by H. T. Night
“Really?”
“Yeah, so you have nothing to worry about.”
Lena was quiet. I could almost hear her smiling. “I miss you so much, Josiah.”
“I miss you, too.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“I really don’t know, maybe a week or so. Well, I’d better get ready. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“That will be nighttime here. It’s morning right now.”
“I totally forgot. Bye, Lena.”
“Bye, Josiah.”
I hung up and headed straight for the shower. Talking to Lena rejuvenated me. I stripped down and jumped into the shower. I don’t know why but showering always seemed to be better than sex ever since becoming a Mani. I stood there for a good twenty minutes! About how long it takes me to, well... ‘nuff said. It was a pretty good shower.
I stepped out of the shower and stepped into the main room of the suite. There was a tuxedo on my bed. I guess they had brought it in while I was in the shower, lathering up.
I hoped it fit. I put the bad-boy on, and I had to admit, I looked freaking good. I’ve never worn one of these penguin suits before, and damn! I was sexy as hell! Total red-carpet ready!
I finished getting ready with a razor and some shaving cream the hotel had provided and the phone rang. I answered it.
“Your limousine is here, sir,” the voice on the line said.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“It’s in the parking garage, sir. The duchess is waiting.”
“Then I better mosey on down there,” I said, in a bad Southern accent. American, that is.
I hung up the phone and put on my dress shoes. Darn, they hurt! A size too small! I was 13 and these were obviously 12s, maybe even 11s. This wouldn’t do! I took them off and put on my Dr. Martens boots that I wore on the trip over. These boots were made for ass-kicking and I just might have to do some of that tonight.
Chapter Five
The elevator door opened and I was in the parking garage.
The black stretch limo awaited me. The chauffeur jumped out of the front seat and opened the side door. Helen jumped out to greet me. She gave me a freaking air kiss just inches from each just-shaved cheek. What was that about? So she didn’t mess up her lipstick? Her perfume swirled around me like a tender trap and I have to say that... Holy shit! She looked incredible!
Helen was wearing a light blue gown that fit her like a second skin and I couldn’t detect that she was wearing a bra or underwear. She just looked like she was sewn into the dress. And the dress itself seemed to have diamonds sewn into it. No, not rhinestones, and not Swarovski crystals like they used on freaking Project Runway—Lena adored this silly TV show. Helen wore a spectacular bracelet that probably cost more than my house and it bore the family crest, I assumed, lions and a wicked cool unicorn. Her earrings were long and diamondy. She looked like a million bucks! From the looks of it, her outfit was worth at least that much. Geez, what if she has a dab of ketchup on herself? What then?
“You clean up nice,” she said.
I was still blown away by how fantastic she looked. “And you, well, you clean up like royalty.”
“Oh, this old thing,” she said mockingly. She smiled and her eyes sparkled along with her jewelry and sparkly, sparkly dress, as if we could just shoot her into the sky and have her light it up.
“You look fantastic. You’re mesmerizing.”
“Mesmerizing! Wow! I’m glad I took the extra time to do my hair.”
“Your hair looks great. It’s whole... package.” Damn. I was having a hard time talking.
“You’re sweet, Josiah, even when the cat has got your tongue.” She paused, then leaned in and kissed my cheek for real. When we touched, I thought I might see a vision like I had with the bellhop. I got nothing, just the lovely smell of a thousand-dollar perfume.
“Let’s make our way to the party,” she said, smiling as she saw me smelling her. “We’d better hurry or I might turn into a pumpkin.”
Helen stepped back into the limo and I followed. She sat with her back to the chauffeur, while I sat across from her. I had a flash of Princess Diana in her last moments of life and wished again for a seat belt. I choked down the thought.
“You ready for this night of your life?” Helen asked.
“I’m as ready as a guy like me can get. I suppose you’ll keep me by your side all night as your escort.”
She smiled and patted my hand. “Within inches.”
We headed out of the parking garage and Helen opened the sunroof. The stars looked amazing.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the West End,” Helen answered.
“I looked at the digital clock on the TV set in the limousine. It read 9:04.
“May I?” I asked, implying I wanted to stick my head out of the sunroof.
“By all means, help yourself.”
I stuck my head out of the sunroof and looked at downtown London. I had never done anything like this before and it felt exhilarating. It’s hard to impress a guy who can turn into an eagle and fly, but she managed to impress me.
Then, without warning, I heard a squawk from above. I looked up and saw three black ravens coming for my head. My instinct was to duck back inside, but instead, I climbed onto the roof of the limo.
“What are you doing?” Helen yelled. I didn’t have time to respond. The three birds torpedoed into me and pushed me off of the moving limo. I transitioned into the great white eagle on contact and flew upward before my body hit the pavement.
I darted across the sky. I could see Piccadilly Street below me and the Thames River to the left of me. I circled around and I could see Big Ben in the distance. I decided to make my way to the gigantic clock. It was a good point of focus and not too shabby of a landmark to fly toward. I flew as hard as I could to the giant watch in the sky. I flew toward Bridge Street and was making my way to the clock tower. I looked behind me and the three ravens were chasing me.
