression that you’re still here.’ Her accomplice nodded to agree that would be helpful, as he took up her luggage to shove in one of the boxes. Once that was all taped up, Sara climbed inside the other box and Willie passed over her handbag. He was just about to close her in when Sara spotted some printouts on the desk.

  ‘Could you pass me that information there too?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Willie was passing the paper over when he caught sight of the message header. ‘India visa?’ He looked to her most disappointed. ‘You were going to piss off to India without telling me?’

  ‘I had another flashback, Willie, and it turns out I’m not the innocent victim of karma. I should have realised by the basic nature of karma that it has no innocent victims. All of what’s happened is in a large part my fault. I don’t want to get you killed again. I’ve really pissed Robert and his demon off now, it’s too dangerous.’

  ‘Girl, why the fuck do you think I want to come?’ he said indignantly. ‘You’re dealing with a motherfucking certified maniac! There is no damn way I’m leaving you to deal with that shit on your own. Are we clear?’ Willie did his ‘don’t fuck with me’ head wobble and wagged his finger at her.

>   Sara was fit to burst into tears, she was so grateful and exhausted. She managed a smile and a nod, before she lost the plot and tears began to roll. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh hey . . .’ Willie managed to hug her despite the tall box between them. ‘You just let me deal with this shit for a bit. We’re going to figure it out. Sparkles!’ He wiggled his fingers as if to sprinkle fairy dust upon her, which was his sweet way of saying all would be well.

  ‘It’s going to take a lot of sparkles to put this right,’ she feared.

  ‘Girlfriend, you know you’re talking to the one man in town who never runs short of bling.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘That will be Tyrell with the trolley.’ Willie shoved her in the box. ‘Sit tight, we’ll have you, your luggage and your new collection out of here, before you can say “Alexander Skarsgård is the hottest man alive”!’

  ‘Who?’ Sara popped back up to query.

  ‘Do you ever watch TV?’

  ‘No.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Google it.’

  Willie shoved her head down, then closed and taped the box.

  * * *

  Jon returned home from his doctor’s appointment with a new pick axe and shovel that he’d picked up from the hardware store on his way back. He dispensed with these in the entrance hall and headed straight upstairs to the studio, determined to finish his major work tonight.

  Tomorrow the treasure hunt would begin, and finding Rosalind Marchard’s final resting place had seemed as though it would be a needle in a haystack scenario at first. Yet, from the glimpses he’d had of being Edwin Ryder, there were clues as to where the crumbled Marchard family manor might lay buried. For example, he knew it was roughly four miles south of Gipeswic, now Ipswich, on the western bank of the River Orwell. To the best of his knowledge, Jon had never visited the area in this life. Yet he recalled the view of the river from the manor house, and walking along its banks with Tianna on the way to the docks further upriver. Jon did an internet search of the area, which was a couple of hours by public transport from where he lived, and he had decided to begin his search of the river around Freston.

  When he entered the studio to find Simon staring at the huge landscape painting, Jon was a little stunned; for his friend did not appear to be judging the work, as he had done up to this point. He wore the expression of a believer admiring a great effigy of their god. The moment seemed somehow sacred; Jon didn’t want to interrupt for he felt sure Simon knew he had company.