Immortals' Requiem

by Vincent Bobbe (Jump Start Publishing)

  The sky above was clear and blue, which was a blessing – if it had been raining, he would certainly have had a nervous breakdown. The sun was at its zenith, but the noon light was cold. Cam reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. Taking the cap off, he offered it to Grímnir. ‘Want some?’

  Wordlessly, Grímnir took the flask from Cam and poured a thin stream to the ground. The liquid was clear and pure and sparkled in the sunlight. Nodding approvingly, Grímnir took a swig. He began choking, and Cam couldn’t help laughing as he took the flask back and took a long pull.

  When he finally regained his breath, Grímnir looked at Cam accusingly. ‘That is not water, and from the colour, it is not sour mead.’

  ‘It’s vodka.’ He took another pull. ‘It’ll keep you warm.’ He handed the flask back to Grímnir who took a second swig. This time he managed to keep it down.

  ‘Still drinking, I see,’ said a stern voice from behind him. The words were spoken in the True Tongue, and Cam tensed in uneasy anticipation. Turning, he saw two figures walking up the side of the hill towards himself and Grímnir. The newcomers were both dressed in good walking boots and waterproofs, and Cam felt a rush of envy sweep over him at their foresight.

  ‘Hello, Father,’ Cam said.

  ‘Camhlaidh,’ his father said in acknowledgement, as he joined him at the top of the hill. ‘Won’t you introduce us to your companion?’

  ‘Grímnir Vafthrúdnir, this is my father, Manannán Ó Gríobhtha.’ Like all Elves, Manannán was tall and handsome. He looked the same age as Cam, though he was five hundred and twenty years older than his son. He had long, black hair and chiselled features, perfect skin, and violet eyes. He was broader than Cam and maybe an inch taller, but apart from that and the difference in hair colour, they could have been twins.

  ‘Well met, Grímnir Vafthrúdnir,’ Manannán said formally.

  ‘Oh great,’ Cam said. ‘If we’re going to have to pretend we’re in The Lord of the Rings, I’m leaving.’ He turned and made as if to walk away.

  ‘Stop there, Camhlaidh,’ Manannán snapped. Cam stopped walking and hated himself for it. Manannán addressed Grímnir. ‘This is my companion, Dow Sė Mochaomhog, and you have met my son, Camhlaidh Ó Gríobhtha,’ Manannán said. ‘I apologise that he was what you found when you awoke. I hope he has not caused you too much disappointment.’

  ‘I love you too, Dad,’ Cam said sulkily.

  ‘Cam is a credit to you, Sir,’ Grímnir said. ‘Your son clothed me and housed me. He has helped me remain safe in a world very different from the one I am used to. Without him, I fear I may have been imprisoned, or worse.’

  ‘Really?’ Manannán sounded doubtful. The glow of pride Cam had felt growing inside himself disappeared at the disdain in his father’s voice.

  ‘Right, well that’s me done then,’ Cam said.

  ‘Not quite.’ Cam scrutinised the speaker. His father’s companion was the same size and build as Cam, but his eyes were green, and his chin was wider. He had long, bone-white hair, which was tied back into a ponytail to reveal the pointed ears beneath – something Cam kept hidden. A facial tattoo covered the pale skin on the left side of his face from the point of his chin to his hairline. It was a complicated interweaving climbing vine with tiny leaves and flowers scattered amongst the foliage. The ink had faded to a faint brown.

  ‘Dom, is it?’ Cam asked.

  ‘Dow,’ the Elf replied with a humourless smile.

  ‘Well, Dow, as my father has no doubt told you, I am a drunk and a cynic. I’ve brought Grímnir here, but he’s your problem now.’ He looked theatrically at the position of the sun in the sky. ‘The pubs will be open, and I’m going to go and destroy some brain cells.’ He turned to walk away again.

  ‘Wait, Camhlaidh,’ his father said quietly. It was a request, not a command, and that alone was cause enough for Cam to stop and turn back to them.

  ‘What?’ he asked ungraciously.

  Manannán ignored the question, instead turning to Grímnir. ‘May I ask what your purpose here is, Grímnir Vafthrúdnir?’

  ‘I must see the Maiden of Earth and Water.’

