The Blood Decanter (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  GERALDINE ALESHIRE

  Founder

  “Founder of what?” Hector asked.

  Geraldine smiled, and began typing on her tiny laptop. “We are interested in you, Hector. We are interested in your unique perspective. In your survival.”

  “I don’t understand, Geraldine. How long have you been in Berlin now?”

  She stopped typing and looked up at Hector. “Long enough. It’s not always going to be Rome, you know.”

  Hector paused and remembered the day that the altar burned. He remembered swimming upwards from the bottom of a dark sea, fighting upwards towards the surface through thrashing limbs, struggling for air. The days when he wished he could understand his purpose.

  Geraldine placed her hand on his. “You moved past that, didn’t you?”

  Hector nodded. “I think so, I hope so. Those were such dark days.”

  Geraldine picked up the book, and set it down to the left of to her laptop. “So this book has had such a profound effect on you Hector, but we still must examine it. We still must. We must.” She thumbed through some of the first pages, and stopped for a moment and ran her fingers along the gold edge trim of the paper. “And now first, I must know more about you, dear Hector. I don’t know how so many years you have gone undetected. But you have. Where shall we begin?” She looked over at Hector, and straightened her glasses.

  Hector sighed. “It’s been so many years since I visited that dark place. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “When you received the gift once again?”

  Hector looked around the library. “They are closing, Geraldine.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. Taken care of. Now please, begin, Hector. I am ready to take copious notes, and I am a fast typist. Please. Do begin.”

  Hector leaned back in the chairs and closed his eyes. He pictured the thrashing limbs again. The struggle to find the surface. The quest to breathe again.

  And then, when he had surfaced, the air had been stagnant.

  He remembered scanning the area, as he tread water in the middle of the sea, and all he saw was the dark, black water. He looked downwards, and saw the white skin of the bodies writhing below the surface, hands reaching upwards but finding no relief.

  And then he swam.

  He sought a shore that seemed so far away; a great distance through treacherous waters, he struggled to swim.

  Let me be your guiding light. When you struggle for the shore, when you swim through treacherous waters, I will guide you to land.

  And then he looked upwards towards the sky, to the swirling, angry clouds. Had there been a face, looking down on him, through the clouds, watching him?

  But back in the library, as Geraldine sat typing, the two sat in the post-closing darkness; the glow from her laptop screen illuminated her face in brilliant white, he paused for a moment and looked over at the book. “That book is pure evil,” he said. “Why do you want me to continue?”

  She stopped typing and looked up and over at Hector. “Because you must continue. You must tell me your story. You must tell me why the decanter was so special. Why the dead returned.”

  Hector looked down at the table.

  The newspaper was spread open, and Geraldine pushed a photo towards him. Slowly, he looked at the photo, his eyes never leaving it.

  Someone snapped a shot of the bodies. The photographer appeared to have been standing right before several of them, their bodies splayed on the sidewalk, limbs broken like rag dolls; their skin showing the bruising, discoloration, the pooling of blood beneath the skin and signs of rigor mortis.

  How remembered how the dead walked towards the houses, to the cars, and sought the living. He closed his eyes and went back to the day that the sky rained the blood rain. He remembered standing in Ascension when the dead returned. He remembered it so very well, like it had just happened.

  When the dead rose from their graves and walked the land once again, that was the day the blood rained from the sky. When the wood splintered, and arms clawed their way through the damp earth, the undead tearing their way through each grave, clawing upwards through the earth.

  “Hector, are you okay?” Geraldine looked concerned. She looked over at Hector expectantly, as Hector opened his eyes, resting his chin in his hands, and stared at the photo.

  “This was the blood rain,” he said. “When the dead rose. I remember now. You have helped me remember.”

  Geraldine started typing on her laptop computer. “So will you tell me then? What happened?”

  There was a bang as the remaining lights in the library were shut off and the facility closed for the evening. Geraldine and Hector remained at their small wooden table, surrounded by stacks of books, the light from Geraldine’s computer screen reflecting against her face, and the warmth of the small banker’s lamp shining against Hector’s face.

