Worlds Without End s-18

by Caroline Spector

  I had settled into a smaller house on this property. The castle held no interest for me, being large and 'hard to maintain. I'd acquired quite a large fortune over my many eons. I could afford to take the, uh, long view on investments. There are some uses to being immortal-even if they're only financial.

  It was from this vantage point that I was watching everything happening around me with great interest.

  The signs were beginning. I knew it wouldn't be long before the magic returned.

  So I began to gather together the things I would need to be prepared. For many centuries I'd hidden artifacts away, waiting for this time. It was on one such trip that I noticed him,

  I'd just arrived from Scotland. The United States was still whole back then. The turmoil that would rip it apart was years away. Though I had spent many years in America over the last two centuries, I tried to stay away from the politics of the place. They seemed entirely too messy to me. But that's al- ways been the nature of freedom.

  As I ran to catch my connecting flight to New Or- leans, I saw him. He was leaning against one of the pillars that lined the concourse in O'Hare. He wore a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans. A scuffed duf- fel bag lay at his feet like a lazy dog.

  There was a look of intense concentration on his face, as though he were looking not at how I ap- peared, but at what was inside me. I didn't like it.

  This was before the Awakening, and there was no way he could know what I really was for I'd found ways to disguise my true form. Oh, I appeared hu- man, for the most part. My features were more del- icate, perhaps, than most. And I was very thin. But my skin was as black as it ever was, and my hair was dark then, too. Some of the developments in the twenty-first century weren't all bad. I'd seen that blondes really don't have more fun, and I found that auburn really didn't suit me.

  As I passed, the light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes from me. I noticed that he had straw-colored hair sprinkled with a little gray. His beard was clipped neat and close, giving him an al- most scholarly look. But then I could see his eyes again and once more I had the sensation of being looked through.

  Frowning, I turned and hurried on down the corri- dor. I wouldn't have given him another thought, ex- cept that he boarded my plane not more than fifteen minutes later.

  He was the last passenger on, probably flying stand-by. But why was he on this flight? And why had he been standing there in the corridor, as though he were waiting for me?

  But he passed by me, not even making eye con- tact. What an imagination I had, I thought. The idea that he was following me. It was nothing. A chance meeting of the eyes, nothing more.

  Despite the air conditioning, the air was hot and soupy. The smell of beignets hit me as I walked through the airport. One of the charms of the New Orleans airport was the immediate realization that this place was like none other in the United States. That Puritan priggishness was utterly cast aside here.

  Maybe it was the weather, or perhaps the strong hold the French had placed upon the place centuries before, but here there was no hand-wringing over drinking, or gambling, or eating. In short, it was heaven, of a sort.

  I caught a cab to the Fairmont Hotel, a gorgeous place with nine-meter-high ceilings in the foyer, crystal chandeliers, thick rugs, and the almost phys- ical sensation of decadence. They also made the most fabulous pecan pie there. A southern confec- tion that I've never liked anywhere else.

  As the elevator was closing to take me up to my room, I thought I caught a glimpse of Black T-shirt through the milling hotel guests, but I knew it must be my imagination.

  The French Quarter was a five-minute walk from the hotel. New York was the only other place in America where history butts up so closely with the present. I went down Chartres Street, then cut over to Royal. The heavy smell of the olive trees in bloom sweetened the air and almost masked the odor of the river.

  Lined in antique shops and small art houses, Royal was my favorite street in the Vieux Carre. Bourbon may have been more famous, but the smell of vomit every few steps always put me off. There were some beautiful homes at the eastern end of Bourbon, but they hardly made up for the foul smells and lingering air of dissipation.

  I slipped into one of the antique galleries: de Pouilly's. Over the years I'd made friends with the owners of many of these stores. They knew me as selective and willing to pay well for what I wanted. In return, I expected them to keep quiet about my | visits and to let me… wander… in their shops. | The whole Quarter was rabbit-warrened. You might | enter an unpretentious storefront, only to discover a | maze of rooms that led you through any number of connected buildings. I doubt there was anyone who knew all the twists and turns in these places.

