Destiny of Coins

by Aiden James

  He exited the car, and without waiting for me, hurried toward what looked like an abandoned pier from long ago. The structure was missing most of its planks, and only the rusted steel supports remained. An ancient dingy was tied to the end of the pier, roughly two hundred feet from the shore.

  Roderick jogged through the sand, dodging several volleyball players as he moved past their net. I ran after him, concerned by his careless behavior, as so unlike him. He stopped when he reached the steps leading up to the pier.

  “What in the hell is this about?”

  He ignored my question, removing his glasses and squinting his eyes as he gazed toward the deeper depths far beyond the pier. I followed his eyes but saw nothing, and in fact noted nothing unusual—not even a hint of the creepiness we had experienced in ‘Old Town’. However, a slight mist drifted toward us from the sea, just beyond the pier, and spread out along the shoreline in either direction.

  Hardly detectable at first, only a few people around us seemed to take notice until the mist thickened.

  “It’s here,” he said, finally. “Or, the road to it is here.”

  “What do you mean?” I honestly had no idea what he babbled about. “What’s here?”

  “Dracul’s palace.”

  “In the middle of the sea?”

  “No, it sits on an island.” He turned to study me, and seemed surprised we were surrounded by other people. People, I should say, whose stares were drawn to Roderick’s face. He quickly put his glasses back on. “I’m beginning to think this is much worse than either of us could’ve anticipated. The island is out there right now…and yet, it’s not.”

  “What?! Like we’re dealing with multi-dimensional shit again? Please say I’m wrong.”

  I followed his gaze as it returned to the deeper waters beyond the pier. Roderick shook his head incredulously, while I awaited more details on what his perception picked up.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” he said, finally. “Maybe this is part of the maze…the illusion in the game that might reach other levels beyond the physical, and beyond normal acuity….”

  His voice trailed off as he looked to the right of us, where the mist had thickened to a fog above the waves that crashed against the shore. A couple with a dog became briefly invisible, and seemed oblivious to the mist, until a dozen adolescents kicking a soccer ball hurried past the startled pair.

  The youths, all boys and apparently local, chased the ball as it careened toward where we stood. Instinctively, I reached out to catch it when one of the boys kicked the ball toward Roderick and me. The kid, a striking blue-eyed blonde with dimples, smiled sheepishly and ran over to where we stood.

  “You should be more careful, “ I said to him, using the Serbian dialect I remembered from long ago, and prepared for him not to understand, since modern Montenegrin is the official tongue taught in Budvan schools.

  He nodded shyly and took the ball from me, bowing before taking a step to rejoin his buddies, who wore similar awkward smiles. I assumed he had merely read my tone and facial expression, but then he stopped and looked back at us, this time knowingly.

  “Dracul looks forward to your attendance tonight at his palace,” he said, in English delivered with a strong Slavic accent, surprising us. “Return here at midnight. His coachmen will be waiting.”

  The lad ran to rejoin his mates.

  “Hey, wait!” Roderick called after him. “What’s your name?”

  He took a step back toward us and stopped, and the knowing smile turned mischievous.

  “Mortis is my name,” he said.

  “And your family name?” Not sure why it mattered to me, but I suddenly thought this youth might be blood related to our nemesis. “Do you live around here?”

  He laughed as if my question inspired hilarity, and his buddies joined in. Roderick and I glanced at each other, warily.

  “Do you have such a name, Judas?” he retorted, and I scarcely recognized the boy who humbly approached us just a minute ago. “At least my name is genuine, and not a name intended to deceive. Same for you, Mr. Cooley.”

  What the fuck?!

  “Just make sure you’re both here at midnight,” he advised, again, when all either Roderick or I could do was stare at him as mutes, dumbfounded. “My master is most cruel when people disappoint him.”

  He turned away and this time the entire group ran back from whence they came. I would certainly understand the expectation of these kids suddenly disappearing into thin air as they moved further down the beach. But we were able to watch their progress until their images grew too faint to track. We missed most of a gorgeous sunset settling in the west as a result. All the while, the foreboding feeling from earlier worsened.

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  Murder in Whitechapel

  The Judas Reflections, Book One

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  Chapter One

  London 1888.

  here was a time, long ago, when I hung myself with remorse. An act I considered justified in exchange for the betrayal of my good friend, Jesus of Nazareth. My gain? Thirty pieces of silver. My curse? To become immortal, forced to roam for eons while many learned scholars attempted to debunk what really happened. Rumors abounded through the centuries about my demise, some laughable, others close to the truth, while I wandered through the centuries neither growing old nor dying. I had, with misfortune, met the sharp blades of knives, a bullet and various types of torture contraptions. None succeeded. Instead, after a quick recovery, I was restored.

