by A. L. Mengel
It could only be Antoine, could it be? But he was dead. Buried in France, waiting for a resurrection, one that may never come if Darius did not drink from the Cup.
He pounded on the door with his fist. “Who is in there?! Open the door!”
But there was no answer. He saw the shadow disappear towards the back of the house, and then the lights went off.
He drew his cell phone from his pocket. The brilliant screen shined against his face. He brought it up to his ear, and looked around the front yard. The house seemed secure.
“Delia? I’m at the estate. I saw something inside, but it’s locked tight.”
“It’s probably her. She has been using it as a portal.”
Darius sighed. “Claret?”
“Just forget it for now, Darius. Get out of there. It isn’t safe.”
Darius stood on the porch and waited. “Where are you? I know you are still here…”
He looked through the yard, scanning the bushes for the red eyes. The sour stench. The hounds. They were most certainly there.
Watching him.
Waiting for him in the thick of the bushes, ready as soon as he moved to charge and rip him to shreds and drag him to hell.
He dared not move.
He saw the long shadow from a palm tree against the house. But he closed his eyes when the shadow started to move and reach out towards him.
*~*~*
Claire Winchester’s body arrived at Heavenly Slumber two days after Sheldon’s. About a week after Stephen’s. As it typically was, it was busy at the funeral home, which was situated in a big and bustling city. People were always dying.
And the body that came through that day, Claire, was a very challenging case. Ned stood above the stretcher and looked down at the dark blue body bag. There was a small tag on the side, and he examined it and cross checked the name on his clipboard.
*~*~*
“Claire is dead,” Eve said, shaking her head back and forth slightly, the frame of her salt and pepper hair concealed her age lined face. “She is gone, shot herself this morning.” She walked back off her worn and weathered front porch, the peeling paint coming off on the sole of her shoes with every third or fourth step. “And I cannot remember the last time that I spoke to her!”
She stopped and called through the screened door to Claudia. “Do you hear me in there! Claire has died!” She stopped to wipe a tear from her face.
“Yes!” Claudia said, appearing in the door moments after her footsteps clicked down the hardwood hallway. She opened the door and peeked her head out to Eve. “Are you alright?”
Eve looked tired this morning.
She wore no makeup, and she looked older than her sixty three years today. There was a steaming cup of ignored coffee on the white wicker table next to her. Claudia bent down and added some cream from the small flowered porcelain teapot that was sitting next to it. She daintily stirred the coffee once without clanking the spoon on the side of the cup, and came out on the porch. She picked up the coffee and held it in front of Eve.
“Who is going to go there?” She asked, holding the coffee closer to Eve’s mouth. She did not take the coffee.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eve said, brushing Claudia’s hand away, rising from the rocking chair that she had been sitting in. “I haven’t spoken to her in years. I haven’t even seen her since she left – let me see – that must have been at least twenty years ago.”
“And now you have this news.”
Eve brought her hand up to her mouth, and closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, taking in a deep breath. “Now I have this news.”
“And so are you going to go there? Are you going to go to Miami? Since they called you?”
Eve sat back down in the rocking chair, and it creaked as she leaned back. She now reached for the coffee on her own, but her hand trembled slightly as she raised it to her thin lips to take a sip. “In time, dear, in time. I know her, all to well, Claudia. I know that girl far too well. And I know what she has gotten herself into. Yes I truly do.” She closed her eyes and shook her head lightly back and forth.
Eve did remember, but for days and years she had tried her hardest to forget. Even as she sat in the rocking chair, keenly aware that Claudia was speaking to her, she sat and stared ahead at her garden, the garden that was now overgrown and untended, but still colorful and beautiful nonetheless. She sipped her coffee as Claudia spoke, but the sounds were only just that – sounds that did not register in her mind.
She was trying to remember many of the things that she forgot.
She had forgotten the day when Claire was born, early in the morning forty years ago, in the very same house that she had been sitting. It was a morning very similar to this one, that she remembered, but the garden was much better tended in those days. The wrought iron gate had yet to rust, the willow trees were still weeping over the buds to a lesser extent; and the benches had yet to be placed and the stone path had yet to be laid.
Eve was lying upstairs in the master bedroom, going through the pains of labor, each came in a wave to a crescendo and then subsided, and then it would start all over again. She wanted to have her baby at home, with a midwife, just as she had been born.
But it wasn’t the day that she was trying to forget – the day, overall, was glorious. It was what happened shortly thereafter that she was trying not to remember, but no matter how hard she tried, it stood out in her mind.
Later that day, when she had been giving little Claire a bath in the bassinette, someone knocked lightly on the screen door in the downstairs foyer. She knew that Christy had gone into town for, and continued to bath the baby all while craning her head towards the bedroom door and listening down the stairs to see if the caller would leave.
Another knock, this time a little louder.