  “What happened after Darius died?” Geraldine sat back and waited for Hector to answer.

  Hector closed his eyes, and saw Antoine.

  He saw Antoine in the foyer of their Chateau, crying. He could remember that. Antoine had been still covered in mud, his clothes were still caked with dirt, and he stood in front of the mirror, hanging his head low, sobbing.

  And then on that same evening, Hector waited for Antoine to stop crying, for his wave of emotion to pass, watching his friend, crying into his arms, leaning against the wall.

  There had been no assistance from any others.

  Geraldine broke Hector’s trance and interrupted his thoughts. “Tell me, what do you remember about that time you were with Antoine?”

  Hector picked up a pencil and examined it. “There was a time, when I was with Antoine, for many days, and he used to sit and speak with me for hours. Like he was grooming me for something.”

  “Grooming you? What do you think he wanted you to accomplish?”

  Hector knew.

  He could remember the nights after Darius had dropped him off, but those were different days, and those were times when Darius had been a friend, a confidant, but also an enemy. Hector looked down at his lap and shook his head. “Darius had always been quite angry. There were times that I just didn’t understand his anger, or where it came from. I don’t even know about his past, when he was a mortal, except about Tramos. He told me once about Tramos.”

  Geraldine stopped typing on her laptop and flipped through a large yellow legal pad. “Yes. Tramos. He was his creator, yes?”

  Hector nodded. “Darius told me one night. Out of the blue.”

  “Could you take me back to that night?”

  Hector leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, avoiding eye contact with Geraldine. He sat for a few minutes, looking down at his lap. “Antoine loved his absinthe. It became like an obsession with him for a while. There was a night that I was there, in his house in Coral Gables, and we were all there – Antoine was there, Darius, myself and Antoine’s new friend Roberto.”

  Geraldine started typing again as Hector continued. “Antoine would drink the absinthe until he was intoxicated – his eyes would redden and his speech would slur.”

  Geraldine stopped typing and looked up at Hector. She adjusted her glasses. “Antoine was immortal. Why would the liqueur affect him this way?”

  Hector leaned forward, clasped his hands, and looked up at Geraldine. “Antoine and Darius are affected very differently. They are not like vampires, you see. They have the dark gift – of life eternal – but they do not live on blood. Darius would kill for sport. Had a lot to do with his anger, I think.”

  “Yes,” Geraldine said. “Darius had an anger issue. Which you told me. And I definitely want to explore.”

  Hector nodded. “Yeah. It was a bit much to deal with. So back to Darius. When he told me about Tramos. Antoine passed out on the couch as the sun started to rise. Darius and I rushed to the windows and pulled the drapes shut. Antoine had those heavy, room darkening drapes – the big, flowing ones – all throughout the house. He h
ad it set up so every window and door could be covered and the house would be in absolute darkness throughout the day.”

  “So that is a similarity to vampires then.”

  “It’s a similarity, but that’s where it ends. Antoine, Darius, Tramos, Claret, Delia – all of them. They can all go out in the sunlight. They don’t have that limitation that vampires do. Antoine has been out many afternoons. But it’s a choice. They are demons. They have chosen the darkness, as opposed to the light. They have chosen to escape the sunlight. At least as much as possible.”

  Geraldine stopped typing, removed her glasses, and placed them on the table. “Take me back to the night when Darius told you about Tramos.”

  Hector looked down and fidgeted. “I can’t”.

  Geraldine sat back and scoffed. “Why not?” She shrugged her shoulders and flopped her pen on the table, and crossed her arms.

  Hector took a deep breath. He looked down at the table and held it inside for a moment. And then he let it out, and looked Geraldine in the eye. “I can’t tell you about my specific relationship with Darius.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they will find me. And they will discover my disloyalty. And I will be punished for it.”

