War Angel (The Tales of Tartarus)

by A. L. Mengel

“And the rest that happened while you were there, including meeting Claret for the first time, you’ll certainly remember them,” Monsignor Harrison said. “Just close your eyes, get some rest on the flight, and we’ll talk about it more in Rome.”

  *****

  As the plane turned starboard into the fading daylight, Delia dozed off. As the quiet conversations, nearly drowned out by the hum of the engines, faded away, she started to think of Darius. And their time in Paris. When they had first met, in the theatre, after her performance. And when she could no longer hear the hum of the engines, or the announcements on the p.a. system, she started to feel a chill.

  And hear the clap of hooves from a horse drawn carriage.

  She looked down as her breath emitted a cloud in the chilly Paris night.

  After the theatre had closed for the evening, Delia stood with Darius outside on in the chilly, night Paris air. They huddled under the awning of the theatre, next to the expansive doors.

  “Stay in touch with me,” Delia said. “There’s talks of immortals going to America. Would you be interested?”

  Darius met eyes with Delia. He huddled and shivered, wrapping himself in his coat. “You mean? America? Immortals are crossing the Atlantic?”

  Delia nodded, her eyes brighter. “Yes Darius. America is calling. I can feel it. I think the future of our kind could be there. There are others who’ve said they’d been there.”

  Darius looked down. “I…” he stammered. “I don’t know what to say, Delia. This is not what I expected.”

  “Well certainly you need to travel. To find yourself a partner. Right?”

  Darius nodded. “Yes, yes. I have my sights on someone, though. I see visions of him in my dreams when I am in my coffin.”

  Delia’s eyebrows raised and she cocked her head to the side. “Really? Someone you fancy?”

  They started walked from the theatre, huddled close together, as if they had known each other for years. “I don’t know if I fancy him just yet,” Darius said as they approached a cross street. “But I definitely feel a connection with him. I’ve been watching him. Been going to Sri Lanka. Spending time observing him. But all I really know is that he harvests coffee in Sri Lanka of all places.”

  “Then you should go to him,” she said. “Go to Sri Lanka, find him. Tell him about the gift, the transformation. Who wouldn’t want immortality?”

  Darius nodded. “We shall see.”

  “And after,” she said. “Introduce me to him, and we shall all go to America!”

  Darius smiled and vowed to stay in touch with Delia. Delia stood as he started walking towards the central city. He huddled in a long, black coat, his hands shoved in his pockets, walking away from her. Steam rose from manholes as the moon filtered a blue light over the city like a warming blanket.

  After they bid their farewells, Delia returned to her tiny apartment, several blocks away. She struggled with the key in the lock, shifting it back and forth before it went in completely and turned.

  The apartment was silent and cold. One single room with a small kitchenette off to the side, and an adjoining bedroom. She stopped in the center of the room, tossed her bag on the couch, and headed towards the window.

  She grunted as she rose the window, and shivered as the sting of cold air spilled in. The curtains blew inwards as she stepped aside from the window. She leaned her head against the wall and looked at a full moon shining a reassuring light down on the city.

  Ah, the nights in Paris.

  Such a blessing.

  The crisp, yet sweet smell of the air.

  The puzzle pieces of buildings set in rows like colorful dominoes bathed in blue, lined up down the avenues, reaching towards the Eiffel Tower.

  Oh, how she loved living in Paris.

  Such a city with so many bad memories, but the beauty of the moonlit nights next to the window, were what Delia looked forward to after her shows.

  The bad memories would just wash away.

  And even then, so many years later, when she was now a woman, long from when she had grown in the world, she found herself once again in Paris. The Paris of her childhood seemed increasingly foreign. No longer were the nights spent hiding in her room under pillows and sheets, listening to the screams and to the chairs toppling over. No more would she wait for her father to pound on the door yelling at her to get to sleep.

  But Paris, once again.

  She didn’t know exactly how she wound up in Paris once again. Except for the possibility of a mission. It was just like the old woman in Jerusalem had explained to her, “You will be called to a time period that you are needed in.”

  And sitting under the full moon, listening to the silence of the city in the predawn dark, she realized what Mama might have meant. And then she thought of Darius. And thought that her mission in Paris might just be complete. Had she only been called to Paris again to meet Darius? Was his attending her performance part of the celestial plan?

  Still, she appreciated the changes in the world – automobiles had replaced carriages, lights had overtaken and candles had become a novelty. And it was the light of the neon sign outside of her window, the sign hanging from the dark, brick façade that reflected against her face; her skin, pillow white. She was still wearing the bright red lipstick from her show earlier that evening.

  When there was a knock on the door.

  She broke her stare and looked back at the door, and waited. The silence that followed was impenetrable, and even the hum of the electric sign outside the window could be heard. But she continued to stare at the door…watching…and waiting.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  The door shook in its frame.

  “Who is it?” Her voice reverberated against the stark white walls. There was no answer.

  Just the same hum from the sign hanging outside her window.

  Her heels tapped on the hardwood as she walked to the door. She leaned forward and peered through the peephole, which gave a broken view.

  There was a small, dark figure outside.

