by A D Seeley
“Wha’ kinda name is Haira?” some new drunk asked her, pointing at the little silver nameplate pinned around a strap of her dress, forcing her to lose the beefy, buzzed-head, and tattooed body she didn’t want to take her eyes off of.
She smiled as nicely as she could, used to this question.
“It’s not Haira. It’s Ha-ruh,” she explained, throwing him a genuine smile. “Like ha. A soft A.”
“So? Wha’ kinda name is Ha-ruh then?” he asked, oozing sarcasm.
She shrugged as she handed him the drinks she’d begun mixing for him just as the rock star had caught her eye—an AMF, two Jagerbombs, a couple of the club’s signature drinks named after various celebrities she’d never heard of, two double shots of whiskey, and a few fruity little cocktails complete with umbrellas and chunks of fruit. She wondered which one was his. Maybe the AMF? That was for people who really liked the effects of hard alcohol but hated the taste of it, as well as were trying to show off. The Jagerbombs were totally trendy for frat boys, and the whiskey might be trying too hard to show how “manly and adult” they were. The signature drinks showed that the people were willing to try something new, or knew nothing about alcohol and only drank it because they were huge fans of the actors. And of course everyone knew what umbrella drinks meant…or so Crystal said, but really, Hara felt bad for judging any of these people and their drinks. She should really go to confession after school tomorrow….
Trying to clear the mean thoughts from her mind like a duck brushes off water, she said as normally as possible, as though she hadn’t been thinking such slanderous things, “My parents made it up.”
“Oh,” he said, slurring quite heavily while sweat dripped down his mottled face. Then, with a smile that told her that he thought he’d now broken the ice with her after his non-existent pick-up line, he asked, “So do you wanna come out with us and par-tay after you get off?”
“That’s sweet of you, but I have school in the morning,” she said with another smile, using an excuse that wasn’t a lie because she knew this guy and his type. He was the type who was looking for a one-night-stand. Not something she was interested in. Plus, anyone who said “par-tay” was probably pretty immature, and she didn’t want to feel like she was babysitting a grown adult. Los Angeles seemed to be full of such boys. She liked to joke that it was God’s way of making sure she never fell in love so she could marry herself to the Church after getting her degree.
Without another word, the guy walked off—some friends coming to his rescue to grab their drinks—and started flirting with another girl, moving on in his search for a girl to take home that night.
“Hara! Boss needs you upstairs!” her friend, and roommate, Crystal yelled, bringing Hara from her thoughts.
“What? Why? I hate doing the VIP area,” she whined. “Those guys always try to get grabby and throw tons of money down my throat like I’m gonna cough something up for them. Plus, if I go out from behind the bar, then I have to put my heels back on,” she finished with a pout. Part of the uniform was that the girls had to wear heels between four and six inches high. But, because that made her at the lowest six foot three, she wore ballet flats as long as she was behind the bar and Vinnie wouldn’t notice—she hated being taller than all the guys….
“He has some guy up there and wants to make a good impression. Apparently, the guy goes for blondes. Plus, you’re the prettiest girl here and you know it,” Crystal replied.
For the first time in her life, Hara was jealous of her friend’s jet black hair. Maybe if Hara dyed hers the same color then she wouldn’t have to go up to the VIP section where they always seemed to prefer blondes….
“I hate feeling like I’m being sold to the highest bidder,” she grumbled as she slipped into her heels. She understood that their “uniform” brought in all the hippest people in Los Angeles, and it wasn’t as trashy as it would sound like if she described it to someone who couldn’t see it—it was more like the special slip-like spandex underwear Crystal wore to “smooth out all her fatty bumps,” though she didn’t have any. Or like an extra-long camisole turned into a mini-dress. But that didn’t make it any more comfortable.
“You’ve never even kissed a guy before in your life so it’s not like you’re being whored out or anything,” she said, laughing at Hara’s discomfort.
“I have too kissed a guy…” she defended, doing her best to ignore the fact that Crystal had just cussed by saying the “W” word—she had to ignore a lot of cussing here at work.
“I don’t consider innocent little kisses on the cheek that don’t go anywhere to be kissing.”
Hara just stuck out her tongue in a childish manner that would probably solidify Crystal’s opinion on the matter before making her way upstairs, walking straight over to where Vinnie was basically worshipping the hot rock star guy as though he was Jesus Himself.
Vinnie was sitting next to him on one of the large black velour chaise lounge-style couches set against the bright red backdrop. But where the hot rock star guy was relaxed and casual, not really paying attention to Vinnie, her boss was leaning toward the floor as though about to jump down there to eagerly wash the younger guy’s feet; as though it would be an honor to do so.
From her vantage point she could only see the wide shoulders and upper back of the rock star. But Vinnie was somewhat facing her. His mouth was moving quickly, as though nervous, and his hands kept rubbing sweat away from his nasty brow. His eyes held a mixture of intimidation, awe, worship, and a small grudging light as well; as though he was jealous or really didn’t want to be speaking with the rock star, or maybe a mixture of both.