  ‘Yes, but what is your purpose.’

  ‘I must stop the Therian, Cú Roí.’

  Manannán seemed to sag. ‘It is true then,’ he whispered to himself.

  ‘Oh come on, you don’t believe that nonsense as well, do you?’ Cam said. ‘It’s a fairy tale!’

  ‘I don’t want to point out the obvious, but so are we,’ Dow interjected wryly.

  ‘Screw you,’ Cam said.

  ‘Camhlaidh!’ his father shouted. ‘I will have no more of this pettiness.’

  ‘Pettiness? Pettiness, is it? Then I’ll go home!’

  ‘No you won’t!’

  ‘I can do what I like,’ Cam whined.

  ‘Not this time. This time you’ll do as I say. I have indulged your childish excesses for too long. It is time for you to grow up. You have a duty to your people, and your shameful behaviour over the last decade has embarrassed me and discredited you. You are not a human, and your insistence that you are is pathetic. You steal and lie and spend your life in a state of drunken incapability. No more!’

  ‘What else is there? I …’

  ‘I have heard the arguments, Camhlaidh, and they are nonsense. You are scared to die, you have been abandoned by the land and by your people … nonsense! You are not scared to die, you are scared to live. You could have fifty years left to you, and you plan to squander them at the bottom of a glass. You have abandoned your race, Camhlaidh. We still strive to solve this problem, but we are few and the work goes slowly. Rather than help, you allow yourself to rot away. I should have come for you long ago, but I thought you would grow out of this nihilistic rubbish on your own. I was wrong.’

  ‘You cannot make me come with you.’

  ‘Actually, we can,’ Dow said. ‘The return of Grímnir Vafthrúdnir is something we have awaited for millennia. I am afraid you know too much, Camhlaidh. Leaving you running around and most likely drunk is a risk we cannot afford to take.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and who am I going to tell? Tony the ageing biker? I can imagine the conversation now. “Hey Tony, you’ll never guess what – my mate Grímnir is actually an ageless fairy from a thousand years ago, who appeared out of thin air and is hunting an immortal monster that does very unpleasant things to women!” I’d be fitted up for a straitjacket before they’d even stopped laughing.’

  ‘The magic that bound Grímnir Vafthrúdnir to the creature, Cú Roí, transcends death and life: if one lives, then so, too, does the other,’ Manannán said with infinite patience. ‘Cú Roí knows this. Grímnir Vafthrúdnir represents Cú Roí’s only mortal threat, and he will be hunted. As will those who have spoken with him. Those who might have information. Those who know where he is. And it was two and a half thousand years ago, not a thousand. I would have expected you to have worked out that much, at least, Camhlaidh.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Cut him in half and count the rings?’

  ‘I doubt that Cú Roí is worried about my presence here,’ Grímnir interjected.

  Manannán looked at him inquisitively. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I lost the sword.’

  There was a long silence. ‘You lost it,’ Dow said flatly.

  ‘That is why I must find the Maiden.’

  ‘You lost Camulus.’

  ‘Yes. It is gone, I do not know where to. Without it, I cannot harm the Miracle Child.’

  ‘There you go then,’ Cam said. ‘No harm, no foul.’

  ‘You do not understand that at which you so childishly scoff!’ Dow snapped.

  ‘I understand that if Grímnir isn’t a threat to this Cú Roí character, then there’s no need for me to join your little role-playing society!’ Cam returned heatedly.

  ‘It changes nothing, Camhlaidh,’ Manannán roared into the still morning.

  There was a pause as the last of the sound echoed away. ‘What
if I refuse?’

  ‘You will be taken against your will,’ Dow said.

  Cam looked at his father and Dow and saw no compromise. He thought about running but knew that he wouldn’t get very far. Not in the woods: they weren’t his natural environment. He sighed and his shoulders slumped. ‘Okay, I’ll come with you, but as soon as this is over I’m going back to my flat.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ his father said in a calmer tone. ‘I must return to my post. Dow will travel with you.’ Manannán turned to his companion. ‘If I see any sign of Cú Roí, I will send word.’

