Five Immortal Hearts: Harem of Flames

by Savannah Rose

  “Only to me,” Slate suggested. “We’re just playing with ideas here. I don’t mean it as an insult, only as the prevalent world view, and only in the context of changing the minds of those who hold it.”

  “Yes, of course,” he responded. “As to that, I have attempted to come up with some ideas, but failed to achieve anything noteworthy.”

  “Oh? Well, that makes this trip a bit short then. I guess we’ll touch base later,” Slate said, and stood up, “Ms. Stone? Seems I’ve brought you for nothing. Sorry to waste your time.”

  “Quite alright,” I said, turning from the bookshelf, having found nothing of much interest. Just the usual ‘I’m a man, I’m powerful, I have a big dick,” assortment.

  “You are leaving?” el Presidente asked.

  “I’ve nothing to offer with no ideas to discuss. I don’t wish to waste your time,” Slate said. “Perhaps Ms. Stone will think of something for us later today. I’ll call, and let you know.”

  Not happy at all, and a bit flustered, el Presidente escorted us out, apologizing without apologizing, and letting me know that he would welcome any input I might have. He also had time tomorrow if I did happen to come up with any ideas.

  The play was so harsh I wondered at Slate’s use of his obvious influence, and the position he held with the President of Mexico. Had he disappointed Slate? Did he do something worth punishment? There was no audience to witness this power play, no public scandal apparent.

  Back inside the limo, I waited until we were off the property and back on the streets to ask the question. “So, was that just how you roll or did he do something you are punishing him for?”

  Slate smiled. “Too much?”

  “Harsh, definitely harsh,” I told him.

  “What did you discover at the bookshelf?”

  “Typical macho stuff,” I allowed. “Nothing surprising. Nothing close to your show.”

  “Yes, well, to answer your question – neither. I wanted him surprised, off balance and open to suggestion later this afternoon.”

  “When you call him with my Space Program idea,” I offered.

  “Exactly. Although, my call will not mention that, as much as invite him out for a field trip.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Ever been to an Aztec temple?”

  “Hmm,” I offered. “Bet my answer will be different tomorrow.”

  Wardens of Life?

  “I’m yours to enjoy,” I told Slate, to his apparent discomfort. “Would you like me to put on more clothing?”

  We were sitting out on the balcony of my room, at the small table with a late lunch of enchiladas and red wine. I was in my lingerie - bra and panties - and he seemed to be interested in just about everything, but me. I, however, was considerably more interested in him than I believed I would be yesterday, or even when he picked me up this morning. Something to do with him snubbing the President of Mexico perhaps.

  Like I’ve mentioned before, power is attractive, and I’m not immune. Whether this was from my change of perspective or just because I was now taking the time to enjoy him, I couldn’t say. Both, maybe.

  His height and build were more than attractive, they were alluring. His platinum hair and Scandinavian good looks, bringing to mind the Czars of Russia, also appealed to me. His voice lured me in like few have done, and his hands were simply beautiful. Long fingers, perfect nails, no flaw of surface or shape. I wanted to feel them on me, exploring every curve and zone of my body.

  Meeting my eyes, he said, “You had expressed some hesitation before. I expected to require your …”

  “Permission?” I asked.

  “Something like that, I suppose.”

  “You have it,” I said. “I had a talk with myself, and was given a new perspective on this agreement we have. An agreeable perspective, which I’ve taken to heart. This came about last night, and I might have been more informative earlier, but I simply couldn’t. I was having too much fun. I apologize for it being at your expense, but I’m afraid I would do it all over again. So the apology isn’t worth much.”

  The song on my laptop changed to Camila Cabello’s Havana, and the music fit my mood perfectly, and his appeal. I thought of nibbling on his earlobe while I listened.

  He looked back out at the cityscape. “I also overheard there’d be benefits if I didn’t say anything stupid for a short time,” he said, returning his eyes to meet mine.

  Havana, ooh na-na (ay)

  “Ah,” I said, feeling none of the embarrassment I might have before last night. “Well, yes I did say that, didn’t I? I was hurt, and confused, and floundering within all of this,” I added, while raising my hands to encompass all of the newness these brothers have brought into my life. “Considering the expanse, and alteration of my world view, I think I did pretty good in adapting to you, your brothers and this position I have been selected for, don’t you? None of that was meant to suggest anything about you.”

  “Good,” he said. “And yes, your adaption to the situation is remarkable. I expected at least a few days of uphill relationship building.”

  “Let’s not confuse open, with downhill racing,” I said.

  There's somethin' 'bout his manner (uh huh)

  Havana

  “No, no confusion exists there,” he agreed.

  “So, should I put on more clothing?”

  “No, I’m better now,” he smiled, leaning back, taking me in — with eyes performing all the motions his hands would explore soon.

  “Good. Now, tell me about this Space Program idea I’m going to have which will fill el Presidente with wonder and motivation.” My curiosity was louder than my sexual urges at the moment, and the meal was wonderful.

  He didn't walk up with that "how you doin'?" (uh)

  (When he came in the room)

  “It’s an idea to bring Mexico into the limelight, on the international stage,” he said, sitting forward, and starting in on his meal.