  “Who will find you?” Geraldine closed her laptop, removed her glasses and placed them on the table. She leaned forward. “Who will find you, Hector?”

  “The Inspiriti.”

  “You have connections with that group?”

  Hector nodded. “Only to a degree. They’re all in it. Antoine. Darius. Delia in a member of the High Council. It’s supposed to be an organization of enlightenment.”

  “Can you tell me more about this organization?”

  “No. No, I cannot. Because I am a member myself. And I cannot be disloyal. For if I am, I will be crucified.”

  FOUR

  In the Vatican section of Rome, just near the Sistine Chapel, a tall and imposing young man, dressed in a black cassock, stood in a small vestibule as the Sunday morning sun peeked through the stained glass windows, leaving a patchwork of color on the stone floor. He fidgeted with his personal cell phone, holding it upwards towards the sky, as he finally was able to place his call.

  He returned it to his ear and sat on a nearby stone bench, and used his free hand to smooth the side of his wavy hair. “Ramiel. Yes, please, I will hold.” He paused for a moment, and stared ahead at the statues against the opposite wall as the opening hymn chorused from the far worshipping chamber on the other side of the building.

  After a few minutes, he spoke. His words reverberated and echoed against the stone walls. “It’s Ramiel, Giovanni. I’ve been trying you for the last two days. I know you are not there. But I hear of bad news from America. From Antoine and his sector. In Miami. Please give me a call. You need to come to Rome. The Monsignor wants to leave for Miami tonight.”

  The door next to the bench opened, and a grey haired minister poke his head outside, in full white vestments. “Come in, Ramiel. It’s time for the Sunday services.” And then the priest disappeared as quickly as he had come.

  Ramiel sat for a moment and stared at his small, black phone, resting in the palm of his hand, as if looking at it more intensely would make it ring for an answer.

  But the call never came.

  And Ramiel stood, shoved the phone into his pocket, and retreated down the hallway, through a soaring set of wooden doors, framed by multicolored stained glass windows. The doors shut behind him silently as he stood for a moment, in a windowless hallway, shrouded in darkness, lined with doors along the side to his right. One of the doors was open slightly, and a finger of warm light seeped through.

  Ramiel fished his phone out of his pocket and checked it. He stared at the small, black phone, waiting for a response, while he knocked quietly on the door that was ajar. “Monsignor, may I enter?”

  The man who sat at the desk across the tiny office did not look up from his paperwork, but it was he. He hid behind an expansive computer monitor, studying some paperwork near the keyboard.

  Ramiel pushed the door open slowly as it emitted a dull creak, and the monsignor looked up at him, and removed his glasses. “Ramiel. Come in.” He gestured to the chairs across from his desk. He smoothed some stray strings of hair on his balding, shiny head and placed his glasses on the desk. They seemed lost in the clutter. The monsignor’s face shifted as he leaned back in his chair. “I am troubled by the emails and the phone calls I have been receiving from the States.”

  Ramiel took his chair and crossed his legs, looking over at the monsignor, who was rubbing a small tuft of hair on his chin. Ramiel cleared his throat. “Yes, Monsignor. I received word from Miami that Darius had died in Lyon and should be buried soon. If he hasn’t been already. But it appears that the issue goes much deeper than Darius’ death. They have been having quite a bit of fatalities over there. It seems the immortals are being targeted.”

  “By whom?”

  Ramiel shook his head. “We don’t know yet. All we know, right now, is that there are rumors spreading about a man in a hood.”

  “A man in a hood?”

  Ramiel nodded. “That’s what they are talking about over there.”

  The Monsignor pushed back from his desk and stood. His white vestments did nothing to conceal his hefty stature. His stomach bulged outwards. “Pay a visit to Antoine. I think he is losing control of his area. There is too much at stake here. This ‘Hooded Man’. Does anyone know where he came from?” He sat back down.

  Ramiel shook his head. “No, I have spoken with Paris, New York and Shanghai. None of them have heard of him, and there is great concern about this man.”

