by C. F. Waller
The look I receive in return in pure bile. He takes a step back in my direction, but halts when Anthony saunters into the room. Anthony’s head swivels back and forth between us, smelling a dispute.
“Did I see Helen inside?” I ask sweetly.
“When,” he stutters, then, pauses to accept distrustful stares from both of us.
“You’re playing both sides of the fence my quirky little friend,” I accuse and point a finger in his direction. “If the endgame didn’t require all of our deaths I’d think you were up to something.”
“You have me at a loss,” he mutters again in a nervous way.
“You and Helen seem pretty cozy,” I accuse. “How long have you two been on a kiss me goodbye basis?”
When he doesn’t answer, Arron lets go of his anger for the moment and crosses his arms waiting to hear the response. I’m not sure Anthony will give us one, but then he grins as he often does and puts a hand on Arron’s shoulder.
“I’m far older than either of you,” he announces. “Arron’s only just turned a hundred and Edward, how far back do you go?”
“That’s a rather personnel question to ask,” I snap. “Our ages aside, what are you up to with Helen?”
“You date back to 1000 AD and not a bit further,” he accuses, waving a hand in the direction of the library. “If you like, I’ll take you inside and point out the probable branches of your family tree.”
“I’ll stipulate to your estimation of my age. What of it?”
“Helen and I are not involved in any illicit dealings. When I met her she was plain old Helen of Sparta.”
Arron and I exchange puzzled looks. The Trojan War dates to 1,200 BC. Is Anthony over three thousand years old? If so, does this explain his intimate discussion and her willingness to share information?
“So you two aren’t in league with each other,” Arron suggests. “Your just old friends.”
“That’s exactly right,” Anthony bobs his head and grins. “You should have seen the look on her face when they dragged me through the front door in handcuffs. I thought she’d pass out from shock.”
“You knew her, but neither of you confessed your immortality all those years ago?” I chuckle.
“As you may be aware, Helen left Sparta in a historically abrupt manor.”
This draws chuckles from all three of us.
“On a ship in the dead of night,” Arron jokes. “So can we count on her for intel, or is she loyal to the Queen?”
“Loyal as they come, but can also be counted on for a kind word in a pinch,” Anthony assures us. “Just keep this card up your sleeve until we need it. Best not to alert the media.”
“Agreed,” Arron nods, but frowns when he notices me looking, then backs out of the room.
“What’s up with you two,” Anthony mumbles, glancing over his shoulder.
“We have a disagreement over the gates of hell and who guards them,” I sigh, sitting back down in the sun. “Not to worry, I suspect the question will be answered very soon.”
“Indeed.”
Chapter Twenty
Dinner is to be served at seven o’clock sharp. The ladies who bring us fresh towels and clean laundry, pass through at lunchtime with invitations printed on thick card stock. It seems absurd to receive an invitation for a dinner being held at most, twenty yards away. Add to this the reality that we are basically imprisoned here, and it’s even more so. The invitation amuses Arron as well. He observes that it’s very similar to the one he received announcing his birthday party. Possibly, they have an in-house printer. Anthony verifies that he has never received anything like this before, however, the ladies bringing fresh pressed clothing is a common occurrence.
The chilly air between myself and Arron has warmed by lunchtime. No words were spoken, but he seems an affable fellow. No doubt he has a lot on his mind, the specter of his daughter’s arrival hanging over him. Anthony thinks we might be executed in spectacular fashion after dinner, but remains confident he will be killed last. Why this is comforting to him in beyond me. If faced with inevitable execution, I’d prefer to not sit and watch several others go first.
The dark skinned minion who guards the door to Anthony’s playhouse comes for us promptly at a quarter to seven. He’s wearing a shiny grey suit, probably Italian silk and white loafers. He doesn’t look annoyed tonight, rather unmoved and bored. We follow him to the main hall in silence.
