by A. L. Mengel
Antoine shook his head. “No, Cristoph. He has not been buried yet. He is in Frankfurt as we speak. I had him shipped there to be prepared for burial. I am scheduled to go there tomorrow and claim his body.”
Antoine had hung his head down low. “I let Darius lie on the bed for several days after he died.”
The man sat back in his chair, ran his hand through his spiked hair, and shook his head in disbelief. “What about the stench? Wouldn’t his body have rotted at that point?”
“It did. It was fine for a time. Maybe a day or so. It was a transitional season in Lyon then. Not the same wintry weather. The windows were open when he died. It was rainy. I remember that much. And soon after he passed, I shut the windows tight, closed the drapes, and turned the air conditioning system on as cool as it would go. But it didn’t matter. Despite the chill I was able to create in the chateau, I was not able to thwart his decomposition.”
The man nodded.
“The first night was the hardest. I sat in the rocking chair across from the bed, and rocked back and forth. Back and forth. For hours. Watching his body. From my vantage point, Darius looked as if he could just be sleeping. Like he would wake up. Sit up any moment. Look over at me with his wide, brown eyes, and ask me why I hadn’t come to bed yet.”
Cristoph had nodded, and watched Antoine. Antoine noticed him adjusting his glasses, and then he look down as he spoke.
“Maybe I was delirious. Maybe it was the effect of the absinthe I had been sipping. But after what seemed like several hours of rocking, listening to the creak in the runner, sitting in the silence of the room, watching his body, motionless, I stood up. I set my small stemmed glass down on the table, took off my shirt, and let it fall to the floor. I unclasped my belt and let my jeans fall to the floor. I stood naked, staring at the body, covered with the sheet. So many times before, I had disrobed and joined Darius in bed. I had to do it. One more time. I had to do it this one last time.”
The man placed his legal pad and pen down on the desk, and looked Antoine directly in the eyes. “Antoine…you didn’t…” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t do it. But I wished he were alive so I could have.”
Antoine looked around the parlor. There were shelves of books.
He had lived there but had never noticed them before. Books and more books. And then he looked back over at the man. Cristoph. So amazingly delicious.
Yes, that was his name.
Had he forgotten?
The introduction in front of the Sistine had been so brief, so fleeting. And the meeting in the offices so momentary, such a blur. But now, he remembered who this man was. This man who was sitting in his own Chateau. Antoine set his glass down and leaned forward. “This is a follow up visit?”
Antoine opened his eyes and shook awake.
Antoine returned to his drink, and as the train pulled from the station, he remembered where he had first met Cristoph. The Piazza in Rome. Outside the Sistine. When he had first visited there. That was it!
And when Antoine closed his eyes again, he remembered the scene in more detail…
…Cristoph looked down at his pad and jotted notes. Antoine studied the young man. He looked very stuffy in his formal cassock that he wore. But so young. So delicate. So delicious. He clearly was youthful beyond his years. Antoine snapped out of his musing. “It’s been hundreds of years. Not long compared to some.”
“Some who?”
“Others. Claret. She thousands of years old. Lived in ancient Jerusalem. You know her story, right?”
“Of course. Which others?”
But the others were not who were on Antoine’s mind.
For in that moment, the tiny little office seemed to fade into blackness, the young priest sounded farther and farther away when he spoke, like he was hundreds of yards away from where Antoine was sitting, speaking from a tiny porthole in a dark, dank ocean.
And then Antoine remembered the night that he sat in the same rocking chair, rocking back and forth, sipping his absinthe, holding his stemmed glass silently, as the rocker creaked the same creak as he moved back and forth. Darius had been sleeping in the bed opposite from where Antoine had been sitting. But, on that particular night, Darius shot up in bed, his eyes wide.
Antoine placed his glass down. “What is it?”
Darius looked down and shook his head. “I dreamt of him again. I dreamt of Tramos.”
And then Antoine opened his eyes. He was back in the office. With Cristoph. The young priest looked directly at Antoine, and raised his eyebrows.