  But the curse of greed remained. With good faith, I attempted to shake the desire for money, and failed miserably as I amassed many fortunes in short spaces of time. Of course, I had the advantage of longevity in which to learn how to perfect the finer points. Each venture more successful than the last. Short of blowing my own trumpet, I admit to being expert in many skills. The good fortune to prosper in England, my residence for over eighty years, I created many new business ventures, bought and sold many properties.

  My friend, and fellow immortal, Roderick Cooley walked the earth on and off with me for seventeen hundred years, until he settled on a fine plantation in Virginia. I began a campaign of letters and telegrams six months ago. I needed Roderick to partner on a lucrative business opportunity. Having sold my existing business for a tidy sum, I planned on expanding my wealth considerably.

  My name, Judas Iscariot, is not used for my current residence. I preferred the alias of Emmanuel Ortiz for appearances. I had many pseudonyms, a master of disguises with a penchant for excitement. In the midst of my business dealings, I found another, far more sinister path I wished to take. My intrigue heightened after reading various newspaper reports.

  My latest purchase was a splendid Regency home in the heart of London’s Belgravia. It afforded a true gentleman’s lifestyle, with all the trappings my heart desired. Party invitations became a regular occurrence shortly after I acquired the new address, giving me the opportunity to mingle with London’s elite upper class society. My new import bus
iness flourished as England opened its doors to new tastes and delights from foreign lands. In came cotton, gold, diamonds, tea, spices, flax, and opium with abundance. I didn’t care to admit to my clandestine operations: to supply the opium dens of London alongside the respectful supplies to pharmaceutical companies.

  We all have a secret or two, and I had plenty. For example, who I really am and why I was fixated and enthralled with Jack the Ripper. News of his hideous crimes spread far and wide, to America and beyond. I wanted to meet the chap head-on and stop him. But the lure of lavishness and excess had overtaken and distracted me for a long time I was unsure of my commitment.

  A good example of one distraction would be the drawing room, a place for entertainment and my pride and joy. In olden days, privileged members of the French court of royalty would gather outside the King’s Levees, waiting for him to make his first public appearance of the day. In Victorian times, the Levees had become the drawing room and took on quite a different purpose. When entertaining, after a lavish dinner, the ladies made their way to the room for idle gossip, while we fellows stayed in the dining room to enjoy a fine cigar, conversation and a good Napoleon cognac. Later we would join the ladies. If I was fortunate to have Eliza Gardiner in attendance, after some gentle persuasion, she would delight us with wonderful piano recitals. Occasionally, I was given the opportunity to duet with her. It was such a pleasure, being musically inclined. Eliza possessed the voice of an angel and enjoyed singing my self-written sonnets, while I played my precious Stein piano. Our guests always loved the high level of entertainment and I loved Eliza, as a friend. Never once did I contemplate a liaison and betrayal of her husband Cyril, who I considered a fine fellow. Although I found her to be very attractive indeed, I remained a gentleman.

  The chill of autumn reminded me the short summer had come to an end and the fire now needed to be drawn and lit.

  “A telegram for you, Sir.” My trusted butler, Edward, brought the post along with morning tea into the study. I always gave telegrams my complete attention.

  ‘The Leather Apron still at large in Whitechapel. Stop. Enough frivolity. Stop. Contact me at your earliest convenience A.L. Richard. Stop.”

  Rumors ran rife in London that each murder may be connected. There was not a social circle left that did not have something to say. The various hoax letters purporting to be from Jack had started to circulate, but none led to the killer. My good friend and news reporter, Albert, thoughtfully sent a telegram, using one of the nicknames given to the elusive Jack. The Leather Apron, on account of his habit of carving the victims in a most gruesome manner, remained free as a bird.

  Through my own omission, I could not help but be drawn to the brutal murders. Caught up in the moment, I desired to be the one to bring him to justice. I was not startled easily, or unused to witnessing unspeakable horrors in the past. I often thought no mortal would succeed in catching the treacherous and elusive killer.

  The self centered part of me yearned for a quieter, more reserved existence. I had become a proper English gentleman. There were millions in cash and investments placed in bank accounts throughout the world. If I desired, I could become a gentleman at leisure.

  With great haste, I penned a letter to Albert. I suggested we meet at The Old Bell Tavern on Fleet Street, a popular watering hole for newsmen to gather and gleam information. London was already ablaze with speculation. Each unsolved murder had printing presses running overtime and Albert was in the thick of it, holding a prestigious post at The Times.

  I instructed Bert, my trusted footman, to deliver the letter forthwith. If I was going to assist in the capture of this heinous killer, time was of the essence. Though I had plenty, his victims did not. I preferred to keep busy, a distraction from the thoughts that constantly plagued me as I periodically found myself in reflection. The morning had hardly begun, when much to my delight Marianne paid an unexpected visit, flinging the door open wide before Edward could do the formal introduction.