  They clasped each other’s forearms in the warrior fashion, and Cam rolled his eyes. Manannán turned and walked back down the hill without looking in Cam’s direction. ‘Bye, Dad,’ Cam shouted after his father sarcastically.

  ‘We must move quickly, now,’ Dow said, walking to the edge of the hill.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Grímnir asked, picking up the bag with the chainsaw in it and slinging it over one massive shoulder.

  ‘Where else?’ the Elf asked with a smile. ‘To The Tower at Dawn, of course.’

  ‘And what would you like, Sir?’

  ‘Steak.’

  ‘How would you like it prepared, Sir?’

  ‘Bleeding. Just run through a warm room with it,’ Sam said without looking at the waiter. Annalise met his gaze calmly.

  ‘Since when do you eat rare steak?’ she asked as she lifted her wine glass and took a sip. Sam found himself enjoying the sight, imagining what he was going to do to those perfect lips. ‘At the Christmas party, you were nearly sick when someone offered you pâté.’

  Sam just shrugged and changed the subject. ‘Do you like it here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. The Podium restaurant was an elegant, open-plan affair. The lunch service was quiet, and it felt like they had the entire restaurant to themselves. Candlelit white tablecloths glowed gently in the intimate setting, and Sam could see Annalise relaxing into the luxurious surroundings. It was part of the Hilton Hotel, where Sam had booked the two of them a room on the twenty-second floor. The hotel was integrated into the Beetham Tower, a building that had only been completed in April. Its modernity made it novel, and its novelty made it fashionable. ‘So, tell me what happened when you were attacked.’

  ‘I found a man in an alley. I tried to help him, and he slashed my throat and took my wallet for my troubles. It happens all the time.’ He shrugged again, as if the incident meant nothing. ‘I was stupid.’

  ‘Why, because you got attacked?’

  ‘No, because I tried to help. I won’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it?’

  Sam laughed gently. ‘Coming from you, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.’

  Annalise bridled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Don’t you understand yet, Annalise? You don’t have to hide from me. You don’t have to pretend that you care about anybody but yourself. You desire power, and I can give it to you. In turn, I want your body … it is a business arrangement.’ Annalise looked at him with narrowed eyes and he laughed again. ‘Don’t delude yourself, sweetheart – I don’t love you. I don’t even like you that much. I just want to fuck you.’

  ‘You make me sound like a whore,’ she said angrily.

  Sam shrugged again and drank some wine. The liquid was acrid, and he screwed up his face in disgust. ‘Does your wine taste sour? I think it’s off.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘Whore? Perhaps. But then, so what? We all prostitute ourselves in one way or another. We let people use us, and we get something in return: money, power … it’s the oldest form of symbiosis in the world. It’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, Jesus Christ, we’re solicitors. The only two professions in the world that solicit are lawyers and whores. Perhaps it’s just our nature.’

  ‘I’m not a whore,’ Annalise snapped.

  ‘If it makes you feel better,’ Sam said blandly. ‘But if you’re not, then why are you here with me? You know what this is all about.’

  ‘I’m here with you because I’m attracted to you. I always have been.’

  ‘I told you, there’s no need to lie.’

  ‘Fine, I’m here with you because I want to see what you’re going to do.’ She put her glass down and leant forwards. ‘The way you're always wittering on about that insipid little wife of yours … I don’t think you’ll go through with it.’

  Sam’s smile was winter cold. Annalise saw it, and doubt flashed across her face. ‘If that were the case, then you’ve made an awful mistake,’ Sam said. ‘Fortunately, it’s not – you’re here because I promised to make all your dreams come true.’ He took another drink and then put the glass down heavily. ‘That really is very bad. Let me try yours.’ He leant over and tasted Annalise’s wine. It, too, tasted like vinegar, and he spluttered slightly as he replaced her glass on the table.

  A wave of nausea rolled through him, and Sam raised a hand to his forehead. ‘Are you okay?’ Annalise asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s just …’ But he didn’t know what it was. There was something in his head with him, pulling at his thoughts. It only lasted for a moment, but Sam felt like somebody was looking out through his eyes. Another personality that was both a distance away and yet very close. There was a connection … and then it disappeared as quickly as it had materialised.