  “Mexico to the moon?” I asked.

  He smiled, and I noticed a slight dimple on his left cheek. The flaw on his skin seemed lurid.

  “No, but likely as audacious. Have you given any time to the question of world level extinction?”

  This was not the direction I thought we would go, but I considered the question, “Extinction? No. I’ve thought of post apocalypse scenarios, and some zombie apocalypse storylines, but not world extinction.”

  “Consider the idea for a moment, if you would be so kind.”

  Ooh-ooh-ooh, I knew it when I met him

  I considered the idea, and came up with meteor strike or perhaps all of the worst nightmares of global warming. “Alright.”

  “Do we, as the dominate life species currently on Earth, have any responsibility to ensure the continuation of life in our solar system?” he asked.

  “We, as in you? Or humans, like me?” I asked, interested in his question, but also aware of his demi-god dragon-ish existence.

  He frowned, but I felt it was in consideration of the distinction, as something he hadn’t considered before I brought it up.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, “but for now, as humans. Mortals.”

  Got me feelin' like…

  I thought about this. “Life, as in human life, or just life?”

  “Life,” he said, and I saw an approving smile trace his lips for a moment before his next bite.

  I took a bite of the salad, and then changed forks, thinking over what he asked. Was there a responsibility to ensure life endured? If so, was it our responsibility? Typically, on the surface, this might have been a theological question. If life came from a creator, a god with the capital ‘G’ — God — wouldn’t this be his responsibility? Would it be presumptuous to assume we should be the wardens of life in the solar system? A question worth consideration, I felt.

  As a practical question, sans the religious questions for the moment, since those were probably best left to someone else with more understanding of those challenging waters, p
erhaps we had some responsibility.

  I cut into my enchilada. “As I understand it, right now we have the means of doing something to ensure the continuation of life. We have space travel. We know that life could survive in a couple of places in our solar system, besides Earth. I believe we are doing everything possible, however, not to contaminate those areas with life from Earth — while in search of life already present.”

  “Do you believe those efforts warrant the risk of losing the opportunity?” he asked.

  That was a tough question, if I agreed we had this responsibility. As a woman in my current social environment, the idea that I had a responsibility to procreate was challenged, and I didn’t believe I personally had that on my required to-do list. Of course, that could change, if for example the zombie apocalypse happened tomorrow. Faced with the extinction of my species, I might change my mind. My feelings right now were based on a world facing over population, widespread poverty, hunger and plagues. These were all good reasons not to add to the problem.

  That to one side, the discovery of life on another planet, Mars perhaps, or one of the moons of Jupiter, would be huge. Having the assurance that it was not life from Earth, transported there or a mutation of life originating here, was of value as well. How valuable, I couldn’t fathom a guess. It would change many of our cultural beliefs and focuses. How many, and to what extent, I was also unqualified to guess.

  A sudden insight hit me from my earlier readings. “You’re thinking to entice Mexico with the Aztec’s belief in exploration, like their voyages out into the ocean. That was big with them, in fact they believed that if a person drowned they went to Tlalocan, paradise. For them, that was quite the boon.”

  He smiled. “You are as quick as rumor suggested.”

  “As to the question, I’m not qualified to give an informed answer,” I said, suppressing my pleasure in him being as attracted to my mind as my breasts.

  ooh na-na (uh)… take me back… Havana… oh, na-na, na.

  “I’m not sure how someone could be qualified, but we are talking politics at the core, so your unqualified thoughts are desirable,” he said, his voice urging me with affection, and sincerity.

  ooh na-na (uh)…

  My plan was to have him leave tonight without bedding me, to increase his appetite, but my appetite was growing by the minute here. Another part of my mind, which I thought of as the sensible me, recalled a quote I heard back in college, ‘Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy, and go good with ketchup.’

  “Well, I believe the deity we are looking for here is Quetzalcoatl, the feathered dragon. My reasoning is the memory of the seven-segmented Aztec ouroboros — Quetzalcoatl is sometimes portrayed biting his tail on Aztec and Toltec ruins. A symbol of continuance and immortality. This could easily be segued into Quetzalcoatl’s desire for active efforts to keep life, alive. Also, his desire for exploration. If presented in this format, I believe I would feel this is our responsibility, and our heritage as well. Aren’t we coming up on seven hundred years since the Aztec Empire began?”

  He sat back, admiring me with a new look in his eye. “Yes, actually we are. Most authorities put their rise at 1345, so only about thirty years off, and that could be a real marketing point,” he said, but more to himself than to me. “Here I thought only to gather in an opinion, and find myself given a solution.”

  “And didn’t Quetzalcoatl leave just prior to that, in their mythology, promising his return?” I asked.

  I reminded myself I wanted him to leave without bedding me, but his new eyes on me were doing things in deep places — and Ms. Sensible had left the room, apparently not interested in remaining sensible at the moment.

  ooh na-na (uh)…

  His desire for my mind just surpassed my breasts, so I made a show of crossing my legs, to keep matters in perspective.

  His smile could warm the frozen planets above.

