The Immortals Trilogy Books 1-3: Tales of Immortality, Resurrection and the Rapture (BOX SET)

by C. F. Waller

  Returning my attention to the desk, I pick up the journal and hold it next to a candelabra the height of a coatrack. Squinting, I touch the last line and find the ink dry. This literary endeavor is pointless, but it does pass the hours. Finding my back sore from the desk chair, I slip into a well-worn recliner. It’s positioned next to the edge of the window so I am able to peek out if surveillance is deemed necessary. A quick check reveals the windows still without illumination across the street.

  “Let me see what actually made it to the page,” I sigh, pulling out a tiny set of reading glasses and propping them up on my nose.

  September 9th 2087

  I am so very bored today. She is off at school as is her norm. In truth being an immortal frozen at the age of twenty-one leaves little in the way of career choices. If our fates were reversed, a life of perpetual scholarly endeavors might very well have been my path. In the twelve years I have surveilled her she has attended several universities under three separate aliases. By my count the lass has collected no less than three degrees. Of course, there is no way to know how high the number actually is, being that she’s closer to seventy than her appearance would indicate. Her current choice of study bores me to tears, but then again I have always been a wordsmith by trade. Who in their right mind enjoys mathematics? It is after all a four-letter word.

  My musings end there and I lay the journal across my lap. I glance around the empty living room landing on a pile of tattered moving boxes. A single box near the end is open, flaps of cardboard on the top falling away like a square paper flower. Identical journals leak out onto the floor. I had been digging through them yesterday in search of the name of a past acquaintance, but never replaced the volumes. I consider cleaning it up now, but the slamming of a car door jolts me back to the present.

  Peeking around the curtain, I spy a black car in the driveway of 317. A man in a dark suit climbs out of the passenger door holding a large envelope in one hand. His hair is slicked back and his skin dark. When the doorbell brings no results, he knocks. The driver and this man exchange several annoyed looks before he wedges the envelope in the seam of the door and retreats to the car.

  “Who might you be?” I whisper, having kept a journal of every person to visit her home. “New players have joined the stage.”

  The car backs out and then crawls down the street as if searching for someone. The motion sensor light next to her door illuminates the envelope through the screen. While reading her mail and listening to her phone conversations is nothing new, I hesitate to stroll across the street to get a glimpse at the letter. No one has ever accused me of being a man of action. I am tapping my finger on the window ledge in deep thought when her bike peddles into view. A single headlight pokes out into the darkness as she rounds the corner down the block. The white stripe down the side of her yoga pants glimmers under the street lights. When she pulls up in the driveway she appears to notice the envelope. Abandoning her bike under the carport, she plucks it off the door, turning it over in her hands.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I mutter, squinting to get a better look. “Some sort of advertisement.”

  Jenifer goes inside and lights glow in the windows as she moves through the house. Deciding on more tea, I start for the kitchen. Before I can fill the kettle, a red flashing light startles me, bathing the refrigerator in crimson. It’s a simple lamp that one might find on the nightstand next to a bed. The shade is missing and a red bulb is lodged in the socket. Beside it, an old rotary phone sits on a rickety dining room table. The flashing light is alerting me that a phone call has been placed, or possibly, received at 317 Maple Street. Setting the teacup down, I gently raise the handset to my ear, keeping one hand over the talking bit. I hold my breath so as not to be heard on the live end of the call. There is some static before her father’s voice fills my ears.

  “Jen, how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” she assures him. “Someone left an invitation to your birthday party on my doorstep. Do you know about this?”

  “I was just made aware of it,” he answers after a pause.

  “It says my attendance is mandatory,” she complains, “and where is the Estate?”

  There is a second, longer pause and only breathing can be heard.

  “Well?” she badgers him.

  “Home base for the Queen and her court.”

  “What?” Jennifer blurts out. “I thought she was dead?”

  “As I told you dear, you can’t actually kill her,” he sighs. “I feared she might turn up eventually.”

  “Are you going?”

  “The invitation I received indicated they would be picking me up at seven that evening.”

  “But you’re not going,” she more orders than asks. “You need to run.”

  “No darling,” he states slowly and deliberately. “You are the one who needs to run. “

  “I won’t,” she declares. “I’m coming there. We can sort this out together.”

  “Just slow down and listen to me.”

  “No, I am coming there,” she exclaims.

  “Jennifer just stop and think about this,” he argues. “This is in only six days. The few flights to Europe available leave out of Boston or New York and are booked months ahead of time. Even if you could catch a train to the east coast tomorrow, you would never get a flight, and a boat crossing takes a week at best.”

  “But my invitation suggests attendance is mandatory,” she reminds him. “Maybe they will pick me up as well.”

  “Which is why you need to run as soon as possible. They’re probably watching you.”

  “Will she harm you?”

  “Probably,” he admits. “You just be a good girl and run.”

  “What if I can get there before the fifteenth?” she pleads. “Then we can run together.”

  There is a long pause that leaves only her ragged breathing audible. It feels almost indecent to eavesdrop on this private family conversation, but I need to know what is happening.