  The restaurant swam back into focus. ‘I knew it,’ Annalise said, ‘you’re high.’

  ‘No, it was something else. I’m okay now. Do you still want to eat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s go up to the room now.’

  ‘What about the food?’

  ‘I’ll have it sent up.’ Sam hailed a waiter and told him what he wanted.

  ‘It’s very irregular, Sir.’

  ‘I am not feeling well. You can either cancel the order, or I can pay for it, and you can send it up to my room.’

  ‘I will see to it, Sir.’ Sam didn’t say another word to the waiter. He stood and took Annalise by the hand, and they walked from the restaurant.

  The room was superb. On the twenty-second floor and facing into the city, they could see all of Manchester laid out below them. Annalise laughed for the wonder of it. Sam put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. He kissed her hungrily, and after a moment she kissed him back with just as much fervour.

  Their lovemaking was wild and animalistic. Later, Sam lay on the bed with Annalise laying across him naked. ‘That was … different,’ she said eventually.

  Sam looked down at her and grunted.

  ‘You bit me, you know?’

  ‘Did I?’ he asked disinterestedly.

  ‘Yes, at the top of my thigh.’ She giggled. There was a moment of silence. ‘Why isn’t your neck hurt?’ Annalise asked. ‘I mean, from what I heard, you were badly injured.’

  ‘You only just thought to ask?’

  ‘When I saw you, I thought you must have been lying. I thought you’d set it all up for some sick joke. But you’re so different … now I’m not so sure.’

  Sam laughed. ‘I heal quickly,’ he said. They lay in silence for a while longer.

  ‘Right,’ Sam said eventually. ‘I wonder where that food is.’ He was hungry, hungrier than he had ever felt before. The thought of his steak gave him almost as much pleasure as the thought of the woman beside him. Now he was done with her, probably more.

  Annalise sat up and stared down into her crotch. Sam’s eyes were drawn to the heavy breasts and flat belly of the naked woman, and he reconsidered: no food, no matter how good, would ever give him more pleasure than Annalise. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you broke the skin. I’m bleeding.’

  Sam looked over. ‘It’s only a nick. It’ll stop in a few minutes.’ As he lay there watching her, his desire sated for the time being, he wondered how he had got here. He dismissed the thought – it didn’t matter. This was what he wanted, and what he
wanted, he would take.

  Tabby’s face flashed in front of his eyes, and something deep inside him screamed in anguish, but it was a quiet scream from a long way away, and Sam didn’t pay it much attention.

  There was a knock, and Sam jumped from the bed. He looked at Annalise and grinned. ‘Time to eat,’ he said.

  Mark was thinking of a different place and a different time when the phone rang, startling him. His hand jerked, and the knife he was using to cut a tomato slipped, sinking deep into the flesh of his left index finger.

  Sharp pain surged up his arm. He dropped the knife with a curse and clamped the end of his finger automatically. Even as the pain started, it began to fade away. He walked to the sink with the blood-covered digit. The phone stopped ringing as Mark turned on the cold tap.

  Red-stained water flowed down the plug hole. Within seconds it ran clear, and Mark examined where the wound had been. Nothing but smooth, uninterrupted skin met his gaze. Being immortal did have its plus points, on occasion.

  ‘Last caller,’ he said as he walked back over to the chopping board and his half-made sandwich.

  ‘Sergei Constantine rang at one fifty-five and seven seconds in the pm,’ said the disembodied female voice of the computer.

  ‘Phone: Sergei,’ Mark said as he spread salad cream on a piece of wholemeal bread. The dialling tone kicked in, and then he heard the discordant beeps of the number.

  Sergei picked up on the second ring. ‘Mr. Jones,’ he said, his crisp European voice thick with worry.

  ‘What is it Sergei?’

  ‘It’s the girl.’

  A surge of fear caused Mark to drop his sandwich back to the counter. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded. Sergei recounted the problem, and Mark set his lips tight in anger as he listened.

  ‘Where’s the man … what’s his name – Sam? Where is Sam now?’ he asked when Sergei had finished.

  ‘The Hilton Hotel in Manchester City Centre.’

  ‘Go and show him the error of his ways.’

  ‘Yes Sir,’ Sergei said.