  Looked like something shifting back and forth, like a man shifting from foot to foot.

  “Who is it?”

  Delia stood in front of the door, looking at the small peephole. Should she dare lean forward and look through again? She stood a few feet away from the door as three deep thuds pounded against the wooden frame. She took a step back, never taking her eyes off of the door.

  Delia…listen to me. I am just on the other side of the door. Do you hear me calling you?

  She paused.

  Her eyes were wide. She could feel a drop of sweat flow down the side of her cheek as she took a cautious step forward. Her heels clicked on the hardwood.

  I’m here, Delia. Just on the other side of the door.

  She stopped walking and shut her eyes tight as the image of her father’s body flashed into her mind. His eyes were wide open as he lay in the lake of blood. And then her voice as a little girl rang through her mind:

  “You’re dead! Dead! Dead!” She slammed her palms against the door.

  And she saw her father.

  Lying in his wooden coffin, his face macerated and drained, maggots feasting on his flesh. “No!”

  Three deep knocks on the door rattled the wooden frame once again. She reached for the brass knob, as the door handle turned.

  She slowly opened the door with a creak…

  DELIA AWOKE WITH A START as the plane touched down in Rome. Monsignor Harrison adjusted his seat. He leaned over to Delia. “You must have been tired.”

  “I have good reason to be.”

  They said nothing to each other once they had landed in Rome after their trip to Jerusalem, which had been spent investigating the crucifixion of an old and highly ranking member of the immortals, Claret Atarah. They had also spent time there defeating The Hooded Man, who, at that time, was believed to have been stopped.

  They grabbed their bags and headed to the waiting cars outside baggage claim. The ride in the car was i
n silence, as they each traveled in separate cars, and during that time, Delia rummaged through her purse.

  The cars pulled up on the small avenues that bordered the Piazza San Pietro, the plaza which borders Rome, part of the papal enclave. Delia looked outside the smoked glass and saw the rising columns frame the fountain. Statues soaring into the sky above the columns; a tall, reaching obelisk in the center hinted of a relationship with ancient Egypt. But Delia was in Citta del Vaticano, in the plaza, bordered with the giant colonnades, surrounding the elliptical cemented area. Tourists mulled about, posing for photos in the plaza around the fountain and walking about; clergymen walked, two and two, in flowing black cassocks, towards the Sistine.

  Once they had arrived in the square, Delia stood in front of the chapel doors and looked upwards, towards the roof spire. Framed by columns, she entered through the heavy, grand doors, into an atrium under the arched ceiling. Her heels clicked on the marble as she walked past sets of rising columns, Monsignor Harrison took a phone call. His voice echoed against the masonry and fought against soft organ music. She found the small, wooden door in a discreet corner and waved the Monsignor over. They navigated the creaky, wooden stairs and emerged underneath the Chapel and into the brightly lit catacombs. She found the nearest restroom and gestured to Monsignor Harrison that she would be a few minutes. She closed the door and clicked the lock. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. “I cannot take this anymore! Why must you haunt me with these nightmares?!”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  There had been no expectation of a celestial light shining through the women’s restroom. Or a Heavenly doorway appearing over near the stalls. But Delia had never, in her entire life, felt so distant from God. There was the time, when she had been a child, when she thought that she had been away from God. In the days when her father beat and killed her mother; in the days when she would hide in her room, at night, in the darkness, and listen to the arguing. She remembered huddling under the covers till it got too warm and sweaty, and then, the muffled voices grew louder and more insistent, and she would climb out of bed, ever so quietly. She would always remember to avoid that one spot on the floor that would creak.

  And then she would peek through the door.

  And on that one night – that one fateful night – when the screaming had just been too loud. When the furniture sounded like it was being moved across the room – was the night she remembered. The night when the blood pooled on the living room floor. And the police came. And when she had stood in the middle of the living room floor, watching her father bleed to death.

  “You bastard,” she said, under her breath. “I was sent for you? The slime of the Earth…”

  Delia opened her eyes, and saw herself in the bathroom mirror.

  She reached for a tissue and blotted her mascara.

  Those days were so long ago. But the pain still felt so real. She turned around, and leaned forward and examined herself in the mirror. She fixed her hair and reapplied her makeup. It had been a long, tough life. A difficult assignment. But her perseverance won, and she exited back towards the hallway. Monsignor Harrison stood, patiently waiting, but his face was shifted with concern. “I heard you in there. Everything alright?”

  Delia glared at the Monsignor. “Yes, everything is fine. Let’s just get inside. I know they are waiting for us with the news from Jerusalem.

  *****

  Delia and Monsignor Harrison waited patiently in a stark lobby area lined with plain black leather chairs. There was a small television perched up in the high corner across the room, with a local news station playing; the ticker that flowed across the bottom of the screen read in Italian.

  Delia sighed and sat further into her chair as Monsignor Harrison examined his fingernails.

  After a few moments, the Monsignor shifted his glance over towards Delia. “So you understand why I did it, right?”

  Delia stopped and looked up. She looked at the Monsignor. “Why you crucified her? Yes, I understand. I know why it was done.”