“Tramos,” Antoine said. He shifted in his chair. “Tramos is the oldest that I know of.”
“How old is he?”
Antoine shook his head. “Don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows how old he is. Tramos transformed Darius. But even Darius didn’t know. Or if he knew, he didn’t tell me.”
Cristoph nodded. “I see…”
After a great deal of thought, Antoine had decided to visit the priest that Darius had befriended during his short time as a mortal. He returned to Miami, on a transatlantic flight, on a jetliner like so many people would do. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
He landed at Miami International close to midnight in the middle of a light rain. The lights in the city as the plane was descending looked like tiny diamonds in a dark sea, which grew ever larger and more prominent as the plane traveled closer to land. The flight was uneventful, the terminal was the same as he remembered it – cold and stark, teeming with activity despite the late night hour, and the hallways were just as long as he remembered them from years past.
When he was about to raise his arm to hail a cab, he paused for a moment. His estate was gone. It was a burned out shell. He remembered that much. There was no home to go to. “The Biltmore,” he said to the cab driver as he slid into the cold, uninviting back seat.
After he showered and changed, Antoine rented a car and drove over to the Cathedral. The now familiar priest smiled when he saw Antoine in the dimly lit church atrium.
Antoine followed Father Bauman down the center aisle between the wooden pews, towards the altar, and off to the left, towards a wooden door. When Father Bauman opened it, Antoine knew exactly which room he was in. The vestment room. The room where priests kept the different colors and styles of vestments.
“Yes, my son.” Father Bauman sat behind an expansive desk. Volumes of books lined the shelves behind him. “I had met with Darius multiple times when I knew him. He came by the church numerous times. I was so sorry to hear of his passing…”
Antoine nodded.
“And, if I might add,” he continued, “Darius seemed troubled. His face…when I saw him…always showed a state of distress.”
“I understand,” Antoine said. He leaned forward and looked Father Bauman in the eye. He stopped fidgeting with his pen. “I tried to speak to him to no avail. Multiple times.”
“When people die, Antoine, they don’t stop existing. They may not be next to you physically. But they are still there. They still exist.”
And that gave Antoine pause.
Darius wasn’t still alive. He was lying in a coffin in Lyon. But Antoine thought of the days in the Chateau, looking in the mirror, wiping tears from his eyes.
“So Darius is still with me?”
Father Bauman smiled. “Of course he is. That is what we believe. Darius will always be with you. If not physically, at least he will still be with you spiritually.”
Antoine threw his head back and laughed. “Do you think that, Father? I’m not so sure about that. I’m fairly certain Darius is in hell.”
After Antoine returned to The Biltmore, he fell asleep with his clothes still on and dreamed of Sheldon…
…Antoine placed the bottle of Absinthe down on the coffee table, the large coffee table that was in the center of the front parlor. The thunderstorm continued outside, more softly now, as the rain gently pelted against the windowpanes.
“Antoine, this is a very important part of th
e story. Is it not?”
“It’s all important,” Antoine nodded, placing a small, white sugar cube on the slotted silver spoon which he lay flat against the small stemmed glass. He reached for the absinthe and poured some of the green liquid into the glass. “I saw him fall from grace. I saw him lose his gift. He was so damned. So remorseful. But aren’t we all when we are dying?”
“Yes…yes. We are talking, of course, about Claret now, aren’t we? About where she figures in to this whole story. And how she has come to pursuing you.”
Antoine paused for a moment and leaned back into the plush couch. “How did you inherit such an organization? The Astral? How did you do it?”
Antoine already knew the answer. The young man was the son of a priest.
Sheldon shift his weight in the chair, and lay his legal pad and pen on the side table. He pushed his glasses up his forehead, displacing his stringy hair like a mop, which grew thin but long from his shiny head, as the fire popped against the quiet evening. “I need to know more about Claret,” he said, leaning forward, reaching for his own glass of absinthe. “Why is she pursuing you?”
“Oh, she has found me, and Darius, for that matter, she is coming for us!”