Little Claire giggled in and frolicked a bit in the water, and Eve held her steady, drawing her finger up to pursed lips and whispering “shhhhh…”
But the door opened slowly and with a creak that stood out in the silence, causing Eve to snap her head towards the direction of the stairs. She gingerly picked little Claire up and out of her bath, and grabbed a towel, wrapping her up quickly and quietly. She peered through the crack in the door, looking down the wooden stairs to the foyer below.
She saw a shadow in the daylight that poured in from the front door.
She caught her breath, and she felt herself holding it again as she ever so quietly closed the door to the point where the latch was about to click, but she cursed herself for not closing it all the way so the door could be locked. She looked around the room. There were three windows, all open and bathing the room in bright daylight, but none of them provided exterior access to the roof.
*~*~*
Darius finished his call and looked back inside the house. All of the lights were now off, there were no shadows, and the silence permeated the air.
The rain had stopped, and the humidity of the evening was returning. He wanted to listen to Delia and leave, but part of him felt compelled to stay. Facing Claret would be the only way that he would avoid an eternity of damnation.
And the hellhounds.
Their razor sharp teeth; rotten breath, with saliva dripping to the ground like acid.
Growling.
In pursuit.
And the Dark Ones – the shadow demons that have been pursuing him for years.
He shuddered and shivered.
And then there was a rustling in the bushes. And then a deep growl, throaty and full of mucous.
“Oh, shit…”
Darius peered into the bushes and could see the hound in a battle stance, facing off and ready to lunge forward; the piercing red eyes penetrated his mind, reading his thoughts, carrying his soul further towards darkness.
The hound’s matted fur was dirty and caked with dried blood; with a large gash on the side running from the chest to the rump; a gash that was so deep that blood and pus oozed from the sores and the hound’s beating heart could
be seen inside.
But Darius dared not move. “Don’t…please don’t…”
And the he bolted towards his car.
The bushes rustled and snapped as the hellhound dashed after him, the growling so utterly evil and profound. He pressed the lock fob repeatedly and slid into his car.
The hound lunged upwards on the driver’s window, revealing razor sharp teeth tinged with blood. The hound’s gums were black and rotted out; and the stench of death permeated the car as mucous and saliva coated the window.
Darius threw the car into drive and sped away.
*~*~*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Darius stopped in front of Delia’s apartment.
The rain had stopped but wetness and puddles remained. He could hear water dripping from the bushes and trees as the thunder sounded increasingly distant. The neighborhood in Coconut Grove was a stone’s throw from Coral Gables, but light years apart in architecture and feel. Delia lived in a small, stucco building, painted pastel pink with dark brown bohemian shutters. A light glowed from inside.
He didn’t know what time it was, but it felt like the wee hours of the morning at this point. His Porsche managed to outrun the hellhound, but he knew it would be a challenge to get back to the estate.
Delia opened the door, and the sweet smell of incense wafted out. She smiled her usual old, tired smile. Darius noticed that her white hair was tied back this evening. “The house is guarded by hellhounds,” she said. “I should have seen that one coming.”
“So how am I supposed to get inside?” Darius flopped down on a sofa. Delia offered him some tea. “No, I need something stronger after that.”
Delia smiled. “They are going to suck you further in, Darius, if you let them. If you let her. The more you dull your senses, the more susceptible you’ll become.”
“I don’t care, I need a martini.”
Delia shook her head. “Suit yourself.”
When Darius got his drink, they sat together in front of a large, wooden coffee table. Delia opened an old, dusty book, heavy, leather bound with gold trim. “I got this from Sheldon, before he died. I think it will explain to you a little about what you ran from tonight.”
“Das Buch des Tartaros,” she said. “It will explain much of what you need to know.”
Darius raised his eyebrows. “German? Why German?”
Delia did not answer, but let Darius look over the book.
Darius examined the spine.
Parchman’s Press.
He sighed.
“Can you tell me about that publisher, Delia? I knew it sounded familiar. I also saw that publisher on Les Livre des Vampires.”
Delia nodded. “They are associated with The Astral.”
“How can they publish these books that are centuries old?”
Delia got up, and walked over to her dining room table. She lit some candles. “I cannot really say, Darius. Parchman’s has been around for quite some time, it seems. But then, so has The Astral. It’s really a mystery. And it’s an even bigger mystery as to why they only publish books like this. But, open it up, I want to show you what was chasing you tonight.”
Darius lay the book across the coffee table, and was impressed by its sheer size. It was truly immense and classic, with gold trim at the edge of the pages and a heavy, well knitted cover and spine.
And then he looked closer as Delia stood over him and looked on. “See?” She pointed down to the open page.
Darius saw the hound.
It was a color drawing, crude and chilling. The same beast. The same eyes. The matted fur tinged with blood and dirt; he could only imagine the sour stench and the roar of its anger.
He closed his eyes as a chill passed over his body.
He looked up at Delia, and she smiled. “That’s your hellhound, Darius. I am sure Claret has stationed them around the estate to guard it. They usually mean imminent death.”