  “I see…”

  Ramiel straightened his legs and sat forward in his chair. He looked at the monsignor directly, who was fiddling with a pencil. “Darius was one of the victims, dear monsignor. He was one of many, I’m afraid.”

  The monsignor sighed and played with the computer mouse, as he stared intently at his computer screen. He paused for a moment. “I am reading this email from Giovanni. He sent it to me last week. He says that Antoine is at their Chateau in Lyon and burying Darius, who died as a mortal.” He looked over at Ramiel with wide eyes.

  “That’s what is causing the commotion,” Ramiel said. “There has been quite a lot of speculation as to how Darius lost his immortality. How he aged so rapidly.”

  The Monsignor nodded, but did not look over towards Ramiel, who was intently watching the reflection of the computer screen in the Monsignor’s lenses. After a brief period of silence, the Monsignor looked over at Ramiel. “This email is quite long. And quite distressing. Giovanni said Antoine is there, in Lyon, and returning to the States soon. He says that Antoine has been talking about resurrecting Darius again.”

  Ramiel’s mouth hung open. There was a silence in the room that seem impenetrable. But the silence was broken by a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” the Monsignor said, returning his attention to the computer screen. Ramiel again looked at the reflection from the monitor in the monsignor’s glasses, and then snapped his head in the direction of the door, as he heard the familiar, dull creak. It was Sister Ignatius. She looked troubled, her face seemed older than her years, and she stared at the floor and stood in the threshold. The monsignor waved her in, gesturing quickly. “Come in Mary! And close the door behind you.”

  She shut the door silently and took the chair next to Ramiel. She looked down towards her lap. He noticed that she had been crying. The Monsignor spoke first. “So Mary Ignatius, tell me the news.”

  She looked down at her lap and sighed. “Delia Arnette called me a few minutes ago. There has been another sighting.”

  The monsignor leaned forward over the desk. “Of who? This ‘Hooded Man’?”

  She nodded.

  The Monsignor shook his head and raised his arms in the air. “Now you tell me there was a sighting. What is this man doing? Who is this man?”

  Ramiel stood for a moment, and look
ed at his phone. The black screen covering the phone reflected the overhead lights from the office like small, white cosmic orbs as the screen awoke and lightened and he saw a missed call. He shook his head. “I’m not sure when this call came in. But this office is a dungeon. It just shows a missed call.”

  “Where was it from?” the Monsignor asked.

  Ramiel sighed. “Miami. It came from Miami.”

  The monsignor sat back in his chair and shook his head. “Okay, okay. I don’t have any more time for these distress calls from Miami. Sister Mary, please tell me what you had to come to say.”

  She straightened herself in the chair, and smoothed her habit before starting. She took a deep breath. “Well, Monsignor.” She paused. “There were e-mails and phone calls coming in from around the world about this ‘Hooded Man’ – and…”

  The Monsignor waved his hand. “Yes, yes, Ramiel already told me. He has been showing up before the death of any immortal. Quite conveniently, I might add.”

  Sister Mary nodded and looked downwards.

  The monsignor looked at Sister Mary directly. “So what is this man doing? He shows up before the death of an immortal – what is his purpose? To kill the immortals?”

  “He carries a decanter….this crystal decanter. It’s round, and bulbous, and he convinces them that drinking from it brings eternal life. But it takes away the gift.”

  The Monsignor scoffed and stood again. “The only thing that can bring eternal life is the cup of Christ. And does it? This decanter? What does it do then?”

  Her eyes fell, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t seem to. It seems to bring death. Like an imposter.”

  “And why have you been crying?”

  She shifted in her seat. “I’m afraid the news from America is not good. Delia Arnette called me just a few moments ago and let me know that Antoine is missing.”

  The Monsignor slammed his hands against the desk. “You two are giving me different stories! Ramiel just said that Antoine is in Lyon and I received an email from Giovanni who is at the Chateau now. And now you are saying that Antoine is missing?”