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

by C. F. Waller

  “Tricky,” she purrs, leaning her head back to better see Jenn. “You got a wine glass or something?”

  Jenn obediently fetches a long stemmed wine glass and sets it on the table. Her finger prints are visible on the dusty glass, but when Jenn tries to take it back Rahnee waves her off. Must be she’s not drinking out of it. Or possibly she doesn’t care. She finishes another beer and her servant daughter brings her a fourth can. Rahnee studies it, looking momentarily confused. It’s as if she is having random mini strokes.

  “Did you get any Scotch?” she inquires, snapping back to the now.

  Jenn replaces the beer in the fridge and pulls out the hard spirits. Her mother’s eyes flicker bright green as she takes it. She twists off the cap, breaking the paper seal.

  “I’m not running away,” Jenn announces, although her mother doesn’t seem to be listening.

  “Maybe we should let her rest,” I suggest. “She seems to gain strength as time passes.”

  “Maybe you could take a walk and give us a chance to catch up,” Jenn barks in an aggressive tone. “This is a family matter.”

  I glance at Rahnee, who shrugs, then takes a swig from the bottle. I stand and button my suit jacket. Plucking up my cup, I take a long sip of tea, then hand the cup to Jenn as she’s next to the sink. She takes it reluctantly and I head to the door. At the table, Rahnee is holding her finger tip over the wine glass and pressing on it with her thumb and middle finger. A red drop hits the inside of the glass, causing a smile to bloom on her face. A quick glance at Jenn reveals no such smile. She crosses her arms over her chest defiantly, but looks apologetic as I leave. I head for the main sanctuary, but wonder if the yelling will be audible from there.

  …

  I am awakened by a tap on the shoulder. A clergyman, who I can’t recall meeting previously, pulls his hand back quickly when I jerk into consciousness. The sanctuary comes into focus revealing his concerned look.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just after mid-night Sir,” he offers politely. “I saw you sitting here and wondered if you needed assistance?”

  “In ways that you could never provide,” I exhale.

  “Pardon,” he answers, turning one ear to me indicating he didn’t quite make out what I said.

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” I cough, then, shake my head to get the cobwebs loose. “I’ll be going.”

  “Very well Sir,” he bows, then slips into a candle lit hall to the side of the choir pews.

  Rising slowly, I stretch my hands over my head. The smell of death and chemicals is strong. Is this in my nose or does the main sanctuary now bear the scent? I hasten my departure in need of fresh air.

  The outside is lighted by street lights and a few halogens that have been tacked up around the Cathedral. It’s rather surprising how little exterior illumination is at work here. A building of this size would seem to warrant more attention. Arron should have given them more money.

  The Mustang sits in the drive, condensation fogging the rear window. Ragged curtains glow from the direction of the cottage, illuminated by candles. Let’s hope they didn’t kill each other. I pause at the door, but can’t hear anything from inside. Pressing the knob inward, I am greeted by Rahnee with a finger over her lips. She’s sitting on one of the kitchen chairs at the table. Empty beer cans clutter the surface and by a quick count, she seems to have drained them all. She points a finger to the couch where I find Jennifer passed out, one arm hanging on the floor. She snores ever so quietly, her mouth hanging open in an awkward way.

  Rahnee waves me over and offers me the Scotch, but when I refuse, she drinks straight from the bottle. It’ been a few hours, but amazingly she has downed nearly half already. I excuse myself and use the restroom. When I return she’s sitting on the floor pulling on Jenn’s shoes. I’m not sure how she got them off without waking her. Now completely dressed, she wobbles to her feet, then, trudges past me into the bedroom. I watch Jenn sleep for a bit, noticing an empty wine bottle next to the couch. Someone had a bit too much to drink yet again.