Thunder crashed and Antoine was jolted out of his dream. “Could that be it? Could it be her?”
DARIUS SAUVAGE
CITTÀ DEL VATICANO
Back in the days before Antoine returned from the dead, and long before Antoine had met in Rome with the Monsignor, Ramiel and Cristoph, Darius had been there, in the days during his quest for immortality, in that same office, for a very similar meeting. After Darius had his encounter with the ‘Hooded Man’, Darius had talked to Delia about it, and, since Delia is the Director for the Eastern United States, she felt obligated to report the findings to Rome.
Darius stood outside the conference room located underneath the bowels of the Basilica. The halls were stark and unfurnished; the paint on the walls was cracked, peeling and in no way indicative of the opulence just a level above in the worshipping area. In the secret chambers below, in a non-descript location, in those underground chambers, were the offices of “The Inspiriti”.
Darius had heard of the organization but never had encountered anyone of authority with the exception of Delia. And Darius had known her since they were first newly transformed, living together for a time in Paris, in the Vaudeville years, in the late nineteenth century, when Claret would roam the streets looking for those to follow her.
Rome was far different from Paris, when he had been standing in the middle of Piazza San Pietro. He stood in the famous square, in the center of Vatican City, next to the obelisk, and he scanned the area. The soaring colonnades reached upwards on either side, with their Tuscan influence, four columns deep, and framed the gathering area.
Across the plaza, through the passers-by, and the wandering tourists, Darius saw a man in a black cassock waiting for him, next to Maderno’s fountain. He could see the young priest walking back and forth in front of the large basin, as cascading water flowed from the rounded top, which Darius thought looked a bit like a large mushroom; but it was so elegant, sloping and exquisite; and the sound of the water was so soothing and peaceful, that it was the most beautiful mushroom he had ever seen. The water, which flowed from the crest of the upper dome flowed downwards into a large inverted basin, and spilled over with such an even, elegant tone, it appeared to be a rain shower, which gathered towards the pool below. How Darius loved Rome, so much, so very much.
Darius approached the man with a quick, determined pace. There was a youth to the man that Darius appreciated, and as the man got closer in view, Darius could make out the man’s thin mustache, his receding hairline, and youthful skin. As soon as the man was within a few feet of Darius, he extended his hand. “Sir Darius, welcome, sir. I trust you had a restful flight?”
Darius nodded. The young priest couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, near Darius’ age, but an oxymoron of presentation – his skin was youthful, taught and flawless, but the hair was graying and receded, so at first glance, the priest could have appeared to be middle aged, but in the physical shape of someone half his age. “I’m Cristoph,” he said, as they started walking to the far end of the plaza, towards Basilica di San Pietro. [author’s note: Saint Peter’s Basilica].
Darius watched the priest walk with small, methodical footsteps, and noticed the lower skirt of his cassock catch the passing breeze.
And then Darius looked up, as they arrived closer to the Basilica. He looked up at the rising dome, in the center of the structure, which stood command over the square, as an elegant centerpiece.
“Welcome to Basilica di San Pietro,” Cristoph said, turning around to face Darius. “Truly the masterpiece of the Renaissance, for certain.”
Darius nodded as he looked outwards towards the massive columns that reached around the square from either side of the Cathedral.
Cristoph looked back at Darius as he led him towards the front doors. “Carlo Maderno designed the fountain I met you by,” he said. “But the Basilica, here, has been built by legendary artists and designers – Michelangelo and Bernini, to name a few.”
Darius looked up and appreciated the soaring ceiling. “Truly amazing.”
Cristoph led Darius into the grand atrium, and down a small, nearly hidden hallway at the far end of the gathering area, towards a small door. Cristoph fished a key from his pocket, and opened the door to darkness. He looked over at Darius. “You are one of the first to come here. To even know about this place. Its existence has been a solemn secret for over a century. So it is expected that it remains that with you.”
Darius nodded.
“Very good then, please follow me downwards.”
