by C. F. Waller
“Starting a war?”
“Mom might need them,” she replies casually.
“The small fact that’s quite dead aside, what might she need them for?”
“The Queen,” she fires back, reaching in and coming back with a Japanese sword in a black liquor sleeve.
“And the firearm was effective in a previous engagement?”
“Moderately,” she mutters, holding the sword up to the light and pulling it out of the sheath.
“And the sword? Was your mother a Samurai as well?”
“It was a gift to Dorian from Fujiwara Kanenaga,” she explains, replacing the sheath. “You’ve never seen it?”
“No, but it appears to be very old.”
“Sixteen-hundreds,” she reports, slipping a cord around her shoulder and slinging it behind her back. “Used to be over the fireplace when I was a growing up. Father forbade me to touch it.”
“But now?”
“The Queen mocked my mother’s guns suggesting they were the long range weapon of cowards,” she scowls. “Suggested she preferred more intimate combat.”
“And swords are more your speed?”
She nods, closing the doors and replacing the sheet over the Nazi antique.
“If you can’t hurt her, why fight at all?” I remark casually. “That’s like arguing with a crazy person.”
“I never said you can’t hurt her. I just said you can’t kill the witch.”
“You’re quite a bit more bloodthirsty; that was apparent from a distance.”
“You mean from stalking me.”
“Glass half empty, glass half full,” I offer in defense, then point at the large object in the center of the room. “What might this be?”
“Have a look.”
With permission granted, I pull the sheet. It slides with ease, flowing by itself over a smooth wax finish. Under lies a black car. There are no wheels and the entire contraption balances on cement blocks. The windshield is also missing along with the hood and surprisingly the engine. Red stripes cross over the roof indicating it was once a very sporty transport. Tilting my head and imagining the vehicle in its complete form, I realize it’s identical to the white Mustang driven by Arron Faust.
“It was my fathers,” she whispers over my shoulder causing me to jump. “The white one was my mothers. He’s been stealing parts from it since I was a kid.”
“To keep the one we are driving functional?”
She nods and exits under the orange rolling door. I tag along and we convene at the car. While she returns the slide card to the office, I fixate on the Star of David necklace hanging off the rear view mirror. Arron has been driving around in his wife’s car for seventy years watching this necklace dangle here. With my hand on my side, I feel the outline of the photo’s in my pocket. My understanding of his torment is undeniably visceral. I find myself wishing for a token from my beloved. I am suddenly struck by the possibility that her clothes might still bear the scent of her perfume. Are her clothes stored in my Spanish vault?
“Get in,” Jenn orders, dragging me from more pleasant thoughts.
We speed down the Autobahn to the church. My window remains up, while hers is down causing a virtual hurricane inside the vehicle. I comment on this several times to no avail.
“Might I press you for those details concerning my dear Beatrix’s demise now?”
“That depends,” she shrugs. “Are you hightailing it out of here tomorrow morning or staying to help?”
“To play Igor to your Doctor Frankenstein?”
“You don’t really have to do anything, but it would be safer for me if there was someone there just in case.”
“In case what?”
“Just in case,” she groans. “Are you staying or going?”
The answer to her query has not yet been decided, in my own mind. So far, I have managed to remain hidden, but if this becomes some sort of pinnacle event determining the outcome of our kind, my knowing of how it ends seems like an advantage. Of course, if it goes awry and everyone is killed, it would be far less so. What should I do?
“Undecided,” I announce.
“If you stay, I will share.”
“So you’re a Blackmailer,” I accuse and roll my eyes.
“My options are limited.”
“Will you at least consider sharing the details of your plan? I might better decide were I in possession of more information.”
“It’s not complicated. One of them will try to grab me up. When he does, I’ll wrap my fingers around his arm. It would be helpful if you were there to lift the lid on the casket so I can get ahold of Mom.”
“Can’t you just drain him, then, open the lid yourself?”
“You don’t really understand,” she sighs. “You called me a conduit.”
“It seemed appropriate.”
“It is, but I’m not a container,” she impresses upon me. “I can’t store up the energy. It needs to pass through and into something else.”
“Interesting, on the plane you drained, for lack of a better word, the dog, but I didn’t see you put his life force into anyone?”
“Dogs are small,” she explains. “Over the years I have built up a tolerance and can hold a small amount, but not the volume we need tomorrow.”
“A tolerance?”
“Yeah, like a competitive eater. If you eat too much all the time, you get accustomed to it. The more you practice the easier it becomes. Over the years I have stretched out my,” she stalls in a pause, “whatever it is, and can hold a bit.”
“And if you take too much, but aren’t touching anyone?” I ask, unsure what competitive eating is, but understanding the concept.
“No idea, and I don’t plan to find out.”
“You and your father tried this before,” I expose. “I believe Father Michaels grandfather is still rather traumatized from the experience.”
“My gift or curse, whatever it is, didn’t fully reveal itself until I stopped aging. Over time, the idea that he could bring mother back drove him to distraction. I wasn’t against the idea, but this ability scared me to death at first. You have no idea what effect killing your neighbor’s cats has on a young girl.”