  Rahnee returns wearing Jenn’s hoodie. She puts a finger up to her lips once more, then slips behind me. On the table amongst the mass of beer cans is the wine glass from earlier. It now contains an inch of the red fluid that I saw leaking out of her fingertip previously. She plucks up the glass and heads to the door, her other hand wrapped around the neck of the Scotch bottle. Is she leaving? I follow, pulling the door shut as quietly as possible. Outside she walks away from the house a safe distance, then turns back waiting for me to catch up.

  “Where are you going?” I whisper, but realize we are out of earshot.

  “She won’t run.”

  I nod, as this is not earthshattering news to me.

  “Rhea doesn’t want her father,” she sighs. “She took Arron to get to Jenn. She is the one in danger.”

  “I was under the impression all of the minor-immortals were on her hit list.”

  “It’s minor-immortals now is it?” she smirks. “That’s gotta sting.”

  I shrug, disliking the term, but at a loss for a better one. I doubt anyone likes being demoted to minor anything. Rahnee stands in the moonlight, the wine glass dangling from one hand, hard spirits in the other. She looks passable, but the smell is still trailing her around. Even with a moderate wind that smells of a wood fire, her vile chemical aroma still assaults me.

  “Why is Jenn the target?”

  “Have you not seen the magic trick,” she remarks, holding her arms out to the side and turning in a slow circle. “Were you not entertained?”

  “Yes, I get that, but why does this Queen want her, outside of needing to kill all of us? Does she need to resurrect someone?”

  “Doubtful,” she shrugs, then starts toward the Mustang. “You’re only here because she promised to tell you what happened to Beatrix, right?”

  “That’s correct,” I admit, following her.

  “You still want to know what happened?”

  “I do.”

  “Only two people walked away from that mess,” she proclaims, setting her wine glass on the roof of the car. “Of those two, only one actually saw it with their own eyes.”

  “You?”

  “No, Arron,” she admits, spinning the cap off the Scotch and taking a long tug. “I took a bullet in the chest just before it happened.”

  “I thought you walked away?”

  “I was wearing a vest,” she boasts, rapping her knuckles on her chest. “That said, Arron told me just like he told her. Come with me and I’ll tell you in the car.”

  “Why do you want me to come?”

  “You have money?”

  “Of course,” I reply, astonished this is the reason.

  “I’m going to need some things,” she reveals, pulling the door open slowly and slipping in.

  I stand frozen watching her reach up and drag her hand back and forth on the roof until she finds the stem of the glass. Carefully, she brings it in the window and pulls the door shut. I flinch and look back to the cottage when the car door latch rattles, but don’t see Jenn rushing to stop us. She looked pretty well passed out. The passenger door clicks and Rahnee shoves it halfway open as she leans over the center console.

  “Get in.”

  “Tell me about Bee and I’ll give you my card,” I offer, pulling my swipe card out and waving it at her.

  “I need you for one other thing,” she insists. “Just get in already.”

  “Wait here,” I offer in a hushed tone and head back to the house.

  Walking away, I expect the car to start, but it doesn’t. I slip in the door and retrieve my briefcase. Jenn is snoring on the couch, drool on her chin. I pause, looking down on her. The poor girl means well. Am I a complete scallywag for running off on her? The car starts, jarring me out of my thoughts. Jenn turns over and for a moment, I fear she will awaken. She yawns, then exhales deeply and drifts off. I wait until it’s clear she’s sleeping, then join Rahnee in the car
. Jenn will almost certainly wake up when she puts it in gear and hits the gas.

  “Hold this,” she orders, handing me the wine glass. “Don’t spill it.”

  “Do you think it’s fair to steal her car as well?” I ask, holding the glass away from my nose.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you think—.”

  “It’s my car,” she growls, then lowers her voice as she jams it in gear. “Arron gave this car to me. I am not stealing anything.”

  The engine roars and the tires spin slightly on the dirt drive. She loops around on the grass then races out to the road. Once on pavement she rides the gears until the engine sounds like it will explode before upshifting. I struggle not to spill the tiny bit of liquid in the wine glass. How she’s steering and shifting with a bottle of Scotch between her legs in beyond me, but when she takes a drink without running off the road my heart skips a beat. She stares confused at the stereo, pushing buttons, but only managing to turn it on and produce static. I look over and she shrugs.

