by A. L. Mengel
She nodded. “Delia told me this morning. When did you receive that email, Monsignor?”
He looked at the computer screen and clicked the mouse a few times. “He sent it at just past four this morning.”
Ramiel got up, walked around the desk, and read over the Monsignor’s shoulder. “So what has happened to Antoine has happened in the last six hours.”
There was a silence in the room that followed, as the monsignor looked at Ramiel and Sister Mary. Ramiel looked over at Sister Mary, who was again looking downwards into her lap.
The Monsignor stood and put on his jacket. “Get Delia on the phone in the conference room. It’s time to get to the bottom of this. First this ‘Hooded Man’. Now Antoine has gone missing? I don’t need this on a Sunday.”
FIVE
He drank, lapping at the water with such ferocity and intensity that he started choking. The demon threw his head back in a deep, booming laughter.
He looked up at the monster, who stopped laughing and looked back down at him. “Finish it. Finish it now so the deed can be done.”
He drank the rest of the water, at a much more reasonable pace this time, and looked up at the demon, whose monstrous eyes were glaring down at him, glowed with intensity as the monster’s muscles were tight, taught and flexing with every move.
“You will be cursed to roam this world. A cloud of white mist will carry you. And you will convince all who have sworn to the darkness to drink from this decanter.”
The demon showed him a small, crystal decanter, bulbous at the base, with a swirling, red hot potion inside. “You will take this decanter. You will call the immortals to me. You will hunt them. Convince them to drink.”
“It is their salvation.” George looked up at the Demon and the monster transformed into same woman who visited him so many times when he had been living. He recognized the same red hair.
She leaned in closer towards him and smiled. “Do you see now? Do you see why you are doing this?”
George shook his head.
“You are doing it because you now belong to me.”
BLOOD
LINEAGE
ANTOINE NAGEVESH
LYON
The phone had been ringing but Antoine chose to ignore it. He sat in front of his computer, hunched over, hanging his head. His eyes were closed.
And there was Darius, living in his mind; Antoine saw his smiling face. It was not the Darius that had been the killer, the monster. It was the Darius that was the loving father, the maker, the teacher. His smile was as it always was, bright and gleaming. His face was framed by his dark hair, always tied back behind his shoulder.
And on that particular night, in that particular memory, Antoine noticed and remembered. He was carried back to that same night. It was an evening shortly after he had been transformed, many years ago, when he was just learning the ways of the immortals, when Darius was a teacher. “Antoine, my dear child, what more do you want?” Darius flopped on the sofa. “Do you want me to always hold your hand? Can you manage being an immortal? Did I make the correct choice in transforming you?”
Wake up, sleepyhead.
In Antoine’s mind, Darius had been standing right before him, alive as can be. The sparkle was in his eyes, his long hair was clean and combed, tied behind his shoulders and he remembered – Darius smelled of roses. Yes, Antoine could remember that much. Was it his perfume? His clothing?
Darius unbuttoned the top two buttons of his purple shirt, revealing his muscular chest. “I brought you here to do what is meant to be done, Antoine. What has been written…”
But Antoine could not speak.
Antoine looked at Darius, who stood before the front doors motionless, waiting to unbutton the remaining buttons on his shirt. Antoine wished he could speak. He opened his mouth, nothing came out. And he looked around the foyer. There was the large bouquet of white roses in the center of the table – yes, the foyer was still the same. The same smell of the wood floors, the chandelier, everything.
The same Persian rug was beneath his toes. It had the same softness.
And then Antoine remembered.
He looked down at his hands, and saw the same, tiny silver dagger, which caught the same light and reflected back into his eyes.
He remembered the night all too well.
The sweet scent of the roses, the purple shirt, and Darius standing where he had been that same night, the same prophetic evening, had permeated his thoughts like a swarm of insects. That was the night. The first night Darius had died, and his words played into Antoine’s mind as if they had been spoken only minutes previously:
“Plunge the dagger in me! In my heart! It’s the only way!”
And then the vision faded to blackness.
And then next thing Antoine could remember was the feel of cool, damp leaves under his feet. Slowly he could see the trees of the thick forest rising in front of him, walking under the moonlight as small twigs snapped under his every step.
He felt the heaviness of the body; and then the memory revealed itself to him in totality – for it was Darius wrapped in the white sheet, stained with blood, slung over his shoulder.
Each step was taken with determination – fighting through fallen limbs and broken tree branches, through wet and moldy leaves, through the dampness towards the clearing of gravestones.
But the dream did not last –
The phone rang again.
Antoine opened his eyes to the shrill ring, his head was still cradled in his hands, and he was staring at his keyboard.
He fumbled across the desk for the receiver and croaked a hello shortly after. He reached over to the lamp on the side of the desk and bathed the room in a dull, dim light. On the other end of the phone was a familiar and reassuring female voice.
“I have been calling you for quite some time now.”
It was Delia.
Antoine nodded and rose from his chair. “I know they have been searching for me. I have been here the whole time.”
“We have quite a situation on our hands, Antoine. I am sure you are quite aware of that.”
“Yes.”