  “I am not running,” he declares. “There is a certain amount of un-finished business to be dealt with. None of this concerns you.”

  “You concern me.”

  “And should I survive,” he lectures. “I will find you.”

  “But dad,” she whines.

  “Jen, I love you, but do not come here. They might be monitoring this call. Get your stuff together and disappear.”

  “I love you,” she pleads, her voice cracking from emotion.

  “And I you.”

  “Dad wait—.”

  The line goes dead. With the phone pinned to my ear, I listen to her redial the number a half dozen times. Each time it goes to voice mail. Either he won’t answer or smashed the phone. Her next seven calls are to travel agencies. A flight to Europe from the States will not be available for nearly a month. She next phones a friend and requests someone come by and feed her cat. She calls three more so-called friends before she secures a babysitter for her tabby. After that, no calls are placed. I observe from my vantage point across the street, but she doesn’t leave. What do I do now?

  Mulling over her phone conversation, I pull out a very small notebook and thumb through it. Some seventy years ago, I received a post card from California. It didn’t come directly to me of course as I was living a rather anonymous existence at that time. It was received by a contact of mine and did not come into my hands for over a decade. Where did I file that? I dust off several boxes until I find one marked DORIAN with a black marker. Removing a very small letter opener from my vest pocket, I drag the laser sharp implement down the paper tape sealing the lid. I clip the index finger on my left hand and jerk it back by instinct. The cut is small and I curse my own lack of focus. Why do I need such a sharp implement for paper?

  Inside the box is a morass of loose papers and dog-eared journals. Standing out colorfully on top is a post card featuring a photo of the Queen Mary. Returning to the dim light of the candelabra, I gaze upon the yellowed postcard.

 
; Edward, Beatrix and I are the last of us and will meet our doom this very day. Go to ground My friend, as they believe you to be dead. When the smoke clears, I call upon you to seek out my son.

  The card is signed your friend Dorian. On the right margin in small but recognizable script, My love always, Beatrix is scrawled. My heart flutters at the sight of her handwriting, the corners of my mouth curling upward. Before the smile can fully form the dark memory of finding this communication, a half century ago descends on me. I can almost smell the dank storage unit where a decade of my correspondences had been dumped, as I remained in hiding. Why am I such a coward? Minutes pass as I teeter in the dim light struggling to recall the smell of her perfume.

  “It appears we have reached a crossroads my Dear.”

  Chapter Two

  I knock with some trepidation. If you surveilled a person for over a decade, then knocked on their door, I can assure you it is one of many emotions you will experience. I hear muffled footfalls then the door flies inward without warning.

  “What do you want,” she bellows, holding a baseball bat.

  “I wish you no harm,” I choke out. “I am a friend of your grandfathers.”

  “Yeah right,” she scoffs, the bat wiggling at the ready.

  “Edward Grey,” I offer, putting out my hand to shake.

  There is a confused expression followed by another that’s more her trying to place my face. She does not offer her hand, but rather pulls it back reflexively.

  “Edward Grey?” she frowns, tilting her head to one side, studying my face. “From the picture?”

  “You appear to have me at a disadvantage. I am not sure what you mean.”

  “Wait here,” she orders, then disappears into the hall, out of sight.

  I am left standing on the porch as the light from inside bleeds out the open door. I am tempted to enter, but recall how dangerous the bat looked when gripped in her tiny hands. Some muffled complaining can be heard and then she re-appears holding an old black and white photo. She holds it up with the back to me and studies my face, then the photo. After a minute’s time, she finishes her comparison and shrugs, hand on her hip.

  “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but it seemed a fortuitous time to make my presence known.”

  Handing me the picture, she waves me inside. The photo has the date printed along one scalloped edge labeling it as AUG 65. There in faded grey scale are Dorian and myself. In his lap is a very pregnant woman, Jennifer’s grandmother. My own arms are wrapped around a curvy, dark haired lass wearing a long sleeved dress.

  “Beatrix,” I exhale.

  Stunned momentarily, I turn the picture over and read our names next to the notation, Cavanaugh Lake House. How long has it been since I have laid eyes on her face? It’s only a picture, but I possess none of us together. There may be one of us locked away in storage, but I have been too fearful to go anywhere near my horde of belongings in decades. To be honest the mere thought of her drives me to drunkenness. I must have lost track of time because Jenifer coughs a polite reminder that she’s in the room.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, wiping a stray tear from the corner of my eye before it can embarrass me.

  “Did my father send you? Are you here to help me?”

  “I have never had the pleasure of meeting your father as an adult, but I gladly offer my assistance.”

  “Do you have any connections with the airlines? I need to be in Germany in five days.”

  “I was under the impression you were advised not to go to Germany,” I reply confused. “Your father appeared very firm on the matter.”

  “How do you know what he told me?” she glares at me.

  “Possibly, I might see the invitation?”

  Annoyed and looking distrustful she retrieves it from another room that I deduce to be the kitchen. It appears the floor plan of this house is simply the reverse of mine. She starts to hand it over, but then pulls it out of my reach when I try to take it.