  “How do I play a CD?”

  “You can’t,” I sigh. “They haven’t made one in sixty years.”

  She grimaces, so I pull up the artist list and show her how to scroll. It’s a blue screen and the names of artists and album titles are listed. She scans down the list, nearly running off the road several times. When she lands on a name she recognizes she pumps a fist and presses the play button. Guitar riffs fill the interior of the car and she rolls her window down and slaps the roof. I hate myself for loving you—Joan Jet and Blackhearts scrolls across the blue screen. Moments later, I am assaulted by the lyrics and cover one ear with my free hand. The Mustang lurches forward and we fly headlong into darkness. What have we done?

  Chapter Fourteen

  A single blade of light cuts across my eyes lids like a laser, dragging me instantly from sleep. I wake, slouched down in the passenger seat, the sunrise reflecting off the side mirror and hitting me square in the face. I struggle to a full upright position and see a familiar self-storage establishment across the street. In the driver seat, Rahnee stares out the window blankly.

  “Coffee,” I moan, hand on my forehead.

  “They’ll be open in a half hour. I’m sure you can get a Styrofoam cup of awake from them.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  She fails to reply, indicating the answer is no. On the floorboards under my feet the Scotch bottle lies, empty with no cap. I didn’t drink any so she must have tossed it here when she finished.

  “Where’s your wine glass?”

  Again no words, but she reaches out the window and brings the glass in from the roof. There’s at least double the fluid now, better than two inches. She sets it on the center console and wags a finger at me in a warning gesture that I should not knock it over. It smells of the same rancid death soup she crawled out of and I roll my window down in hopes of airing out the car. The stench is horrific in here and I barely noticed. How can I be used to it so quickly?

  “I was here two days ago.”

  “Here,” she points across the street. “Jenn brought you here?”

  “Yeah, she grabbed some stuff,” I mumble, then realize what we left at the cottage. “Your gun, the one buried with you, Jenn has it in her backpack. Are you going to need that?”

  “Arron buried me with it?” she winces.

  I nod, also unsure why he would do that.

  “Nope, I don’t need it. It wasn’t the show stopper I thought it was.”

  “When we came here, Jenn took a bunch of ammo for it,” I explain. “I thought she was gathering it up for you.”

  “Probably was, but like I said, it wasn’t very effective last time.”

  “Is there something better in there?” I ask, recalling the Nazi cabinet full of guns.

  “No, I just want some of my own clothes.”

  “You think they are in there?” I point across the street.

  “Jenn said they were. She came here with Arron a bunch of times as a kid. Apparently, he put all my crap in here.”

  I try to imagine dying, then popping back into my life seventy years later. How strange would it be to try and track down your things? In her case, the reality isn’t all that bad. All her loved ones are still young and alive and her stuff appears to be stored in one place. Still, seeing all your clothes in dusty boxes would be surreal. It strikes me that, whenever she refers to her husband Arron, her tone is flat. From all indications, he was heartbroken at her loss, yet she hasn’t asked about him at all.

  “I bet you’re excited to see Arron.”

  “I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”

  “What’s that mean? Aren’t you worried they might hurt him?”

  “She won’t hurt him.”

  “Why might that be?”

  “Outside of the obvious?” she shrugs. “She wants Jennifer and the bait is Arron.”

  “But she will have to kill him to complete her contract?””

  “Sure, but Rhea has a thing for him,” she sighs. “They spent some time together before, then even after she tried to kill us he defended her. Honestly I doubt she’ll kill him till she has to.”

  “And that’s good, right? Give you a chance to save the day.”

  “Sorry buddy, wrong theater. No one’s getting saved,” she mocks me. “I thought you wanted to know about Beatrix?”