Before we get into the torch lit room, music can be heard. Upon entering, the source of the velvet melodies is revealed. Two men and a woman are set up in the very center of the hall playing. The males drag bows across an enormous cello and a violin, while the lady plays a harp twice her size. It sounds classical, but I can’t place the melody. Rhea stands near them holding a silver goblet. She’s deep in conversation with Helen. Both are wearing tunic tops and long straight leg pants. Both items appear to be a rich silk of some kind and glint as they stand in the torchlight. Two others converse near the long dinner table. A woman in a short black dress and a man dressed in similar fashion to our escort. These are clearly more of Rhea’s Immortal minions.
The long table, at least thirty feet in length and five wide, is covered in a white tablecloth that hangs nearly to the floor in front. At first glance, it looks as if it’s set for eight, but it’s hard to tell. That would account for everyone present. Tall candelabras with three candles each sit atop the table at regular intervals. I count at least six. The scent of Hazelnut floats in the air from large candles, at least six inches in diameter, in my estimation. The front side of the wide table features bottles of what I suspect is wine sitting in a line next to goblets. Long trays are covered with fruits and from this distance what looks like a selection of cheese and bread.
When Rhea sees us she motions to the table, but continues chatting. Our guard dog joins Rhea and Helen, leaving us to our own devices. Anthony goes directly to the wine and begins pouring. I place my hand over the third glass, stopping him mid pour. I’d prefer to be clear headed tonight. There are no plates, thus Arron and Anthony pick at what appears to be the appetizers and sip wine. They remain close to the table, choosing not to fraternize. I can’t imagine what’s to be feared at this point? They are going to kill us regardless of our behavior. Why should I be timid? This sense of empowerment is a new sensation for me, but I find it invigorating.
“Wonderful spread,” I offer loudly as I cross the room.
“You’re not having any wine?” Rhea queries.
“With dinner,” I explain, coasting up to their group. “You ladies look stunning tonight.”
Helen nods, but doesn’t speak. Rhea eyes me over the top of her goblet, but only nods, the charcoal hole passing over her shoulder and revealing her collarbone as it migrates.
Her male minion excuses himself to the table as Arron joins us. Anthony remains glued to the cheese and bread as if he was being starved. That thought setting off a red flag in my brain, I search the room for Annie, but don’t find her. I wonder if she’s still with us? I am tempted to ask, but Arron’s arrival turns the mood in a different direction.
“Happy belated birthday,” Rhea gushes, stepping close and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry we missed the exact date, but tardy guests had to be tracked down.”
“No harm, no foul,” he replies, oddly comfortable with her touch.
The two continue to chat at close range. At some point, he takes her hand and their fingers dangle intertwined as they speak. Rhea turns him away and the pair drift a short distance apart from the group. The separation is just far enough that I can’t make out their conversation. What is going on here? They seem a bit too cozy for the condemned and the executioner. I am lost in thought staring when Helen speaks.
“Are you sure about the wine? It’s quite good.”
“Yes, nothing right now,” I mutter, watching Rhea chat up Arron. “He tells me you’re the actual Helen.”
She shrugs, looking confused.
“Of Troy. Helen of Troy.”
“Well, I can see why your face sailed the ships,” I complement her.
“The ships sailed over men’s tiny egos, but I’ll take it as a complement. Around here they are few and far between.”
“That is not hard to believe,” I agree. “Say, I recall a Helen of Troy inspired painting done by De Morgan. She missed the mark by a country mile.”
“And I look fat,” she frowns.
“Apparently that’s a complaint of Immortal as well as mortal women.”
“Mortal women only see the art for a short time. I’ve been looking at that blasphemy for over a century.”
“Honestly, the statuary from that period isn’t much better.”
“Agreed,” she snorts. “Artists created what their benefactors demanded. In a funny way people from three thousand years ago were far more concerned about how future generations would view them.”
“A very astute observation.”
