War Angel (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

  And then, as she looked up towards the light, she thought of Tramos and their time on the beach. She wondered where he had gone to. And what assignment he had been on. But one thing was for certain, she knew that they would soon cross paths again.

  And then Delia looked down at the cloak, which lay just beneath the cross.

  The heaping red mess of fabric that it had become. So dirty. So foul. The fabric which had once contained so much evil, now lying on the ground, amidst the shattered glass of the decanter. But as she navigated the rising stones and balanced herself on her cane, she looked back and could not take her eyes off of the cloak. Was it as powerless as they assumed?

  Do you see my cloak? My blood decanter? My shattered glass? It will always torment you, I promise.

  Delia stopped in her tracks. “There is still evil here. I can sense its presence. Antoine? Come here, Antoine. Stay close to me.”

  BEFORE DARIUS HAD PASSED, Antoine often dreamed of him.

  On most nights, he would sit, most often keeping vigil in the rocking chair across from the bed, and on the night after Delia left the chateau in Lyon, Antoine had dreams of Darius once again.

  Antoine had closed his eyes, and there he was.

  It was the same evening that Antoine had confronted Darius in the foyer, centuries earlier, when the chateau had been newly built and Antoine and Darius had but a short amount of time together.

  It was the one night that stood out in Antoine’s mind, which had haunted him throughout his existence: Antoine could still smell the smoke from the fire that had been burning in the fireplace in the parlor which adjoined the foyer. But it was a fire that had burned many years previously, during the age before electricity and ventilation, and the smoky smell hung through the rooms.

  Darius was standing in the very same foyer, next to stone edge of the very same fountain that Delia would lay her purse upon, several centuries later.

  Darius, known in those days as the vampire extraordinaire!

  But was he a vampire?

  Was he a creature of the night?

  Darius had certainly been one who had embraced darkness. And in the early days, he would have been known in simpler terms, like that of a vampire.

  Antoine had remembered the early days, rising from his coffin, on the night after he had been transformed, looking up as Darius had looked down upon him, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight.

  Wake up, sleepyhead!

  But Antoine remembered.

  He recalled the days when Darius was thought of – at least among the Lyon populace – as the vampire extraordinaire.

  That’s what he was known by, at least, back in the early days when he and Antoine had lived in the chateau together, when gas lamps still lined the streets. Many years before they were to cross paths with Delia. It was in the early days, the days when Darius had been newly transformed, discovering the new ways of the darkness and immortality, that Antoine had remembered Darius with the most fondness.

  Darius, the teacher.

  Darius, the lover, the warrior.

  Oh Darius, my war angel. My celestial docent. Spread your wings.

  But in Antoine’s dreams, Darius lived on. Tall, lanky, long, brown hair down his back. Always tied. There was a certain vision that remained with Antoine throughout the years. And as the centuries passed, it always penetrated his mind – the gleam of the light reflecting from the dagger. Antoine could still see that reflection of light, centuries after the night that Darius had stood next to the fountain, challenging Antoine to drive it through his heart.

  Kill me! Murder me now! Do it, Antoine, do it!

  The challenge.

  Standing in the foyer in the flickering of candlelight. The shadows painted grey wisps across the walls as the grand chandelier, with its layers of candles like an orchestra of flaming light, hung above the fountain, where Antoine stood, holding the dagger. He could see the burning candles the chandelier reflect in the dagger, shining back in his face.

  Find your own way!

  Darius had shouted to him in the dreamlike state, as Antoine had slowly raised his eyes from the dagger, looking at Antoine, noticing the reflection of his eyes, stark white, catching the light from the candles; appearing almost like a patchwork of shadows; a network of fingering branches.

  It was before the days of electricity and transportation, in the days when Antoine and Darius had been together, living together, finding the ways of the immortals to be so similar to the ways of vampires, but discovering, together, that he and Darius were so much more, so increasingly complex.