  “I very much do. Would now be a good time?”

  I wait for a reply, but she points across the street. The lighted sign in the window flickers on and a red Yes, We’re Open neon glows to life. I chastise myself for not asking for this information earlier. I am not at my best after sleeping in the front seat of a car. Rahnee hands me the wine glass and drives across the street. We enter and when the gal asks for her ID, I flinch. Even if she was on the contract allowing her access, that was seventy years ago. No way they would believe a woman who looks to be in her thirties is actually the named account holder. After a sob story about losing her purse, the gal holds out a scanner. Calmly, Rahnee presses her thumb on it. A bell dings and they make her a magnetic swipe card without question.

  “That’s it?” I grumble as we drive around to the back. “You don’t look a hundred years old.”

  “How strange,” she sighs wistfully. “I feel much older.”

  We park outside the doors and Rahnee drifts slowly through the wreckage of her past life. In fact, almost all of this stuff was Dorians and she has no real connection to it, but just being here seems to shake her a bit. She spends a half hour sitting in the remains of the black Mustang. When pressed, she tells me a story about her and Arron going to a locked garage in Kansas and finding the two Mustangs sitting side by side. Apparently, there was a manifest or list of the lockers contents in a book Dorian left behind. There’s a romantic tale of them driving several days out of their way to look for the twin sports cars. As Rahnee sits there, it’s as if the person she used to be has crawled back inside her. A sense that this is an actual human being and not a resurrected corpse hangs in the air around her. Unfortunately, so does the smell.

  The office provides all the coffee I can drink, plus a doughnut. I relax in the Queen Anne chair and flip through photo albums. Hours pass, then Rahnee digs out several boxes labeled with her name written in magic marker. She sneaks behind some boxes covered in dusty white sheets to change. I have no doubt this was for my benefit, as she appears to have no body shame. When she emerges wearing dark jeans and black boots, she looks happy. The boots are military looking, but have a wedge heel and are clearly a style choice, not an army surplus item. A red blouse, cut a bit on the low side, is at least in her size. Tossing a very stylish leather jacket over one shoulder, she rejoins me in the center of the room.

  “I was expecting a party dress,” I tease her.

  “The party we are heading for isn’t black tie.”

  “About that,” I mention, putting up a hand. “Might we talk about Beatrix now? I am rather undecided on my desire to walk headlong into a war.”

/>   “Yeah, have a seat.”

  I sit back down and wait for her to begin. She paces by several times, then leans her butt on the back of the car.

  “I never really got to know Bee. She and Dorian were never with me per say, but Arron spoke highly of her after the fact.”

  I nod, aware this will be a sad story, but needing to hear it just the same.

  “The thing is, I was getting ready to kill her myself,” she admits and waits for me to speak, but I don’t. “I had made a deal to kill the two of them in exchange for my own life.”

  “I’m aware. Jenn told me your plan was to execute Bee, but I was under the impression you didn’t get the chance.”

  “That’s true; before I could close my end of the deal another party, who Dorian had bribed, shot me.”

  “It sounds dreadfully complicated. Can you skip to the chapter that includes Bee?”

  “Right, sorry,” she shrugs, but then the hum of an electric car breaks our mood.

  A black limousine stops in front of the rolling door. It pulls just past the white Mustang, leaving me tilting my head to see inside. Two men in expensive grey suits exit the front and scan the surrounding area. When satisfied, one opens the rear door and an elderly red-headed woman steps out of the car. She squints in our direction, but I am not sure if her vision is sound enough to reveal us. The woman, wearing a long black overcoat, walks with a slight limp. She is very old, her red hair thin and streaked with grey. She has a perpetual shaking condition that must be a symptom of age, but it’s a bit distracting.

  Rahnee looks suspicious, but then gathers herself and walks out of the locker, leaving me gawking. The two women don’t speak, simply take each other in. Does she know who we are? I join them after several tense minutes.