  A middle-aged man approached me as I entered. He gave off the superior air of someone who just knew I wasn't the sort who could afford to buy here.

  "May I help you?" he asked in a tone that let me know in no uncertain terms that he thought he couldn't.

  I picked up a bronze piece (not a very good repro- duction at that) and turned it over as though considering.

  "Tell Mr. Hyslop that Ms. Sluage is here," I said. I began fingering a porcelain bowl that looked to be an original Meissen. The clerk was obviously torn between telling me not to touch the pretties and trying to decide if I was, indeed, on speaking terms with his employer. Fear won out over officiousness, and he scuttled off like a cockroach.

  A few minutes later (I was by now poking around in a large, intricately appointed armoire looking for secret doors), Mr. Hyslop appeared with the now very sweaty clerk in tow.

  "Ms. Sluage," Mr. Hyslop said as he held out his hand. "It's so good to see you again. I trust you've been able to amuse yourself?"

  As I backed out of the armoire and gave a little sneeze, Mr. Hyslop produced a handkerchief like a magician performing a trick.

  "Bless you," he said as he pushed it into my hand. 'I always get the sneezes when I start looking into these old pieces. No matter how hard we try to keep up, they seem to bring the dust with them."

  "That's quite all right," I said, taking the prof- fered hanky. "I was just investigating to see if I might want this piece."

  "Take your time, take your time," Hyslop said as he waved his clerk away. The clerk slunk off to go harass a couple who'd just stepped inside from the sweltering October air.

  "What I'd like to do is take a look at those items you've been keeping for me, and make some ar- rangements for their transport."

  Hyslop looked a bit concerned. "Are you not sat- isfied with our arrangement?" he asked. "I thought that-"

  "No, no," I said, cutting him off. "It's nothing like that. I've just finally settled down in one place and I'd like to spend some time enjoying the things I've bought."

  "Of course," he replied. "How foolish of me. Please, this way."

  I followed him through the shop into a series of dimly lit twisting and turning hallways. Then up three flights of narrow stairs painted over so many times there were lumpy bumps like Braille on the railing and walls. It was very quiet here. You couldn't hear any of the usual street noise that bub- bled through the Quarter day and night. He led me into his office, then fumbled around with his keys until he had the right one.

  "Here we are," Hyslop said proudly as he flipped on the light switch.

  The closet was small, but crammed to the top with arcana. Shelf after shelf with boxes labeled in a code we'd designed. One shelf held only boxes of books. Another, rare pottery. On yet another, articles of clothing. All had special significance. All were pre- cious only to those who knew what to look for.

  I could feel the pull of the energy in that little closet.

  "I doubt anyone has a better collection of oddities," Hyslop said. "I just recently added this." He pulled a small box from one of the shelves and opened it. Inside was a long white veil, the kind women wore for their weddings and first communions. "It is rumored to have belonged to Marie Laveau's daughter."

  "I didn't know she had one," I sai
d. "A daughter, that is."

  Hyslop nodded vigorously. "She kept her hidden away. She was afraid that when she died, the whites might kill her to keep the Voodoo under control."

  "More than likely to keep the people under con- trol," I said.

  "That too, no doubt," Hyslop agreed.

  "I'd like to look through these," I said, motioning to the closet.

  "Of course," Hyslop said as he wiped his forehead with another clean white handkerchief. I wondered if he had a pocketful of them, magically pristine and freshly laundered.

  "Alone," I said in a firm but kind voice. After all, I would need Hyslop and his unusual connections for some time to come.

  "Of course," Hyslop said as he pocketed his hand- kerchief. "Just let me know when you're finished."

  I smiled at him then, and he gave me a surprised smile back. I suppose I don't do that often. Smile, that is.

  It took me the better part of the afternoon to go through the boxes. Most of the items were shams. The bones of some shamanistic practitioner, pur- ported to have special curative powers. Shrunken heads, embalmed monkey remains, fossilized eggs. Books supposedly written in Crowley's own hand detailing his cabalistic findings.