“You need to fly to Rome immediately. Monsignor Harrison is going to interview you in great detail. He wants to know all about your history, all the way up to the present. He is looking for clues on what triggered this ‘Hooded Man’ to hunt our kind.”
Antoine replaced the receiver without a word. He looked again in the mirror. He spoke aloud, and his words sounded foreign against the silence of the chateau. “Darius, I must fly to Rome tonight. I am going to meet with the Monsignor.”
ROME
Antoine arrived at Leonardo da Vinci Fiumicino airport in Rome, Italy, and the terminal was teeming with activity. He exited the plane wearing a light suit, a lavender shirt, and dark sunglasses. His locks were tied neatly behind his back. The early morning sun shone through the windows overlooking the tarmac, and as he walked towards the transportation area. He carried no luggage, for he did not intend to stay.
After hailing a taxi outside the terminal, he settled back into his seat for a brief nap. “Sistine, please,” he told the driver. “Vatican City. Please hurry. Andiamo signor!”
The taxi driver weaved into the morning airport traffic effortlessly as the cab made its way towards Vatican City.
*****
Antoine arrived as several priests, dressed in the traditional black cassock greeted Antoine’s car. He was ushered to the Monsignor’s office, and sat in the chair opposite the large, expansive desk. Ramiel sat next to him, studying Antoine intently. A clock ticked as the three men sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, the Monsignor broke the silence. “Would you care for a drink, Sir Antoine? I understand that you have a liking for absinthe. I sir, do not have that, but I can assure you, I have some very fine Italian wines.”
Antoine watched the Monsignor as he spoke to him, as he rose from his chair, and walked over to a small wet bar that was located behind the desk, nestled betwee
n several sets of bookshelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. The Monsignor fished three large wine glasses from a lower cupboard, and proceeded to uncork a bottle. “Of course, by now, you must certainly understand why I sent for you, Antoine. You are fully aware of what is going on in your territory, and we are quite concerned by the amount of deaths that have been reported. Because of that, I have called you here, so we can find out a little bit more about who you are.”
The Monsignor handed a large glass of red wine to Antoine, looked at him in the eye, and smiled a warm smile. “Thank you,” Antoine said.
The Monsignor sat back at his desk, and tasted his wine. “Excellent,” he said. “I love the bouquet on this varietal. Smell it, Antoine. A hint of roses and chocolate. Love it.”
He set the glass down and turned to his computer screen, as Antoine took a sip of the wine. He was pleasantly surprised at its velvety smoothness.
The Monsignor clapped his hands together. “Ah ha! Now I see. I have been scrolling through my emails, here, Antoine, and I found one from Delia. She emailed me three months ago, and explained the situation in Miami. This was right after Darius died, am I correct?”
Antoine nodded.
“Anyway,” he continued. “She also said that you and Darius have had some confrontations over the years. You’ve sent him to the grave before?”
“Yes.”
The Monsignor nodded. “Okay, well I would like to know more about your relationship with Darius, but mainly, Antoine, this meeting is to find out more about you.”
“Then I need to start from the beginning.”
“Certainly.”
Antoine set his wine down on a small table next to his chair. “But I want you to understand something. The beginning, in this story at least, is at my end.”
“Then begin at your end, Antoine. Start wherever you feel you need to start the story.”
Antoine nodded and shifted in his chair, looked down for a moment, closed his eyes, and let out a sigh –
“I was dragged to the altar and burned to ashes. I found my death when I was betrayed; nevermore did I want to discover the darkness from whence I came. For I always knew. I always knew my origins; I could never fathom what my life would become.
“And then, when I was dragged to the altar, my head hung low and my dark locks were dirty and mussed. I was no longer the charismatic immortal that I once had been. I hung my head in shame, my eyes closed and awash with defeat.
“I remember the heat and the smoke.
“The searing flames under a red sky painted with black clouds…”
Monsignor Harrison shifted in his chair, looking up towards the sky as Antoine spoke. Antoine continued his story, but remembered, as he was speaking, his time after the altar.
There was darkness.
He remembered that much.
The darkness was so enveloping, and when he felt that he opened his eyes, nothing had happened. There were no shadow demons waiting for him, poised around him, waiting to drag him to Hades.
There were no Hellhounds, with their acidic breath and torn, bleeding hides.
When he had passed from the Altar, there had only been absolutely nothing – complete and utter nothingness.
The Monsignor interrupted Antoine. “And when did you start to see something?”
“I didn’t, your Highness. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I was in darkness and solitude, and the next thing I remember, was breaking out of my casket when Darius resurrected me.”
Ramiel placed his hand on Antoine’s arm.
He spoke softly. “What did Darius see? Did he ever share his view of the afterlife with you after you performed the incantation to resurrect him in Lyon?”
Antoine looked into his wine glasses and examined the bubbles that hugged the slope of the glass. After a few moments, he shook his head.
“I see then,” Ramiel said, looking over at the Monsignor. “Now that he is gone, we will never know.”
Antoine looked up. “I do know that Darius saw a Psychiatrist regularly when he was mortal again and dying. And although I don’t know all of the details, I know this – ”
“What?” Ramiel looked at Antoine.