Darius paused for a moment. He looked over at Delia, who returned a thin smile. Her warmth was always present.
But Darius did not feel warmth tonight.
He knew what the book had said; he saw what it read, and why he was chased by hellhounds.
Imminent death.
“So then the fact that I am able to see them in the first place is not a good sign.”
He saw his vision of Tramos when he closed his eyes and felt the soothing warmth of the alcohol flow down his throat. The same vision that he had the night that Tramos transformed him; watching him walk out of the bar they had been sitting in, staring into each other’s eyes, as Darius timidly looked down into his glass of red wine repeatedly.
And then Darius thought about his life, and the vision stopped. Not his human life, and his youth, but the life he led after he created Antoine; he remembered all the evil, the blood, the darkness and the red skies and the black clouds.
He remembered Tartarus and the sins that he always carried with him.
And the hounds. It was time to pay the penance.
“Delia, it’s late. I have to get some sleep.”
“Sleep here. I have some blankets I will bring you. You need to stay in safe havens now – anyone who has fallen from immortality is a certain target.”
As Delia returned with several neatly folded blankets, Darius was staring into his empty martini glass, examining the olives. “What about ‘The Dark Ones’?” His face was washed with concern. His eyes were wide and he stared straight ahead. He remembered lying in a hospital bed, smashing his hand against the blue call button. As they came.
From the shadows.
We will rip you out of your reality…
He then broke his stare and looked up at Delia.
She sighed.
She set the blankets down at the end of the couch and sat down, placing her hands on her knees. “Darius, oh Darius. I know you struggle with the shadow demons as well. I wish you didn’t. I feel that you need to avoid the darkness. I so wish you would have gotten the forgiveness that you sought. But stay away from the shadows.”
“Stay in the light? How is that possible?”
“You must only move about by day. Retire as the sun sets. That’s the only advice I can give you. The hellhounds are easy to avoid, but The Dark Ones…just stay out of the shadows, Darius.”
*~*~*
The next day, Darius stopped outside The Cathedral of the Gardens and looked up at the sky.
The sun was shining brightly, the rays feeling their way through the clouds down to the streets below. He shook his head, returning his gaze to the dirty sidewalk below. He thought it would be best if he entered the Cathedral as quietly as possible. There were giant red doors at the entrance; they were framed by the stone masonry and the glorious medieval architecture.
Once inside, he stopped and relished the cool air and dark atmosphere. The light barely managed to penetrate the stained glass windows – each which depicted a different Station of the Cross – and the dark blue carpeting kept the entire area in a shroud of darkness and diffused light. He looked ahead and saw a statue of Jesus hanging on the Cross above the Altar.
He could smell the sweet, smoky scent of incense.
“May I help you?” a comforting female voice asked from his left.
A nun smiled at him, but he did not answer.
He turned and walked out of the church, charged through the heavy wooden door, and entered the adjoining cemetery, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He walked through the gravestones, looking at some, pausing at others, and wondered where he went wrong.
There were so many days where he had questioned his behavior as an immortal, and it was always Antoine who confirmed his questions. “You are the evil one, Darius.” Antoine had always reminded him of that when the two of them were still living together. Darius struggled to remember the turning point; the moment when he had been forgiven. But it was when Antoine plunged the dagger into his chest that he had thought his penance had been served.
But it hadn’t.
/> For there was more sin to come, for he was, and always would be the Darius that he was destined to be. He was destined to be the demon that would hunt young mortal men to kill for sport; he was always destined to be the one with the insatiable bloodlust and lust for the flesh, and to that, there would be no change.
But now, he was a different Darius.
He was a mortal again, longing for an answer to his curse; clinging to life and aching for an answer, for some forgiveness, for some type of absolution.
And he found himself standing next to an open grave, freshly dug and covered with plywood. There was a large waiting pile of dirt next to the grave.
He heard a man calling to him from the distance.
“Excuse me sir!”
An old man, dressed in black, approached him from afar. Darius turned his head and saw the same man from the church he had seen earlier. The man was still a ways away and walking briskly to where Darius was standing; but he paid the man no mind.
His mind wasn’t even there anyway.
He stood and stared at the grave covered in plywood, but he saw the grave in Lyon. The grave were he had buried Antoine.
The dirt was fresh and the grass still had not grown back; the sun was filtered by the shade of the shadowy trees, and then he had dug through the cool, damp earth.
He remembered kneeling down, cupping his hands and tossing the dirt over his shoulder. He had dug and dug and he kept on digging until he was down into the earth, and he felt the hard cement.
The grave liner had felt so cold, the top so earthy and covered and caked with the moist sand. He took his hand and scraped off the last of the dirt, and noticed the crest of a lion carved in steel on the face of the liner.
Antoine.
Yes, Antoine was waiting for him. And it was only Antoine who would know how to save Darius. Only Antoine possessed the knowledge of immortality.
“Damn him!” Darius cursed, as he was brought back to reality.