  Antoine remembered the night that Darius had cast him out of the chateau. When Antoine had been forced to find his own way in the world. Darius and his parting words had still rung in Antoine’s mind, now so many years later:

  Shed your skin. Find your own way. Do what is written, what must be done.

  Antoine snapped awake and was brought back to the present. He struggled to catch his breath. He looked down, the veins protruding from his hands as they clutched the arms of the rocking chair. He looked over at the bed, and felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was still alive.

  The chateau was silent save a ticking clock in a nearby room. He had fallen asleep in the rocking chair again. Moonlight filtered through the curtains as a light breeze moved through the room.

  He focused on the bed. Antoine could hear Darius’ shallow breathing against the silence of the room.

  Darius was still alive.

  That was what mattered now.

  Barely clinging to life, most likely.

  But alive.

  He had the same look – like a snow covered mountain range. He lay, flat on his back. Immobile up to this point. But this time, there seemed to be some movement under the covers. Was Darius awake? Could he be improving?

  Antoine stood as the rocking chair creaked backwards. He walked around the bed, and saw Darius lying back, eyes still closed.

  “Darius? Darius are you awake?”

  Antoine stood and watched Darius intently. His eyes remained closed, but there appeared to be a softness to his face that Antoine hadn’t noticed before. A contentedness. His cheeks seemed slightly fuller. Had Giovanni’s cooking helped?

  And then Darius opened his eyes.

  Antoine took a step back as Darius sat up in bed, and looked down at him directly.

  Antoine dared not speak.

  A smiled washed across Darius’ face. “Do you remember your days in the coffin? After Asmodai burned you on the altar? Do you remember, Antoine?”

  Antoine’s mouth dropped open.

  A flood of memories permeated his mind. He remembered the small, wooden coffin, the one that Darius had dug from the grave for him. The same grave in Les Enfantes, the one under the flowing, weeping tree; he remembered his ashes being spread through the casket. And his heart, which still beat.

  I am still alive.

  Darius smiled. Antoine noticed his teeth were rotting, his mouth riddled with decay.

  “You were still alive, Antoine. Burned to ashes, but your heart still beat. Do you remember?”

  Antoine slowly nodded and took a step towards the window. “Darius….”

  Darius chuckled. “Antoine, when you were gone, I was fighting to live. Now that you’re back, you need to listen to me.” Antoine sighed and examined the curtains. Darius coughed. “When I am gone, I will no longer be alive. Dead. Damned. For all of eternity!”

  “Is that why, Darius? Is that why you were fighting to live? For fear of damnation?”

  Darius coughed, it was a deep, chesty hack. Antoine grimaced. “My time is near,” Darius said.

  Antoine turned around. Darius was attempting to raise himself on his elbows. Antoine rushed over to his side. “Giovanni! Come, help me!”

  Giovanni appeared at the door and rushed to the bedside, reaching out and assisting Antoine. Giovanni held Darius in a sitting position as Antoine adjusted the pillows against the headboard. Darius again started a fit of coughing,
more phlegm, deep, wet coughing. “I need to sit,” he croaked. “Just one last time…”

  Antoine shook his head. “What is it, Darius? What do you need to tell us?”

  Giovanni opened the closet across the room and got some oversized white pillows. He propped the large, fluffy pillows around Darius and leaned him gently back against the headboard as Darius closed his eyes and let out a breath. Darius threw his head forward in another fit of coughing. Tiny blood droplets tinged the edge of the cover.

  “What is it Darius? What is it you need to tell us?”

  He looked down and sighed. “My body…is catching up to my soul…my heart…is nearing its final beat…”

  Antoine sat on the bed and put his arms around Darius. “Do you think the end is truly near? Is there something I can do to thwart this? Can I call on Asmodai?”

  “No,” Darius said through labored breaths. “No demons. No rituals. It’s time for me to go.”

  Darius raised his head slowly and looked up at Antoine. His eyes were clouded. “I am almost ready,” he said. Antoine hugged him close, shuddering at how frail Darius seemed now. He had once been rugged and muscular; he was now a shell of his former self.