*****
As the two men descended the stairs, Darius could not help but notice the back of Cristoph’s head – the neat, trimmed hairline, the salt and pepper look, a sleek style of his hair, held closely with a hair care product, giving it a wet look. And the skin. The supple skin. So youthful in appearance; and then, it carried him back to when he saw Cristoph for the first time.
Sacrafice was open back in Miami, the music was thumping, and the lights were shining lasers across the top of the dance floor.
Darius had been staring into his glass at the bar across from the stage. He looked up for a moment, out across the dance floor, and watched the sweating, writhing bodies in the billowing white smoke. Zahara had been spinning that night. And then a deliciously fine young man walked into his line of sight and blocked his view.
“Hey!” Darius called out. His voice was lost in the pounding dance music cascading across the walls. The man did not move. “Do you hear me?” Darius reached out and touched his shoulder. He turned around, and Darius sat back on his barstool.
There was a certain aura about this man. Youthful yet mature, he had the face of a young, uncertain boy – but the wisps of greying at the temples indicated a more advanced age. “You really have to tell me what you are doing,” Darius said, leaning back towards the bar, as he picked up his glass and took a sip. The man’s face shifted, but he smiled. “Doing?”
Darius set his glass down with a clank on the marble. “Yes. Doing. You seem so extraordinarily young…but I see your hair. Are you truly youthful?”
The man smiled, looked down, and took a step back. He looked at Darius again. “You are clearly after someone different,” he said. “Perhaps a twink? I am not that.”
“I know you are not that,” Darius said. He stood. “That’s why I pointed that observation out to you. And that’s why I asked you that question. For you must have wisdom, but what are your years? So I ask what you are doing. Either you have had some experience with the Miami plastic surgery market, or you could share more in common with me than I first thought.”
Darius came back to the present, still staring at the back of Cristoph’s head, as their surroundings changed. Yes, that night, years ago back in Miami, was when Darius had learned that Cristo
ph was, in fact, immortal. And that he was far older, and much wiser, than Darius.
Cristoph flicked a light switch and a small, incandescent bulb lightened the yellowish walls. The stairs were wooden, old and creaky, and it smelled of mustiness and mildew. Cristoph had shut and locked the door behind them, and as they descended the stairs, he continued. “The Inspiriti has been put into place to serve as a representative group for all immortals around the world. We have our representation here with this organization. All of us, whether good or evil. We represent the supernatural, the paranormal.”
“In what matters?” Darius asked.
“Matters such as this. Which is why we called you here. This hooded man is causing such a great stir, we must put him to a stop. We are in place to preserve our kind.”
Cristoph opened the lower door to an open hallway.
And then Darius was standing in the lower catacombs, in the chambers of The Inspiriti. Cristoph had left him outside the conference room, went inside, and closed the door. Darius sat in a small plastic chair in the hallway just outside the door and waited.
Not before long, the door opened.
A large, imposing man, with an equally large gut, exited the room, which appeared dark. “Good morning Darius,” he said. “I am Monsignor Harrison. Thank you for coming on such short notice, but we have some concerns about Miami and the eastern third of the United States. Please do come in.”
Darius stood and entered the conference room. It was dark; a projector was running on the opposite end of the room, with a large map of Miami projected onto the opposite wall. There were men and women around the conference table; although Darius could not recognize any familiar faces in the darkness, he did see a small chair in the front of the room and facing the table.
“Please sit there,” the Monsignor said, gesturing over to the chair. “We need to get started.”
Darius took his seat and the Monsignor took a chair at the end of the table not far from where Darius sat. The priest gestured for the lights, and the room was then bathed in stark white light, washing out the projection screen to a blank field. The Monsignor cleared his throat, looked downwards at the papers and files on the table in front of him, and put on a small pair of rectangular reading glasses. Darius scanned the room for familiar faces. Men and women lined the conference table, there would about a dozen, and he scanned, back and forth, until he saw her white hair. And she smiled. Delia. Of course she would be there. Darius felt a twinge of relief.