Arron drifts back to the two of us when Rhea is called to the front door. She has an animated conversation with a blonde minion from outside. Rhea and the man confer for several minutes. Helen’s stalker arrives with a goblet and takes her by the elbow, dragging her away. She shakes off his hand once they are on the other side of the room and then listens to him rant through clenched teeth with her arms crossed.
“Trouble in paradise?” Arron mouths silently, nodding his head in their direction.
“Jealousy appears to remain a constant, no matter how old.”
Small talk continues for another half hour. During this time the appetizers are whisked away by the two ladies. The man I believe to be Annie’s brother helps with the heavier trays. Once again Annie is nowhere to be seen. Rhea calls us to sit, pointing everyone to a specific chair, all facing the door on the same side of the table. She occupies the centermost chair, flanked by myself on the left and the woman in the tight black dress on the right. Anthony sits on my other side followed by Helen and Arron. The three other minions line the opposite side. Is it odd that Helen sits with us? More than likely she is posted there for crowd control. Who knows what chaos will ensue if Jenn arrives.
I am half expecting pig on a spit to be wheeled in, but our musical guests remain to provide dinner music. The meal is surf and turf featuring a huge lobster tail and an amazing Kobe steak. Room temperature wine and water are the only beverages provided. I sip on wine, which is excellent, but drink far more water. Ten minutes into the affair, Annie enters and tries desperately to re-fill the guests wine glasses. Even with the pitcher only partially filled, she can barely lift it with her scrawny arms. Her brother follows along catching her when she slips. On the far side of the table, opposite us, serious wagering conversation begins. As Annie suffers, they quiz her and try to gauge her life span. Through all this humiliation, the brother shows no emotion.
A growl erupts from the steel box mounted on the wall. Something akin to a rock banging on it from the inside. Rhea slams her fork and knife down, one hand on either side of her plate and let’s fly in a voice that’s more like a loud speaker.
“Will I have to light the fire under your cage to silence you?”
Everyone freezes as the sound of scraping on the inside of the box fades away to nothing.
“Thank you,” Rhea groans, picking up her silverware and continuing with her meal.
“He smell the food?” I ask, enjoying her annoyance.
“He’s probably thirsty. That’s why I put the fountain in next to his cage,” she explains without looking up from her plate, but pointing her knife at the wall. “He can hear it, but never quench his thirst.”
Against the wall, there is a half-circle made of aqua blue tiles, the retaining wall is maybe two feet high. A cornucopia of stone fruit is carved above it, the water trickling down from the mouth. Rhea is incredibly sadistic.
“I am supposed to believe you’re an angel, yet your behavior is not the least bit angelic.”
“I do not require that you believe anything,” she stops and pauses with a chunk of steak on her fork. “But pray tell how do you think angels should behave?”
“Righteous and kind, maybe less like Nero.”
“Don’t knock Nero,” the woman on the other side of Rhea blurts out. “Eccentric yes, but the man could throw a party.”
Rhea turns her head slowly, eyes glaring at the interruption. The woman lowers her gaze submissively, then, Rhea goes on as if nothing happened.
“You wish to join the side of goodness and light, but you have not even read his rule book,” she accuses, chewing aggressively on her steak.
“I have read the bible,” I argue. “I missed the part where—.”
“Have you now?” she interrupts, setting down her silverware and crossing her arms over her chest. “Possibly we have read different books.”
I shrug, but she stands and holds her arms out to the sides. Conversation at the table fades away as everyone turns their attention to her. As if this is a common occurrence, the musicians also grow quiet, the woman pressing her hands on the string of the harp to silence it. Once she’s in the spotlight the Queen turns to me and begins.
“And in the same region, there were shepherds in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear.”
“One verse—,” I argue, but am cut off.
“And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His face shown like lightning and his clothes were white as snow. The guards shook with fear when they saw him and fell into a dead faint.”
“You’re paraphrasing—,” I complain, but she keeps going.