  “I had been cursed with vanity,” Darius said. “The sickening self-obsession. And where has that gotten me?”

  The young years are few and fast.

  “Antoine, do you remember when you first saw me?”

  The café in Badulla flashed through Antoine’s mind.

  He remembered the bartender, the boisterous crowd. The small, wooden tables and chairs. The tiny wooden tables and chairs, the dim-lit corner booths with the paintings on the wall. And he remembered Darius, sitting in the corner, watching…and waiting. But Antoine also remembered his occupation at the time. And he remember Darius watching him, as he took tourists and regulars to the rooms up above the bar.

  “I remember…” Antoine said.

  You can only use your body as your means of existence for so long. And then you have to figure out what you’re going to do in this world.

  Darius’ exhaled a deep, labored breath.

  Each breath took on a raspy tone, as he signaled for Antoine to lay him back down. “Do you remember when I carried you? In the urn? Your ashes?”

  Antoine nodded. “I felt your presence. But yes, I remember.”

  Antoine thought of the sea of souls. That horrid lake full of putrid bodies, writhing at the entrance to Hades. He remembered the face off with Asmodai, the lumbering demon of Lust, the monster who had been sent to the Les Enfantes cemetery in Lyon when Antoine was trying to resurrect Darius. And Antoine remembered watching him ride away on black clouds in a red tinted sky.

  “I remember Asmodai,” Antoine said. “When I was digging up your grave in Les Enfantes. How could I forget?”

  Darius attempted a smile. “Yes, but those were different days, Antoine. I was lying in that coffin in Les Enfantes for centuries. After you drove the dagger in my heart. But I was immortal then, Antoine. I still existed. It will be different now, Antoine. So very different.”

  Antoine scoffed and shook his head. “You still exist now!” And why wouldn’t you exist then?!”

  Antoine sank into the rocking chair and rested his chin on a balled up fist, shaking his head, as Giovanni quietly left the room and closed the door with a slight click. After a few minutes, Antoine looked directly at Darius, and they made eye contact.

  Antoine felt a tear stream down his cheek. “I know you’re dying, Darius. No one has to explain it to me. But I was able to resurrect you back in Les Enfantes, and I can do it again. I know I can.”

  Darius looked down. “Things are different now, Antoine. I no longer have the gift. This is final, Antoine.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Antoine leaned back, rocking and looking at the window, saying nothing.

  “When you were gone, I fought for you,” Darius said, breaking the silence. “They may have burned you on the altar…but I fought for you. I got you out of there. Out of that wretched underworld.”

  “Yes, Darius. I know you did.”

  “And I brought you here…back to France…in your urn as I started to age.”

  Antoine sat in the rocking chair across from the bed. “Why did The Hooded Man come for you, Darius? Why did he choose you? Why did he choose us?”

  “My mouth…it’s so dry. Like cotton…” Darius shifted. “I don’t know, Antoine. I truly don’t.”

  Antoine got up and reached for a glass of water and a straw that were sitting on the bedside table. He held it down in front of Darius, as he leaned forward and took a long sip.

  After a few minutes, Darius laid his head back on the pillow. Antoine looked at Darius’ eyes; the cataracts had clouded them, but he could still tell that Darius was looking at him.

  After a period of silence, and as Antoine returned to the rocking chair with a slight creak, Darius finally spoke. “We were chosen…why were we chosen? We were all so evil. We still are.”

  “Tramos transformed you?”

  “Yes, back when I was a young man. Here in France. He would visit me in the early morning. He feasted on me for months before he finally transformed me.”

  “You never told me that story, Darius.”

  “The sheets were always covered in blood when he left. He would always tear through the window and fly away.”

  Antoine raised his head. He had been leaning on the arm of the rocking chair, listening to Darius, resting his chin on his open palm, but then he looked back up at Darius. “He could fly?”

  “He has many powers which we do not.”