Why was I running away from them? What was I running away from? They were obviously Mani, but who were they? I decided to fly past Big Ben and continue south of Wandsworth. I could see a lit park below me on Kensington and decided to fly down toward the grass. As I flew closer to the park, I realized it wasn’t a park, but a series of tennis courts. And not just any tennis courts. It dawned on me, I was at Wimbledon.
I crashed into one of the nets as I tried to land. I rolled and transitioned back to my Mani form.
The three ravens were close behind me. All three landed on the other side of the net and transitioned. I stood up, facing the three Mani men.
“Why are you chasing me?” I asked.
The three men stepped closer and I could see them. I recognized all of them from the vision. There was a tall blonde guy who was skinny as hell. He stood in the middle. There was one on the left who had long brown hair with squirmy eyes that looked like he could use a couple months of eating Jenny Craig pre-packaged cuisine. The one on the right was the one I was worried about. He had jet-black hair and appeared to be in good shape.
I repeated myself. “Why are you chasing me?”
Again, none of them spoke. So, I just stood my ground. My experience has taught me that when one is outnumbered, wait to be attacked and then react.
I’m not sure why exactly, but whenever I was in a physical confrontation, even when I was a human, everything around me slowed down and almost came to a halt. I was able to dissect a situation in milliseconds, because it seemed to be in slow motion. I called it my Good Will Hunting mode.
I was staring at all three of these guys and waiting for them to attack. Why would Helen pay these guys to fight me? It didn’t make any sense. I stared each of these idiots in the face. Did they seriously think I couldn’t take them? I could kill all three of them in my sleep! Did they have any idea what I’ve been through? Obviously not, because there would be no way in hell they’d be facing off against me if they did.
&n
bsp; The three men simultaneously, almost as if they had choreographed it ahead of time, came toward me in a rush, then backed off and made a triangle around me. Cool, I thought. A special formation just for yours truly.
Suddenly, the guy with the jet-black hair charged me. I was always good in geometry so I enjoyed this little pattern they set up. He foolishly lunged at me and I karate-kid kicked him right in the face with hands in the air and all—my little homage to 80s martial arts cinema. He fell flat on his back and popped back up like a spring. He nodded his head at me as if to say, ‘well played.’
The guy on the left came in at me and I swept his right leg. I jumped and floated up and I controlled my body in midair as well as I could. All three of their jaws dropped as they witnessed a Mani who could fly in his Mani form. Without transitioning. Yeah, take that, suckers.
“Oh,” I said, to the three of them. “You thought you could just roll over on me. You didn’t realize I’m the baddest motherfucker you’re ever going to get into a street fight with.”
I dropped down at a 45-degree angle with my left leg extended and drilled the fat guy on the right’s chin. He somersaulted backward.
“15-love,” I said, referring to how a tennis match is scored.
The black-haired man didn’t like my smug attitude. He shook his head and came toward me. I jumped over him like he was a hurdle in the Olympics. I landed about ten feet away from him with my back to the three men. Not the smartest move. The heavyset one had stood back up and tackled me to the ground. I had to give the obese asshole props, he was pretty damn strong. But he was no Goliath. But who is?
His fat ass was lying on top of me. I flipped his 250-pound frame over my head, and then popped up from my back.
Then the tall blonde guy finally got into the picture and roundhouse kicked me and caught my right cheek and I stumbled back.
“Nice, Blondie. Good to see us blonde boys can still hold our own.”
He smirked at me and said, “15-15,” responding to my reference to a tennis match.
I grinned and charged Blondie and kicked him in the chest with enough force to send his body one hundred feet in the air. “Damn!” He hit the back wall of center court and didn’t move. He didn’t disappear so I knew he was still alive.
I turned to face the other two. “30-15.” Advantage badass motherfucker.
I flung my body into the dark-haired Mani’s space and grabbed him by his shirt and flew up in the air, still holding him. He dangled from my clutches and was in absolute horror. It reminded me of what a scared kitten looks like when you pick it up. I was about three hundred feet in the sky, still clutching onto him by his shirt.
“You better transition before you land,” I said. “Because this is going to hurt.” I backhanded him and hit him square between the eyes before he fell to the earth and transitioned into a raven before he hit the ground, like I suggested.
Good Mani thug, you listened.
He collapsed as he landed on the grass court.
One left: Chubbo. I stared him down and said, “40-15.” Advantage skinnier guy. He shook his head, already knowing his fate.
“I tell you what; I’ll spare your ass. Just get the hell out of here.”
He shook his head and then ran toward me like a Trojan warrior, but without the sword. Too bad, my swords were my hands and feet.
He came at me and I ducked, grabbed his arm and threw him forward like I was a matador screwing with a bull during a bullfight. He rolled on the ground into the net. He stood up and shook himself off.
“All right, Roly-Poly,” I said. “I gave you a chance.”
He ran at me again and, frankly, I was tired of dealing with these three. I floated up and landed on his broad shoulders. I wrapped my ankles around his neck and twisted my feet, putting him in a leg headlock. He fell to the ground and I cranked up that puppy by tightening my legs until he passed out.
Game, set, match.