“Cats, plural?”
She nods and frowns as if her original statement did not require clarification.
“I’ll assume you didn’t keep house pets.”
“Funny,” she snorts. “What do you think?”
“I would think not.”
“Anyway,” she continues. “After a while he talked me into giving it a try. He told Father Michael’s grandfather he wanted to retrieve a piece of jewelry and asked him to dig up mom.”
“Yes, he told me that over coffee this morning,” I share, recalling I didn’t actually get any coffee. “What was your plan regarding a donor? You needed a live person I assume.”
“Unfortunately,” she sighs. “Once we were alone, Dad leaned out the side door and called to one of the guys who did the digging. He figured there would be people around.”
“And if the workmen had gone to lunch would you have used Father Michael?”
“They didn’t go to lunch,” she remarks defensively.
“And what happened when you tried?” I inquire, already aware of whistling stitches.
“It wasn’t enough,” she grunts, swerving around a slower car. “I drained the guy as much as I could, but it barley jolted her. It was like, something was holding her back. I’d have needed ten guys to make a dent in whatever she had going on.”
“Jenn, your mother has been gone for over seventy years,” I point out. “She’s not a dog you just put to sleep. Whatever memories made her who she was are long gone.”
“No, I felt her,” she declares. “She’s still there.”
“You said the energy has to go somewhere,” I propose. “If you took it from the worker and put it in your mother, but she didn’t come back, then where did it go? The worker died and you claim you can’t hold it in.”
> She doesn’t answer but instead rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“Well?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “It went into mom and didn’t come back. Maybe it burned off or something?”
“Or it’s still in there,” I remark. “Your mother does look awfully good for her age.”
“Possibly, but she looked like that before. Father Michael said it was normal if the embalming was good.”
“You’re aware of what they do to a person when they embalm them?” I lament, imagining the stitches. “There is some internal modification, plus she’s likely full of embalming fluid and formaldehyde.”
“This isn’t ancient Egypt old-timer,” she needles me. “Her guts aren’t in marble jars next to the sarcophagus. They puff air in to dry out the organs, but it’s all still there, besides what I am going to give her will fix all that.”
“Well, I must say. What you lack in information you make up for in over-confidence. Have you ever brought back a human being?”
She shakes her head.
“How long dead was the worst case you succeeded in reviving?”
“Three days,” she admits. “A bird.”
“And the bird was fine?”
“Sort of,” she shrugs. “He didn’t fly much.”
“You do see what I am alluding to,” I groan in dismay. “Do you not?”
“This is different,” she argues, gripping the steering wheel tight with both hands. “The donor is better.”
“A supernatural donor won’t help the things that matter,” I admonish her. “A person is much more complex than small animals not to mention your mother’s life experience is what made her who she was. How do you know she won’t be left a zombie even if you manage to coax her physical being back?”
“Do you want to know what happened to Beatrix or not,” she snaps and pauses for me to reply. “It’s a yes or no question.”
“Of course,” I fire back a bit aggressively, then correct my reply. “Yes, I mean yes.”
“Great, my father was there and can answer all your questions. I know because he told me every riveting detail. You already know the payment I require so what’s it going to be?”
“Assuming your plan goes perfectly,” I shudder at the thought, “and your mother comes back. How do you plan on finding your father?”
“The Queen will send two,” she reminds me, “leaving one to report back.”
“You think you can follow him?”
“I don’t have to follow anyone. When he tells her what I have done, she will come for me herself.”
“Wonderful,” I groan. “And then your plan is?”
“That is why we need my mother,” she mutters grimly over the wind entering through her window. “That is why we need my mother.”
When she repeats this statement, her lips curl up in a sadistic smile. It looks out of place on her young face. While she has an answer for every question there can be no doubt a million holes exist in the plan. I cannot imagine staying here to bear witness to the resurrection attempt or the ensuing slaughter at the hands of the Queen’s minions. Do I even believe in this Queen?
Chapter Twelve
The wedding party’s name, Schmidt, is spelled out on a huge stone billboard next to the road. Pink crepe paper streamers line edge of the property to draw cars in to the correct parking lot. In contradiction, a small cardboard sign, the kind used for garage sales and realtor open houses, beckons those looking for the Rahnee Ben-Ahron memorial service. Jennifer claims it doesn’t matter since we only expect two guests. This wing of the Cathedral is a wide open room about the size of a tennis court. A cut stone floor lies under a two story arched ceiling. Everything is made from a rich looking wood and four thick beams form an arch across the ceiling from side to side.
One wall has four carts holding neatly stacked folding chairs. They are all nearly full, as no seats have been set out. The casket sits on the innermost wall, leaving the greatest possible distance between the door and Jennifer’s position. We would prefer to see him enter. The lid has been unlocked, but is down. When Father Michael unlocked it earlier I turned away, but the smell still resonates in the room. It’s the sort of smell that never seems to completely leave you after you encounter it. Some things you cannot un-smell.