  I'd taken care to hide my most precious finds among these harmless trifles. They would be over- looked with all the other folderol. One hopelessly obscure book of cabalistic writings revealed com- plexities of such an esoteric nature that even I had trouble following it. The challenge of it excited me.

  There were other items as well: suspicious bones, the source of which I knew only too well. How had they come to this place again? And so obviously long ago.

  There was also a small painting depicting a crea- ture I knew for a fact had not walked the face of this planet for at least seven thousand years. Yet here it was depicted in a piece that could not have been more than fifty years old.

  I wrapped my treasures carefully and returned them to their innocuous hiding places.

  I felt grimy and hungry all at once. It was almost five by Hyslop's grandfather clock. I pulled the chain to the light, then shut the closet door. It had an automatic lock, but I still jiggled the doorknob to see if it would open. It didn't.

  On the whole, things were going well. I would have Hyslop crate everything up and ship it to my estate in Scotland. I'd already made the necessary arrangements with Customs^ so there would be little delay in my receiving them once I was back home. I felt quite smug and pleased with myself and de- cided that I needed a decadent dinner to celebrate. I picked up the phone on Hyslop's desk and made a reservation for one at Antoine's for eight o'clock. I would feast tonight.

  Walking back to the Fairmont, I noticed a van parked on a comer of one of the side streets I passed. It was painted dull black and had reflector stick-on numbers on the back window: 666. I glanced inside the van as I passed. A man, about forty-five or -six with a scraggly beard, sat in the passenger-side seat. He had a large potbelly barely covered by a faded- gray T-shirt. Around his neck he wore a pentagram. I had obviously just seen-Satan's Van.

  Uh oh, I thought. I better watch out because someone is going to come and carry me off in… Satan's Van. The Armageddon starts tonight be- cause-Satan's Van is in town. Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry, 'cause Satan's got his Van to- night. Satan's Van is coming to town.

  I really needed dinner.

  Antoine's was unchanged. I'd been coming there for years whenever I was in New Orleans. I knew it was a bit touristy, but I couldn't help myself. They had the most marvelous Baked Alaska.

  The elderly maitre d' seated me at a small table in the front room. Like the rest of the buildings in the Quarter, Antoine's was made up of many rooms. People came through the front doors and disap- peared like they were going down Alice's rabbit hole. There was even a hidden door or two in the place.

  I'd just ordered and was admiring myself in the mirror over my table when I saw him. The black T-shirt from the airport. Only he wasn't wearing a black T-shirt now. He never would have been al- lowed inside in that. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt and muddy green tie. The jeans had been set aside for dark trousers.

  I didn't take my eyes away from his image in the mirror as he talked to the mattre d' for a moment, then walked toward me. I couldn't believe his brass.

  "Dinner for one?" he asked. "That seems a lonely proposition."

  "I like it," I said as I turned toward him. "And who the hell are you?"

  "Ah," he said. "Well that's not as interesting as«who the hell you are."

  "Look," I said, beginning to get impatient. "I don't know anything about you except that I saw you at O'Hare-and now you pop up here acting as though you know me. I don't like mysteries or peo- ple who think they're being clever when in fact they're just annoying."

  He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me.

  "You haven't been invited," I said, frowning. "Go away."

  "Now, now," he said. His voice had the faint twinge of British lower-class to it. "Someone your age shouldn't get so excited. It might not be good for your health."

  I looked around for the mattre d', but he was talk- ing to a new group who'd just arrived.

  "I must say, you look awfully good for someone who's at least five hundred years old by my calcula- tions."

  He had my attention.

  I looked at him carefully. He was working far too hard at being nonchalant. There was a telltale shine to his upper lip, and I could hear the dry click of his throat as he swallowed. Whatever he knew, it wasn't as much as he wanted to let on.

  The waiter came with my soup. Vichyssoise. Thick and heavy with cream. He looked inquiringly at my new companion.