Curious now, she walked up to them, glancing at the rock star from the corner of her eye. He was still facing away from her, but she did notice the silver spike he had in his left eyebrow as well as the one centered right below his lower lip that was twisted into what looked like a humoring smile.
“Ah, and this is Hara, our best bartender,” Vinnie said, sitting up, his whole demeanor changing as he gestured toward her in a way that affirmed that she was definitely the piece of meat on the menu tonight.
“Hara?” the rock star’s deep, husky voice asked, surprise and anger edging into his words as he turned toward her, his eyes narrowing into threatening slits.
She wasn’t used to getting this reaction. Usually, her appearance made even the most saintly man leer at her like a hungry wolf in nature documentaries. This guy—whose features were slightly exotic to the point where she couldn’t tell if he was completely Caucasian, or if he perhaps had something more to him—was looking at her like she had just ruined everything by appearing.
Trying not to let him intimidate her—which was difficult when his black eyes bored into hers, burning her sockets—she cocked a shapely hip to the side, trying to act tough though she was the furthest thing from it, as she replied, “Yeah. Got a problem with that?”
With Vinnie forgotten by the wayside, the man leaned forward, his veins bulging in his neck under a bit of what she thought was called a “tribal tattoo” that disappeared under his T-shirt on the same side as the one exactly like it that ran along the length of his right arm. Why was he so angry?
“Is that short for anything? Or is it just Hara?” It was almost a threat.
“It’s short for Anahara….” Why was she letting this guy intimidate her?
“Um…Mr. Adamson here owns some of the biggest clubs in all the major cities. He was looking at adding this place…” she could hear Vinnie explaining in the background, really begging for her to behave as nicely as she always did.
Mr. Adamson. So he wasn’t a rock star at all. He was an investor. Or, maybe he was a rock star and an investor. Who knew? She hadn’t really listened to any music before she had finally up and left the orphanage four years ago, and the music they played at the club she ignored and didn’t listen to at home, so it’s not like she knew what a rock star would look like anyway other than the ones who came here. She just thought that she
could see Mr. Adamson on a stage being adored by the masses. Something in his eyes seemed to expect that. Besides, wasn’t it only rock stars who would have such a large tattoo and multiple piercings? Well, other than the club-goers, but Los Angeles was its own little bubble that wasn’t reality at all. Surely most normal people out of the bubble wouldn’t do that to themselves. Especially investors. And wow, for some reason he was making her ramble in her head….
As part of her long-winded thoughts, she found herself wondering if she would know who Mr. Adamson was if she hadn’t been raised in such a cloistered orphanage. She’d learned a lot since she’d left it and come here, but she still felt as though she didn’t know anything at all, especially about celebrities and their scandalous lives. It didn’t help that Crystal was always complaining about how annoying Hara was because she didn’t get most of the cultural references—or most anything else—that Crystal always jabbered on about. They just hadn’t exposed her to such things in the orphanage. They’d always kept her busy with other such things; telling her what she should do and how she should behave. And for a while she’d let them.
The priests and nuns had wanted her to remain at the orphanage forever, telling her that it was dangerous for her outside its walls, but she was so sick of them controlling everything that she’d finally just up and fled. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for them taking her in after her family had all been killed; it was just that they had sheltered her too much, and she had gotten to the point where she had to live her own life. Besides, she still kept in touch with them, buying the children gifts and visiting most every major holiday. She may have left, but the orphanage would always be home.
“Excuse me. I have a pressing matter that I thought was taken care of but I just realized wasn’t,” Mr. Adamson practically accused, pulling her from her wonderings, his black eyes those of a shark as he stood up, threw a wad of cash on the table with his thickly tattooed arm, and stalked off before Vinnie could even stammer another sentence.
After regaining his composure, Vinnie threw her a dirty look and ran down the stairs, his stomach bouncing as he tried to catch up to the rock star. Hara couldn’t even move. What was all that about? The guy had been smiling until she’d walked up, though it may have been more out of disdain than actual happiness. And then, when she had, he’d looked so angry…so dangerous for real. What about her could invoke such a reaction? She knew she hadn’t wronged him because she’d never seen the guy before in her life! What about her did he find so repugnant? And, if he still bought the club, would she be forced to fake smiles to him every night? Or would she be gone—fired—quicker than he had fled?
***
Inac stormed down the stairs of the club and out into the warm summer night, his mind going back to that day twenty years ago when he’d ordered the death of Anahara….
…“I’ve found her, sir.”
Inac could almost smell Micah’s fear, which not even his relief of finding the girl could dim. He better be scared. Inac was not a patient man, and his servant had been looking for her for three years now. Why it had even taken that long in the first place was beyond him.
“It’s about time, Micah. I was beginning to think that I couldn’t depend on you any longer. And you know what happens to people I can’t depend on….” Inac knew that Micah would catch the barely-veiled threat in his words.