Framed prints at least six feet tall run along one wall. The frames are elaborate carved wood, which on some is veneered in gold leaf. The names of the Popes read in Latin at the bottom, scrolled over a red ribbon. They are all reproductions of paintings, not photos. I have seen the originals of several in person. The eyes are all oversized and round, making me feel like they are watching us. By the looks of it, they do not approve.
There are double doors behind us, but with the wedding in progress, they remain locked. I half expected loops of chains and padlocks, but a simple turnkey lock is all that stands between the nuptials and the abomination about to occur in here. The processional music thundered out a half hour ago, vibrating the wall. Against my recommendation, Jenn is unarmed. The gun and sword remain locked in the trunk outside. She seems to think any sign of them will throw up a red flag. When I suggest the room, being devoid of guests, might do the same, she disagrees. She’s supremely confident of her quarry’s over-confidence. Everyone is confident but me. I set up a two folding chairs and we wait. After a bit, the recessional hymn is played and I assume the receiving line is in full force.
“And if they don’t show?” I yawn, stretching my arms over my head.
“They will.”
“Because they want you so very badly?”
“Because they want all of us, but yes me in-particular.”
“What do they stand to gain if they get all of us?”
“You don’t even believe in them,” she snickers.
“Humor me.”
“Our origin,” she explains. “Yours, mine, my fathers, even your precious Beatrix traces back to before the flood.”
“Yes, you already told me that ridiculous bible story.”
“Fine,” she gripes. “Just stifle yourself for a moment. Father claimed the queen’s male counterpart refused to eradicate us. He stalled for thousands of years only stepping in when we were discovered by mortal men.”
“At which time he killed everyone involved, including the mortals,” I recap.
“Correct,” she nods. “During these extermination excursions his minions started turning up missing. Any guess as to why?”
“Sindri?” I toss out. “The tiny Nordic avenger?”
“You are correct. She managed to box a few, then Cronus went to see for himself and—.”
“Hold on,” I cut her off. “Did you say Cronus? The all-powerful leader of the Twelve Titians from Greek mythology?”
“I did. My father thought the same thing, but she told him that was the Greeks fault. The names got pinned on them and they played along.”
“This is preposterous,” I complain in a hostile voice. “If you’re going to make something up keep it simple so the poor rube you share it with isn’t alerted to your deception.”
“Stop and think,” she badgers me. “Imagine the scene a thousand years before Christ. One of these things gets run through with a spear, but simply draws it out and returns it to its owner sharp end first. The Queen told my father they didn’t encourage the myth, but the Greeks loved to write.”
“As amusing as that sounds, you were explaining how Sindri boxed Cronus?”
“Right, yes, at some point their paths crossed and she leveraged the element of surprise and boxed him. She sealed him in and tossed the box seven miles down in the Pacific Ocean.”
“Still doesn’t explain what’s in it for them,” I point out. “They were supposed to be hunting us before that.”
“It matters because in his absence Rhea took over. Having been playing second fiddle for thousands of years she had her own ideas. Once he was gone, Rhea ordered the mass genocide originally agreed to by them. They followed my mother’s employers unt
il they captured the Cartographer—.”
“Anthony,” I blurt out.
“Yeah, the guy with the family tree.”
“The Calling Tree,” I correct her. “The only known list of our kind.”
“Right, well they used that list to hunt us down. It took her a decade to get it down to just Dorian and Beatrix or so she thought,” Jenn mutters and then points at me. “You seem to have stayed off her radar.”
“No doubt as a result of Beatrix misdirection,” I admit. “Still, who tasked them with our doom? What were they offered to wipe us off the map?”
“Although she didn’t come right out and say it, my father inferred from her rhetoric that God,” she claims, pointing at the ceiling. “Offered to welcome them back if they cleaned up his little mistake.”
“If the bible is to be believed,” I remark, then point at the ceiling, “he doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Mistake, part of a divine plan, who knows.”
“So in this circular fairy tale it would seem we have arrived back at fallen Angels?”
“Listen up Bookmobile,” she growls. “I wasn’t there. That’s what my father told me. If you choose to disregard it that’s on you. Just try and —.”
She’s yelling at me when a shadow cuts across the floor. Jenn doesn’t see it and is still shouting when I glimpse the cause. A man in a dark suit enters, peeling off a pair of copper sunglasses and observing the area as his eyes adjust. Unable to stop hurricane Jenn, I simply point a shaky finger at the door.
“Because you believing it or—,” she is yelling, but her voice trails off at the sight of our guest.
“This who you were expecting?”
“Dust dârid bâ man beraqsid?,” the man shouts from across the room, hooking his sunglasses in his jacket pocket and heading our way.
“What did he say?” Jenn blurts out.
“My ancient Persians a bit rusty.”
“Best guess?”
“Possibly he asked you to dance,” I suggest.
“Rusty might be an understatement, but let’s assume he’s the guy we’re looking for,” she sighs, hopping up and pushing the chair away with her foot. “Being that he’s speaking Persian.”