  "Be so kind as to bring my friend here the same," I said. The waiter nodded and went away.

  "What's that?" Black T-shirt asked.

  "Vichyssoise," I replied.

  He looked blank.

  "Cold potato soup," I said.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  "Beggars can't be choosers and neither can you." I leaned back and studied him. This seemed to make him preening and nervous at the same time. "What's your name?"

  "John Mortimer."

  "And what precisely is it you want of me, Mr. Mortimer?"

  He leaned forward, I resisted the urge to do so also. Habits die hard.

  "I want to know the secret," he said. "I want to know how to be immortal."

  "What on earth makes you think I'm immortal?". I asked.

  He got a big grin. It was toothy and surprisingly 1| sweet. I almost liked him for that smile. |

  "It started out by accident about four years ago," he began. "I was doing some research after reading] an article in the newspaper." He pulled a small, yel- lowed newspaper clipping from his pocket. The headline read: Mystery Buyer Purchases Earldom for $700,000. I glanced over the article. It pretty much gave the dry facts of my acquisition of the Earldom of Arran. Everything except my identity, which I'd had them keep quiet.

  "What has this to do with me?" I asked, handin| the clipping back.

  "You bought it," he said.

  "And what makes you think that?"

  "I like computers," he said. "I'm quite good wit them. Every aspect. Programming, hardware-yc name it. It's just this knack I have. Well, for son reason this article caught my attention. So I got c the Web and started trying to find out what I couM about this mystery buyer. But pretty much every-1 thing after you bought the place was under deep| wraps. Oh, I know all about the history of the place| That earldom was created in 1503 by King James IV| 154

  The title is linked to the land instead of by blood. All that stuff. History is easy enough to find out.

  "But about the new buyer-bloody nothing. That got me curious. Who would want so much privacy and why? So I started contacting other Net surfers in Scotland and eventually I came up with a few who knew all about the island. They were day workers hired to refurbish the house the new owner would be occupying.

  "That's when I found out about you. It w
as quite a stir you being, well, not white. I even got along so well with my Scottish connection that they invited me for a visit. You were off on one of your myste- rious trips. Everyone who worked for you always talked about your trips.

  "So I went to visit my friends, and they showed me around the castle and the grounds. You've done a wonderful job keeping up the place. By the way."

  I snorted and went back to eating my soup. The waiter came and placed a bowl in front of him. He frowned slightly at it, then took up his spoon and gave the soup a small taste. Apparently it was to his liking, for I got no more of his tale until he had fin- ished the whole bowl.

  "I never would have thought cold potato soup could taste so good," he said as he wiped his mouth.

  "The things you leam every day," I murmured.

  "So, as my hosts were showing me around, I began to notice a couple of things. There was all this °ld stuff around, but not all of it seemed to belong Asre, if you know what I mean. Not the usual rich collections of plates, clocks, and the like. No, your choices were so much more-peculiar.

  "But the thing that got me most excited was this picture of you. A painting, I mean. Paul-that's the friend who I was staying with-had gone off to the bathroom and he left me alone in your study. There was a photo of you and some guy on your desk. Then noticed a stack of paintings against one wall. I flipped through them and came across this portrait.

  "It was you. But it wasn't. I mean you looked just like you do now, only you were wearing some weird costume. Later, I learned it probably came from the Renaissance. I heard my friend in the hall and put the painting back. But, you know, that painting stayed with me."

  "People have portraits done everyday," I said.

  "But this one looked like hundreds of years old. The paint was dried and cracked. It felt old."

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, I didn't realize that among your many talents you are also an art historian. Let me see, you're a crack computer wiz, a clever de- frauder of people's trust, and now you're an expert in dating paintings. What other talents do you have up your sleeve?" I asked.

  His face flushed red, but he didn't answer me. The waiter came and took our dishes, then presented us with the pate. I broke off a bit of the French bread on the table and proceeded to smear a generous amount of my pate on it. I gestured to him to do likewise.