  He nodded. “And do you think she deserved it? That she was a betrayer to her own kind? It was the ultimate betrayal, right?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, your highness. I don’t know why she would have so much contempt for her own kind…and on the other hand, I also can’t understand why she didn’t really present a defense.”

  “There wasn’t much of a defense for her to present, Delia.”

  “Do you think they’ll agree?”

  Monsignor Harrison shook his head. “I don’t know, Delia. I just don’t know.”

  A door next to them opened as a nun, dressed in full black and white habit, gestured for them to come inside. Delia looked at Monsignor Harrison and squeezed his hand. As they were about to enter the door, the Monsignor touched Delia’s arm and whispered in her ear. “Do you think I acted too harshly? I was protecting our own kind! The Hooded Man had to be stopped!” His eyes were wide as he stood and turned, heading into the conference chamber.

  They were led on separate sides of a large, rectangular conference room. The High Council sat on a long table that spanned the opposite end of the room, as other members of the delegation sat in fields of chairs on either side of a wide aisle that led from the double doors which Monsignor Harrison and Delia had entered. They found their seats and a Cardinal in the center of the long table banged his gavel and brought the proceedings to order. The old man glared directly at Monsignor Harrison as Delia looked on from the opposite end of the room.

  Monsignor Harrison stood in front of a small upholstered chair, which faced the High Council. Elderly men, dressed in flowing red robes with black sashes lined the table. In the center, a man removed his glasses and placed them on the table. “I am Cardinal Angelo Klemmson. I am here, along with the rest of the High Council, to determine your guilt in the sentencing and resultant crucifixion of Claret Atarah for suspected crimes against the immortal kind.”

  “I have been reading this file for weeks now,” he said, looking directly at Monsignor Harrison as the room hushed. “Ever since Darius Sauvage passed. And I’m troubled.

  Monsignor Harrison sat directly in front of the High Council and removed his glasses. He placed them on his notebook, sat back in his chair, and folded his hands. “I am the last of my kind.”

  The aged Cardinal leaned forward. “Come again?”

  “My ancestors have all died and are gone from this world. Now, everyone looks up to me. I am the leader of the immortal race. There is no one older than me.”

  The man leaned back in his chair. “Would you care to elaborate? I am not sure – and I am certain that there are others in this chamber that agree – that I follow what you are claiming. Are you saying that you are the last living member of your bloodline?”

  The Monsignor looked down at his hands. He clasped them about his waist, and fidgeted with his fingers. He could feel the sweat on his palms. He reached up and pulled his collar out. The room felt warm.

  The Monsignor sighed. “Do you understand who I am or what I am about?”

  “Just a moment,” the eldest Cardinal said. The Cardinals huddled and chatted amongst each other as the Monsignor sat back and watched. After a few minutes, they stopped, returned to their seats, and sat back and looked directly at Monsignor Harrison. The one who appeared to be the eldest, and who had spoken with him up to that point, spoke to him again. “Monsignor Harrison, we have called you here because of the great…misfortune…that has befallen us. Do you understand the charges you face?”

  “Um…the charges?”

  The eldest raised his eyebrows. “If you are certain that you are the eldest of your kind, why do you question what the charges may be? Shouldn’t you already know?”

  The Monsignor took pause.

  He placed the pen that he was fidgeting with gently on the table, next to a yellow legal pad. He looked up at the eldest Cardinal, and studied the man. He certainly had to be well into his nineties. />
  But could he be an immortal?

  “Yes, I question the charges, your grace.” His voice quivered as he stood. The High Council members all focused on him. “I question them. Because I led our kind through the threat of annihilation. When a hooded figure…some mysterious man…or creature…was attacking us. My assistant Ramiel and I flew to Miami. We offered our assistance to those affected.” He looked at the panel, his eyes wide. “They were attacking us! We were targeted. The hooded man approached unsuspecting immortals and convinced them to drink from a decanter which proved to be an imposter of salvation!”

  “Under your watch,” Klemmson said.

  Monsignor Harrison nodded and let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes, under my watch your highness. Many immortals met their death during this time. But The Hooded Man was very seductive. And many of our kind are surrounded by darkness. He was offering a false route to the light.”

  “I have no desire to move towards the light.”

  Monsignor Harrison nodded. “Yes, maybe not, but many immortals do have a desire for the light, and redemption, and a different state of existence that isn’t always washed with evil. The Hooded Man preyed on that.”

  The Cardinal looked down and examined some paperwork. “It says here that this ‘hooded man’ was a member of our society?” He looked at several of the other Cardinals as he waved the paperwork around. “And if so, how could that be possible? And why wouldn’t have we have heard about the man? Especially working so close with him. It says here that he was a church going man in Miami, Florida. His house was raided by the FBI for keeping young men in cages in his basement.”

  Delia stood and raised her hand. She looked over at the Monsignor, then back at the Cardinals. “If I may, your highness.”

  Cardinal Klemmson looked over at Delia. “Approach.”

  Delia eased her way behind the others seated along the table, and towards the center of the room. She sat a small chair next to Monsignor Harrison and faced the council.

  “My pleasure to the council.” She looked over at Monsignor Harrison who looked back at her. “And your highness.”