  “You’re spying on me aren’t you?”

  “Would an admission to said spying end our discourse?”

  “Probably not,” she groans, holding the letter out again.

  “Then yes, I live across the street and have a tap on your phone line.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “No, horrible is all the take-out you eat from the Tai place around the corner,” I remark, eyes on the letter.

  “I thought that place was deserted,” she shrugs, peeking out the window at 320 Maple across the street. “How long you been there?”

  “Two years, three months, and seven days,” I reveal without looking up from my perusal of the invitation. “Before that you were in St. Louis. I had an apartment on the end of your block.”

  “Why not just knock on the door and introduce yourself?” she complains. “I’m quite sure we were the only Immortals in residence.”

  Her question hangs in the air, but I am scanning the invite for clues. It would appear Dorian’s son Arron will be one hundred years old in six days. There is no indication of who is throwing the party, but the location is clearly somewhere called the Estate. If memory serves, she asked for the location during the phone call, indicating she doesn’t know the answer. The tenor of the call had indicated that there was severe danger to anyone who attended, specifically her father Arron. Again, Jennifer coughs to get my attention.

  “Hello?”

  “Who sent this?”

  “Most likely Rhea,” she answers ending in a frown.

  “Rhea would be?”

  “Too long a story for now,” she insists. “Any idea how I can get to Germany in five days?”

  Given the rarity of fossil fuels, getting on a Trans-Atlantic flight is nearly impossible, even if you have the means to afford it. Even more important is whether I intend to help her or not. Do I really want to get mixed up in this? Before I can decide, Dorians words echo off the post card. I call upon you to seek out my son.

  “Be quiet and stop guilt tripping me from the grave,” I lament.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I groan. “You’ll never get a flight out of New York or Boston.”

  “You’re telling me what I already know. Let’s focus on what we can do, not what we can’t.

  “Sorry, I didn’t finish the thought,” I hold up a hand and pause to frame my reply. “I might be able to get us on an electric plane going to Beijing.”

  “Who said anything about China?”

  “There is a bullet train that runs to Paris from Beijing. It has a stop in Berlin.”

  “That train ride has to be five thousand miles long,” she scoffs. “I need to be there in five days.”

  “It’s closer to six, but the word bullet does imply some amount of speed does it not?”

  “How long?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “If memory serves, around forty hours.”

  “Do you work for a travel agency or something?”

  “Quite the avid reader,” I declare, and then recall where I saw this information. “Your President travelled on the bullet train when he visited China. It was on the news quite a bit.”

  “My President?”

  “I hold Belize citizenship.”

  “Just like Dorian,” she smirks.

  “How did you come across that tidbit of information?” I ask, thinking even she’s not old enough to have breathed the same air as my former confidant.

  “I spent the first twenty years of my life listening to my dad tell the same stories over and over,” she explains. “I know as much about those five days as the people who were actually there.”

  “Five days?”

  “Yeah, it was five days from Dorians appearance in Vegas to the Bonfire,” she counters, but is looking at me wearing an amused face. “Color me surprised.”

  “Color you what?”

  “You don’t know what happened?”

  The immediate desire to question her fur
ther burns in my chest. Any knowledge I possess comes from the post card. Over the years watching Arron from afar, and now his daughter, no details have ever availed themselves to me. If I assist her there might be time to solicit information on this topic. I would desperately like to know what befell my dear Beatrix.

  “I had a brief correspondence with your grandfather, but other than that no.”

  “Interesting,” she muses, tapping a finger on her cheek, then pointing at me. “How fast can you get us on the plane?”

  “I’ll have to make a few calls.”

  “Here,” she offers, holding out a cell phone. “Use mine.”

  I pull a small notebook out of my jacket pocket and flip through. Not finding the number, I close it and remove another and begin again. I am on my third tiny notebook before I become aware of quiet snickering.

  “What?”

  “So you’re what?” she grins, “the frigging Bookmobile.”

  “Excuse me?” I mutter, unsure what a Bookmobile might be.

  “How many tiny address books you got in that jacket of yours?”

  “I find it’s good to keep important information close at hand,” I reply defensively.

  “Clearly, but you could store a thousand notebooks in this phone.” she snorts, holding out the phone again.

  “It’s likely your adversaries have bugged your phone,” I answer, ignoring her suggestion. “We shall call from my place. Since they will no doubt have listened to your previous calls, I recommend you accompany me. Bring your things and we will depart from there.”

  “Bossy much.”

  “Leave the phone,” I instruct, ignoring her verbal jab. “Let us leave them no way to track our movements.”

  She looks upset at the thought of leaving it, but eventually agrees. I am surprised when she drops her phone into the toilet and flips down the lid. She packs a single backpack and slams the door behind her as I stand in the front yard. She looks so very young to me. Blue jeans tattered at the cuffs over tennis shoes and a hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with her university’s logo. Shoulder length black hair bobbed at the shoulders with eyes so brightly green they almost glow. More interesting yet are the white gloves on either hand. She didn’t have them on when I arrived. I almost ask, but then decide to keep moving before the goons in the black sedan return.