As always, Inac was right. As his servant gulped in trepidation, Inac leaned forward from the shadows he’d been thinking in, letting the meager light from his desk lamp catch his face so the man could see exactly how close to killing him Inac had been. He didn’t like it when people didn’t take care of their jobs in a timely manner. And three years, even in his long life, was too long to wait for something that should have been taken care of in a day.
“You can depend on me. I assure you,” the balding man said as he puffed out his burly chest in an attempt to appear unafraid. But Inac was a master of detection and easily caught the small quiver Micah was attempting to stifle. He was probably thinking about what Inac had done to Micah’s superior when he hadn’t found the girl in a timely manner. Inac had learned years ago that, to truly rule someone and keep them from betraying you, you had to make them fear you unconditionally.
Inac smiled, sending another shiver down Micah’s broad back from the cruelty and menace he knew was detectable in it. “You’re lucky I’m in a hospitable mood today. Take care of this and I’ll promote you past your probationary period. Mess up and you’ll think that your superior’s death was merciful.”
“She’ll be dead by the end of the week,” Micah replied, his Adam’s apple moving in his dark, thick neck as he choked back his fear.
“No. By dawn. I want little Anahara dead tonight. I don’t want any chance of her getting away. We have to strike before They know we’ve found her.”
“She’s only a child….”
“Are you having second thoughts? Do I need to find someone else? You know what happens to those who don’t pass their probationary period,” Inac hissed through his teeth. He was done being patient.
“No, sir. I can do this.” Micah’s unusual olive green eyes were as large as planets. He didn’t want to die.
“Then do as I ask and do it now. I don’t care how young the child is.” As almost an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and make sure her entire family is gone with her.”
“But….”
Between his teeth, Inac threatened, “Are you questioning me?”
“No…I…I understand. The child’s entire family…. Do you have a preference as to how they should die?”
Inac smiled as he leaned back into his comfortable black leather office chair, back into the shadows that he embraced so freely. Finally, he would best God. Whatever this child was supposed to do, whatever she had been prophesied to do, would never come to pass. Inac wouldn’t let Him have any more soldiers doing His bidding.
Realizing that Micah was still waiting for him to tell him how he wanted the girl to die, Inac replied with a smile that mirrored the smugness in his soul, “Something painful. Something that will make death merciful. And something that there will be no possibility of surviving from. I can’t have her live. And neither can you. Your life depends on it….”
…Micah had lied to him. He had told Inac twenty years ago that his problem was over. He had even shown him pictures he had taken of the sliced up bodies before setting fire to them and the evidence: an adult male, an adult female, two young boys, and a three-year-old girl. Anahara was supposed to be dead. If Micah hadn’t already perished in a car accident, then Inac would torture and kill him now.
Other than the unique name that made it obvious that she was the supposedly deceased child, there was no doubt the girl in the club had been her…the one prophesied about. Her hair was the color that the prophecy said it would be—like sunshine and moonlight woven together. A color he had never before seen in all his travels. It was almost like a mockery from God Himself showing Inac that he hadn’t stopped Him like he’d been led to believe. God was showing him with her innocent eyes that she was going to become the saint he believed she was destined to become.
Instead of heading home, he went to the Los Angeles headquarters of the secret society he had founded almost five thousand years ago. There he had access to all sorts of documents, including secret government ones. If he could find any information about Anahara and how she had survived, it would be in here.
“Hello, sir,” the unimportant guard stated from where he stood at attention when Inac walked in.
“Hmph,” was all Inac said.
“Can I help you with anything?”
“No,” Inac replied as he walked into his office, slamming the door behind him so the guard would know that he didn’t want to be disturbed.
Inac searched everything, looking for information on the girl, but it was difficult to come by. Obviously someone didn’t want him to find her. He slammed a fist on the desk, cursing The Order for actually being able to t
rick him for the past twenty years. He felt like a fool.
But if he hadn’t seen Anahara’s body, then whose was it? It was definitely a picture of a child the exact size and coloring as she would have been….
After hours of searching, it finally became fruitful. The girl had grown up in a Catholic-run orphanage back East. Other than that, he could only find her school transcripts. The Order had done well at hiding her. No wonder Inac hadn’t known that she was still alive. The only way he would be able to know otherwise was if he had done some extensive digging.
He couldn’t do anything about the past, but he could remedy the situation before The Order found out that he knew she was still alive. Before They found out that he was, once again, living in the same city as she was. Before They found out that he’d met her and knew exactly where she was. She wouldn’t escape this time because he was going to do what he should have done twenty years ago. He was going to take care of her himself.
Chapter Two
***
“Has anyone here ever heard these two words: Noseriatif Tremokolio?” Professor Sampson, Hara’s Ancient Civilizations professor, asked.
He looked around the room before sitting on the edge of his desk and tossing his sandy brown hair out of his chocolate eyes. The act reminded Hara of how young he was. He couldn’t be older than thirty….
Even under his scrutiny, nobody moved an inch. Apparently nobody had.
“Noseriatif Tremokolio,” Professor Sampson continued, “is a secret society similar to the Masons, Illuminati, or the Knights Templar. However, the Mokolios, as we like to call them, are much more powerful than every other secret society combined.”