  Antoine sighed and returned to resting his chin on his hands.

  “So do you see now?” Darius said. “Why we had been chosen?”

  Antoine shook his head.

  “We are evil, Antoine. The Hooded Man selected us for annihilation.”

  Antoine scoffed and stood. He started pacing around the room. “Darius…that is preposterous.” Antoine’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath. He looked back at Darius with an intense stare. “We are who we are,” he said. “This is who we are. How we were created. We didn’t ask to be this way.”

  Darius raised his arm, pointing his index finger up towards the ceiling. He bobbed his arm up and down as he spoke. “When I first saw you, in the café in Badulla, what type of life were you living, Antoine?”

  Antoine stopped pacing.

  He looked back at Darius who returned his gaze.

  And then, the old, decrepit Darius, lying on the bed in front of him, seemed to transform to the young, vibrant, muscular Darius whom he had seen so many years ago in the tiny café, at the table in the corner.

  Antoine remembered that Darius had been laughing, wildly. Right across the tiny table as they nursed drinks together. Darius had been telling jokes, and Antoine was enamored with his sensuality. He looked down and saw that Darius was touching his hands, fingertips touching.

  “Don’t you see!” Darius had said on that one night. “You must join me! Come with me, Antoine! I will show you the world. You are here, existing on a life of debauchery in this tiny town. Harvesting coffee! I can take you to Paris. And the world! And beyond!”

  Antoine thoughts were brought back to the present.

  Darius shifted in the bed.

  “Do you remember what happened after we met? After I proposed that you come with me?”

  Antoine thought.

  He remembered walking along the banks of the New River, watching the reflection of a full moon in the still, calm waters. He remembered the silence of the night. The crunch that their feet made in the gravel as they walked, slowly together.

  And he remembered Darius’ voice that night. So warm. Reassuring. “Do you see the lights of Badulla up ahead?”

  Antoine had looked, through the darkened fields, past the blue moonlit reflections on the tops of the coffee plants, and saw the tiny, box-cutter buildings. There was a warm, yellow glow against the night sky in the
distance.

  “Such a tiny town. In Paris there is so much art,” Darius said. “It’s a big, cosmopolitan city. You could be a star there.”

  “A star?” Antoine laughed. He looked back at Darius who smiled back. “Doing what?” Antoine asked.

  “There’s many things you could do,” Darius said. “I have watched you. Observed you for quite some time now. And I see how you are with people. How you interact. They are drawn to you, Antoine. They’re captivated by you. You can certainly build on that. You’re meant for so much more than this, Antoine. You were meant for bigger things than harvesting coffee and keeping tourists happy in the tiny rooms above the café.”

  “And what about America?”

  Darius smiled as they stopped walking. He turned and faced Antoine, looking at him in the eyes. “I will transform you, if you let me. You will become immortal, Antoine. You will never die. And then we will spend some time in France. For you will be what’s known as ‘new Baal’. You will need your time to adjust. But after France, I will take you to America.”

  Antoine opened his eyes and went back to the rocking chair. He could hear Darius’ labored breathing.

  “You never took me to America. I went there myself. You had me drive a dagger through your heart right over there in the foyer.”

  Darius seemed out of breath. “No…no, I didn’t. But things changed, Antoine. I had to…had to die then. I had no choice. You had to find your own way.”

  Antoine leaned back in the chair and started rocking back and forth. He sighed and looked out the window. The sun was about to set, as a light breeze blew the curtains inwards. The room fell silent, save the creak of the rocker.

  After a few minutes, Antoine looked up at the bed. Darius was motionless. “Darius?”

  No answer.

  He got up and went to the side of the bed. Darius was lying flat on his back, his eyes closed, his body motionless. “Darius?”

  Antoine covered his eyes with his hands. Thoughts of Darius flashed through his mind. The laughing in the Café, the walking on the river, the days in the conference room that overlooked the dance floor at Club Sacrafice in Miami…it was a flood of images of Darius, flashing through his mind’s eye.