  “My darling, good morning and what a fine day it is!” she loudly exclaimed.

  “What do I owe for this unexpected visit?” Although slightly taken aback, it was a joy to see her. Nothing about the stunningly beautiful and vivacious twenty three year old actress surprised me.

  “I had a hard night, three curtain calls and a divine party after at the director’s home in Chelsea. But I woke early and had to see you. Have you heard the news?”

  “It depends on what news you are referring to. Every day brings news.”

  “Emmanuel, my love, are you in a cocoon? It’s Jack, he’s still at large and there are fears he will strike again.”

  “That I know, I received a telegram this morning from Alfred. It appears Scotland Yard is at a loss what to do next.”

  “Well then, what are you planning to do, my darling? Surely you must know everything?”

  Marianne knew about my indigenous past, as did a select few. Against my better judgment, I shared one night of unbridled passion with her. Fearing it would cause damage to our reputations, I convinced her it was best to remain just friends.

  She possessed the most marvelous eyes, two pools of a light blue ocean, with skin of porcelain. Her cheekbone structure divine and she always wore the latest designs from Paris, setting her apart. Gender roles are clearly defined in the Victorian Era. Women, in particular, are expected to marry at the earliest opportunity and portray a weak inferior persona. Marianne did not fit that category, a dramatic actress with the spirit of an unbroken horse. One of only a handful of successful west-end performers, and the daughter of a Sussex School Master, she had reached the popular ranks, becoming the toast of London society and a trusted confidant.

  “I wish I could have been with you in those biblical times,” she remarked, running a middle finger seductively across my top lip. I could feel my manhood rising, but, like a gentleman, I fought the urge.

  “Stop that. You know we have an agreement not to become romantically inclined.”

  “A girl can try. At least give her credit for that.”

  “I only want to savor the memory of an extraordinary night. Let’s not spoil it,” I replied, doing my best to stay in control. Hundreds of years taught me well. For example, restraining myself when in close proximity to an irresistible woman, such as Marianne Ashmore. I loved her fiery temperament and scandalous talk of joining the ever growing band of women campaigning for the right to vote. Her company was forcing me to digress from my plan to journey to Albert. There were matters to attend, Marianne had to leave.

  “My dear, sweet, handsome man, it appears I have called on you at the wrong moment. But then I must go to sleep, being up all night and an early breakfast has begun to take its toll.”

  After a brief, unexpected kiss on the cheek, she was away. Leaving me free to take the carriage to Fleet Street and Albert while I put her luscious body out of my mind.

  For now, London suited me. It held infinite fascinations and opportunities to expand my fortune even further. Previous success in countless ventures left me confident enough to be involved in the rapid growth of an import business. Blessed with abilities far greater than any ordinary mortal, I had notched up eighteen hundred years of experience. Frequently, during sleepless nights, I thought about how much I would be worth by the year 2150, if the Midas touch continued. Forever needing to think ahead, in an increasingly materialistic world, I took no chances in missing lucrative business opportunities at every turn. I was Judas, after all.

  A light drizzle was building, accompanied by a chilled wind, as my carriage drove through the busy London streets for the rendezvous with Albert. The familiar cries of street sellers, accomplished at hawking their wares door to door echoed, ‘Buy my carrots, juicy carrots.’ ‘Fresh flowers for the lady of the house.’ Their shouts loud and clear, with the clip clop of horses hooves on the damp, slippery cobbles.

  By the time I arrived at The Old Bell Tavern, it began to rain in earnest, England’s weather bemusing at the best of times
. Its perpetual rain and fog, which descended on London in the winter, was abominable.

  Albert was waiting, eager and thirsty.

  “Well, old chap, I was going to order you a fine ale. Or maybe you’d prefer something stronger?” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

  “A good ale, accompanied by a tender beef steak with potatoes, will do nicely.”

  I knew I would pay for lunch. Albert’s meager wages did not allow for luxuries. Occasionally, due to my generous nature, I would make a donation.

  “Would it be okay to make it two steaks?” he asked in a tentative tone of voice.

  “Of course, it’s fine, old chap.”

  “Will you be happy to pay for the ale?”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “There is a delicious apple and blackberry pie served here, a grand dessert.”

  “Albert, my good man, everything is on me. I thought I’d mention that now before you ask for anything else after dessert, like a brandy.”

  He was, after all his idiosyncrasies, a damn good fellow. I did find his small moustache to be slightly ugly, not suiting his wiry features or close set eyes. For some reason his clothes never seemed to fit, slightly oversized, and, annoyingly, his shoes were always in need of a good polish. Appearances aside, he was an astute young man with a nose for news and an eye for the ladies. At the age of twenty eight, he reached the status of a main news reporter. It was quite an achievement in Fleet Street for someone so young.