“Luke and Mathew are not the only prophets to report the fearful nature of angels,” she settles back down in her seat to sporadic clapping. “I could go on all night. Nearly every time an angel appears to man, he falls to his knees in fear. Would you like to know why that is?”
“Sure,” I groan, taking a drink from my water. “Enlighten me.”
“We aren’t very nice,” she smirks, then, falls into actual laughter, which is echoed by many.
“Very funny,” I remark, but see my own kind laughing as well.
“You walked into that one Edward,” Anthony shrugs.
Dinner resumes, but I pick at my food. Rhea doesn’t seem affected and plows through her meal with relish. Service continues, as wine is consumed with great vigor. Annie doesn’t speak when she gets to me, but simply holds the pitcher up with trembling hands and motions to my glass. I decline a refill and smile at her. At such close range, I notice her thinning sparse hair and broken fingernails. They have been painted red, but at least two are missing completely. A result of the starvation or is she pulling them out or chewing them off? Rhea bumps my shoulder with hers when she catches me watching Annie.
“When she dies maybe my daughter will bring her back for you,” she whispers in my ear.
“Jennifer is not your daughter,” I reply with a closed mouth, as if I was a ventriloquist.
“Bet your life on that?”
“Is there any conclusion to this game in which my life is not forfeit?”
“Your very astute,” she wrinkles her nose, pausing for me to speak.
I don’t reply. They seem to have an obsession with gambling here. Once dinner has ended, the plates are cleared and Annie’s brother comes down the table cutting and handing out large slices of an enormous white cake. If I saw this cake anywhere else, a wedding would be assumed. Three oval tiers covered in white fondant and ornate spun sugar flowers roll along on the cart. Are we special or is it a party every night?
Annie is pushing the huge cart, which also holds the fine china. In truth, she is leaning on it as her brother pushes and serves. More verbal jeering occurs on the other end of the table, where cake service began. The minion in the short black dress tosses a spoon at A
nnie, striking her on the side of her face. When she doesn’t react, Helens dark skinned male stalker shouts for Annie to pick it up and be more careful.
Wild with anger, I start to stand, but am held in my seat by Rhea’s hand grasping my shoulder with super human force. Annie’s eyes water, but she drops on all fours, fishing the spoon from under the table. When she does, Black dress kicks her in the face sending her sprawling on the tile.
“Phoebe,” Rhea remarks calmly. “I shall have to remove your wager from the board if you unfairly influence the game.”
“My regrets,” the minion, apparently named Phoebe, offers submissively. “Please accept my apology.”
“Yes, yes,” Rhea mutters in an uninterested way.
Annie’s brother fails to help her up, remaining frozen by the cart. Slowly she struggles to her knees, then, uses the cart to rise. Her cheek has blood weakly trickling down it. A cut that must be to the bone runs along the bottom of her eye.
“You should get that looked at,” I beg.
“Medical attention is forbidden,” Rhea lectures, taking her cake plate from Annie’s brother.
My temples pound as he cuts my slice of cake. Rhea is suddenly displeased about hers and demands the large knife which he is using to cut. It’s a wide white handled knife at least ten inches long, the kind you’d expect to see at a wedding. He hands it over and she makes an adjustment to her desert, then sets the knife down between us. I am not, in general terms, known as a man of action, but watching Annie’s face bleed causes me to snap. Once again, I marvel at my growing sense of empowerment.
Swiping the knife, I jump to my feet and swing it over my head. I leap, so as to reach over the wide table, landing the tip of the knife in his chest. Either my weight or the sharpness of the blade drive it in, to the hilt. I wind up lying across the table watching him crumple to the ground. Jeers and loud complaints fill the hall. I am dragged back into my seat by Helen. Rhea sits calmly eating her cake as if nothing has happened. When I gaze upon Annie, she has leaned over the cart in tears. A small silver bell is rung by Rhea, causing the two ladies we always see about to rush in and resume cake service. They even set fresh cut piece in front of me.