Antoine got up and set his wine glass on the edge of the desk. “Darius was running. He was always running. And he confided in the psychiatrist, and in Delia. They were very close. All of them. But I’ve talked to Delia. And I know that Darius was running. Shadow demons, Hellhounds, Asmodai, they were all after him.”
Monsignor Harrison got up as well, and extended his hand to Antoine. “Thank you for coming, dear sir. It looks like we will have to contact Delia. The psychiatrist is dead, correct?”
Antoine nodded.
“I see…” he walked around the desk and ushered Antoine out the door as Ramiel stood, placed his wine glass on the desk unsteadily, and smoothed his jacket.
Monsignor Harrison placed his arm around Antoine as they exited towards the barren hallway as Ramiel followed silently. The Monsignor held out Antoine’s coat for him. “We must meet with Delia again. When are you returning to the United States?”
Antoine looked down and then back up at the Monsignor. He shook his head. “It may be a few days. I still have to try to bring Darius back. I don’t know if it will work this time, but we have to get him back, Monsignor. Where he is right now – where he must be – has got to be filled with torture and torment. We have to get him back for his own good, if nothing else. I care about him deeply. And I don’t want him in torment.”
The Monsignor nodded, and the three men started down the hallway. He put his arm around Antoine again, looked down, tugging at his chin with his index finger. They walked slowly.
“Perhaps we could come with you,” The Monsignor said. “Why don’t you consider that? We could help you, Antoine. We understand your reasons, and if Darius is being tortured for his transgressions while here as an immortal, we owe a duty to get him back.”
Antoine nodded and looked forward. “I cannot tell this same story again. What if I have you come to Miami? What will that mean for me?”
The Monsignor smiled and placed his hands on Antoine’s shoulders. “You think about it. Now you have a safe flight back to Frankfurt. We will join you there soon. But let’s try to get him back. We’re with you on that. He is better here, where we can manage him, then there – where he is tormented.”
Antoine nodded and walked out the side door, out towards the Piazza, and towards a waiting black sedan.
Once he was relaxing in the back seat, he closed his eyes. All he could see was Darius – the Darius he had known, back when Antoine was newly transformed, in the days outside of Badulla, when Darius had stayed with Antoine to tutor him in the early ways of an immortal.
Antoine had remembered so many nights, sitting with Darius, staring at the book Les Livres des Vampires. One night, early in his days of being an immortal, Antoine flipped the pages as the turning paper rustled against the silence of the night.
Darius placed his hand over Antoine’s. “Stop obsessing with who you are. You will blossom, Antoine. That I assure you. Give yourself time to grow.”
Antoine looked up at Darius.
Yes, he was not all bad. He was not inherently evil, like he had said before.
Darius had some good qualities.
There was something about this immortal man, this demon who was transformed by a demon in hell, who was now walking the earth. There was just something about him. Something that didn’t seem entirely evil; nor did seem like he sought bloodlust.
Maybe it found him.
And as the car approached Leonardo da Vinci, Antoine reached for his bag. Yes, despite what he had done – his killing for sport, his apparent loss of respect for humanity, whatever it was – there was a ray of light that was piercing through the darkness. Somehow, somewhere, Antoine had seen it, way back in Badulla when they had first met. There was just something that was inherently good about Darius.
And for that, Darius was certa
inly worth saving.
*****
Not long after he arrived back at the Chateau, Antoine had a gentleman caller. The two sat in front of a freshly made fire.
“But it wasn’t…”
The fire popped and Antoine rose to stoke and rearrange the logs. “I cannot retell this story again.”
The young man shifted in his chair. His hair, stone cold white, was brushed to the side from his forehead and hooked around his ear. Despite that, Antoine guessed that his visitor couldn’t have been more than thirty.
“You are here from the University, are you not?”
The young man placed a small, black shoulder bag on the floor next to the overstuffed chair he was sitting in, and pulled out a small brown leather journal. “Actually, yes, I do go there. But I came on my own.”
“I see…”
Antoine sat back on the sofa and fished a bottle of deep red wine from a drawer underneath the coffee table. “Care to join me in a drink?” He grabbed a wine key that had been sitting on a pile of magazines and started to open the wine. “Beaujolais. Do you know much of wine…I’m sorry…what was your name again??”
“Cris. Cristoph Baudin. I’m really sorry for my manners. And for showing up unannounced. I just wanted to meet you. And talk to you.”
Antoine smiled and looked over at the young man. Antoine’s eyes travelled up and down the young man’s small frame, finally looking him directly in the eyes. “Well, you certainly knocked on the right door. So do you? Do you know anything about the fine wines of the world?”
Cristoph shook his head.
“Well, I would be happy to show you. I have found a passion in wines in these last few years. Since Darius died, I needed to find something to be passionate about again.”
Antoine finished opening the Beaujolais and lay the cork on the table. He picked up the bottle and walked over to a wetbar on the other side of the room. “I should be able to decant it,” he said, while searching through some cupboards behind the bar. “You must always decant it, Cris. It lets the wine breathe. Mellows it out.”