  “And now those thirty years vanish, and Quetzalcoatl is calling us to come to him,” Slate added.

  “Not a dry eye in the house my dear,” I offered. “When should I call him?”

  He sat forward with a grin and returned to his meal. “Oh, we have plenty of time now. Let him wait until after lunch.”

  The Announcement

  My ideas turned out to be either perfect or too good, depending on which side of my libido you asked.

  After lunch, we walked back into the room and he spun me around into a kiss that would melt polar caps. The feeling of him growing hard against my belly, had my heart doing the Samba. Breathless from the kiss, he spun me around to the music, and took my ass in his hands when I came back around. I thought for sure we weren’t going to make it to the bedroom of my hotel suite. After another kiss though, he turned all business, and I found myself in a nice robe, which covered all the right places with imagination exposing them again. Then I was on the laptop, writing while he paced the room firing off ideas, and plans.

  While that sounds like a huge let down, it wasn’t. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the room with a creative genius before when he’s hitting high notes, but it’s a rush. Especially when he’s firing back your ideas with scorching additions and keying further ideas from you… seriously, it’s sex. As near to sex as anything in this world, other than …well… sex.

  The session lasted nearly two hours, and I had to have three shots of Tequila to bring my voice into the calm executive assistant persona needed to call the Presidente of Mexico, and invite him out for a stroll among the ruins of the Aztecs.

  With the enticements we composed, he was a hooked fish on the line, and agreed to meet us. Turned out he was a huge Aztec history buff. The mention of Quetzalcoatl’s calling altered his voice enough for me to believe he got a hard-on.

  After the call, I wanted a cigarette. Slate looked like he might want one as well.

  Over the years, enough political news assignments have been handed my way, that I understood the game, but I wasn’t an expert in the arena. Knowing an expert when one is in the room, however, was well within my knowledge. Slate didn’t only understand the ideas, but also understood how to achieve the desired results.

  Anyone who is familiar with successful goal setting understands the difference between having an idea, and making one happen. Slate — whether because he understood the arena or had just been around so damn long— poured the details of each achievement out in dictation. I marveled at the practical application of each step. It was the difference between understanding a city at the political level, and understanding it from the top, all the way down to the plumbing level.

  He knew the Tiffany Clock, and every gear inside.

  I had never written such compelling, and persuasive material in my life. I’ve been writing seriously since high school. All my energy went into learning this craft, but my focus was always the news story. Always.

  I’ve never been confused about where I wanted to be when I grew up. My vocabulary was vast, spanning four languages, but always toward one focus. His ideas and details somehow shattered that narrow path into vistas of visual descriptions and directions. Metaphors sprang from my fingers into webs, each building on the next until reading the material for the campaign exploded into the imagination like a storm crashing through the jungle.

  It thrilled me. He thrilled me.

  Throughout the several hours we worked on this, he had looked at his phone when it rang, noted the number and then sent the caller to voicemail with a casual flick of his thumb. Each time he gave the impression he really didn’t care the message his actions left, either. So when it rang, and he answered, I knew he was about to leave. It surprised me how much I didn’t want him to go. My mind was on fire, and my body racing. In fact, my first thought was to get some clothing on, and go with him.

  I had denim jeans and a white and red blouse on before his call ended, with him saying, “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Where we off to?” I asked, looking for my running shoes, trying to rememb
er if I had one of my shoppers get some. When I couldn’t find them, I decided to go with the heels I wore earlier.

  “I wish it were, we,” he said. “I have something I have to attend to. Won’t take long, but I won’t be back until morning. I apologize.”

  “I can’t come?” I asked, feeling my back stiffen.

  “It’s not a can or can’t. I don’t believe it would be wise, and it might be a ploy,” he said. “One attempting to flush you out, and identify us, me and Kane at least.”

  “You’re talking about C-Source,” I said, coming to a stop, and turning to him.

  “Is that what Kane is calling it? Good a name as any, I suppose. How did it go with the Cartel, by the way? Any problems?” he asked.

  I felt a background thought that Kane wouldn’t mind me answering, so I gave him the quick version with the Loco 49s, and Kane’s solution.

  He listened intently, then smiled with a nod. “That’ll work. Raw will be ready, I’m sure.”

  “What will work?” I asked, feeling from him a layer of excitement yet to be explored.

  “Kane’s idea to take apart the Cortez Cartel. He’s brought in the Loco’s to wedge a layer of suspicion through the ranks. Then he’ll shake them up, and point factions at each other. By the time he’s done with them, they’ll be tearing themselves apart. He enjoys the civil war scenario. Can’t say I blame him much. Wish I had more opportunities to do the same myself.”

  A vision washed over me, which outlined Slate in blue light and flickers of flame.

  “But you don’t, do you? Because what he does with businesses, and groups, you do with politics and countries.” I had no understanding how I knew this. Also, considering the global size of some business networks, one was easily on the same level as the other in many cases.

  He studied me for a moment. “Yes. Kane believes that change in the world is best done through negotiation, contracts and business. Through commerce and trade. I believe it is best served through the political arena, and through law and the populous.”