Suddenly, I saw something shoot across the sky like a meteor. I looked closely to see what it was, but it was gone. Someone held back and observed. I wonder who. Helen, of course.
I looked at the three men lying center court. I wiped myself off and thought, Roger Federer would be proud. I transitioned into the eagle and flew off, making my way back to the West End.
I flew back and there was no sign of the black stretch limousine. The West End was extremely crowded and I decided to take the subway back and try to appear as normal as possible.
When I arrived back to my hotel, part of me was expecting Helen to already be there, but no luck.
I went through the entrance and made my way up the elevator to my room.
The room was on the top floor and I realized once I arrived at the door that I was never issued a room key.
I took the elevator back down and walked up to the hotel concierge. He was a short, feminine black man.
“Hello,” I said.
He looked me over and was not impressed. My tuxedo was ripped and torn and I had grass stains everywhere, “Yes, may I help you?”
“I was never issued a room key,” I said.
“That is impossible, sir. Have you been to your room?”
“Yes, but the bellboy let me in.”
“What was his name?”
“Maxwell.”
The concierge smiled. “We don’t have anyone named Maxwell that works here.”
“Sure, you do. He’s about yea high.” I put my hand a little above my head. “He’s 220-230. Has a big fat head!”
“Well, you just fit the description of half our staff, but I can assure you that no Maxwell works in this establishment.”
The concierge went to his computer. “Okay, sir. Let’s take a different approach. What is your name?”
“My name is Josiah, but I wasn’t the one who booked the room.”
“Then what is the name of the person who booked your room.”
“Helen, the Duchess of Windsor.”
The concierge smiled. “Sir, if you’re going to play games with me, please don’t. I’m a busy man.”
“I’m serious. The duchess and I met on a plane and she booked me the room.”
“Helen? The Duchess of Windsor?” The concierge stepped away from his computer. “Sir, you can leave on your own accord, or I can have security help you out.”
“I’m being completely real with you. She booked me the room about four hours ago!”
“That would be some feat if she did,” the concierge said. “Considering she’s in Australia!”
“Huh?”
He then showed me a British tabloid paper that had today’s date on it. It read, “Duchess in Sydney!” And right there on the front cover was the Duchess. I was expecting to see a medium-height, attractive blonde. Nope, Helen, the Duchess of Windsor, was a tall brunette.
I was played from the word ‘go.’
I walked slowly backward out of the hotel and played back in my head everything that had happened in my head. I never received a key card. I didn’t come through the front door and I left from the car garage. The whole thing was a setup. I was completely duped. There was no dinner, no Paul McCartney, no nothing.
Chapter Six
Now I was stuck in London for the night.
Who the heck was that woman? How could she have known that I wouldn’t know who she was? How did she reserve all those seats on the plane? I wish to God I could control my visions. My mind was a complete blank.
I still had four hundred dollars in cash, and hopefully, that could get me to Romania. If not, I’d have to use Hector’s credit card. I didn’t want to do that unless I exhausted all other options.
I transitioned into the eagle and flew to Heathrow Airport. I transitioned back when I landed and headed through the double door entrance. I went to the front counter and told them I missed my connecting flight because I had diarrhea. Not sick. Diarrhea. I found out early in life, you can get just about anything you want if you play the ‘I had diarrhea’ card as an excuse. So that�
��s exactly what I did, I blamed my missing the flight on something that no person could control, diarrhea. No one wants to talk about it, and just saying the word out loud makes the person uncomfortable and they would rather just move you along.
Once again, the diarrhea excuse worked. I had a flight to Romania at 8:30 in the morning. That was in about seven hours. So, I decided to find a corner in Heathrow airport that was window-free and crash on the floor. I bought a blanket and pillow at one of the airport stores and then I laid my blanket and pillow out on the cold, hard airport floor and I slept on it like a homeless person. If my friends could see me now; I was at one of the most famous airports in the world... sleeping on the ground.
I was awakened by a little girl picking my nose. I looked up and a little girl had her finger in my nostril.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Marybeth!” a man yelled, from across the terminal. “Leave that hobo alone!”
Yeah, that’s right. I’ve been reduced to a hobo. No better than a drifter or gypsy. I, Josiah Reign, was an American hobo in London.
I got up off the floor with my pillow and blanket and sat on one of the chairs in the terminal. I was starving. I decided to go for a little walk and find a continental breakfast in one of the airport diners before my flight. As I walked through the airport, I thought about what had happened the night before. How did Helen know me? How did she know I was on that flight? Why did she care? What was she gaining?
I found a café and sat down. I had a croissant with a glass of orange juice. It was nice after spending the night on a hard floor. I glanced up and noticed a clock. It read 8:02. It was time for me to board the plane. I strolled over and went to the boarding area for my flight. I was, once again, the last to get on the airplane, but this time the plane was full. No rows of empty seats, and definitely no Helen, or whatever her name was. It was a three-hour flight to Romania and I needed to not worry about that right now.
I sat on the plane and I immediately asked for a blanket. I put the blanket over my head. Everyone around me probably thought I was up to something. But I didn’t physically fit a profile for them to worry about and hopefully they just remembered that I was the weird guy sleeping on the floor.