The Curse of Immortality

by Jeffrey Getzin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without express written permission from the author, except where permitted by law. For information or to obtain permission, contact Jeffrey Getzin, Boonton, New Jersey.

  The characters, locations, and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintended.

  Copyright © 2017 by Jeffrey Getzin (www.JeffreyGetzin.com)

  Author photo by Wai Ng Photography © (www.WeddingFlair.com)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About The Author

  1

  It was one of those miserable rainy nights that made for a streetwalker’s hell. Standing under the awning of the tailor’s shop afforded Belle only partial protection. The rain still dripped from the awning onto her head whenever she got tired of holding the woolen scarf above her. She had tried draping the scarf over her head but it smelled like a dead goat and the rainwater passed through the material and left her head wet anyway … only now smelling like the aforementioned dead goat.

  “Mind you, you get used to it,” Belle was shouting across the street to Fancy, the new girl. “You learn to spot the bad ones with a little practice.”

  Fancy stood shivering with her arms across her bosom, her mustard yellow dress sagging flaccid like a drunkard’s manhood. The teenager’s face was a portrait in misery. Her sodden brown hair was plastered to her head, yet strands somehow managed to keep falling in front of her eyes no matter how many times she brushed them away. At least it was dark out now, so the customers wouldn’t see the purple discoloration on the side of her face: a gift from a john with a nasty temper. She had tried to arrange her wet, limp hair so that it covered the bruise but it was to little avail. When you were in the Profession, your appearance was everything, so it was just plain mean to bruise a prostitute’s face.

  Fancy nodded but didn’t reply. She stared down at the pools of water gathering by her feet.

  Belle tried another conversational gambit. “Also, remember that that sort of thing is rare with locals, especially regulars. They know that Piter’ll do for them what he did last night to that pile of dog’s excrement.”

  Belle shuddered as she remembered the sound that the shattering of Fancy’s abuser’s teeth had made. Piter didn’t normally use the hammer; you really had to go out of your way to piss him off for him to do what he did last night.

  “And remember,” Belle added, “that you should always carry protection, you know, just in case.”

  Belle bent over to reach in her shoe but instantly regretted it as the water from the awning dripped onto her neck and down the back of her dress. But she was stubborn, and didn’t straighten up until she had retrieved her awl.

  “Something like this,” she said, holding it up for Fancy to see. “The pointed metal bit folds up along the wood handle like this.” She demonstrated. “But then it unfolds and you hold it in your hands like this.”

  She wrapped her fist around the awl and the spike protruded perhaps four inches between the knuckles of her index and middle fingers.

  “Won’t kill a man or nothing,” she said, “but certainly will make him regret his recent decisions. I find just knowing I’ve got this gives me the confidence to deal with the odd rowdy customer.”

  Fancy still didn’t reply, just stood there looking wet and miserable. She was a tiny thing, too, maybe 5'2" and without much meat on her. Had to be freezing her ass off in this rain.

  Belle tried to think of something else she could say to cheer Fancy up. It was still early yet and it’d be a long night indeed if Belle had to spend it in silence. And while Fancy wasn’t exactly much of a talker at the best of times, you could still count on better than this most nights.

  She took a few tentative steps to warm herself up but the squishing of her shoes brought a right smart stop to that. Ironically, the cork heels of her chopines had stayed dry as a bone but the leather insoles were drenched. Oh, hells, this was going to be a long night indeed.

  She heard her name being called. Belle looked up to see Piter running her way, splashing through the puddles on the cobblestone street.

  She reflexively touched up her hair and adjusted her dress. Piter got angry when the merchandise wasn’t displayed properly, and it wasn’t prudent to make Piter angry. He rarely hit Belle, who had been a reliable money-maker for years, but maybe that was because she always put in an effort. He hadn’t been so restrained with some of his other girls; he’d had to discipline Fancy twice in the week or so since she’d arrived.

  Not that he’d leave a mark but he knew ways to hurt you that didn’t leave visible signs but could make a girl realize that things could be a lot worse than being a prozzy in Shallou. Far, far worse.

  “Hiya, Piter,” she called to him, and Fancy straightened up and brushed the hair out of her eyes. She wasn’t a quick learner but she did learn. “What’s got you rushing through this miserable weather?”

  “I’ve got a job fer you,” he said as he got closer.

  “I’ve already got a job, sweetie,” she teased him.

  Now she could see that he was breathing heavily. His shaven head glistened with rain water, but perhaps sweat, too?

  Piter did not look amused at her jest. She instantly grew serious and attentive.

  “Sorry, love,” she said. “Only fooling. Whatcha need?”

  Piter grimaced, revealing a set of teeth like a broken comb. This horror show was what passed for a smile on him.

  “We’ve got a real live one down at the Arms,” he said. “Flashing lots of coin and drinking everything in sight.”

  He pointed at Fancy. “I want you and the girl to go down there and keep him there until I can round up some boys to grab him. Drive away any other whores and make sure no one else gets their hooks into him until we’re ready.”

  Belle wasn’t wild about doing this sort of thing but one didn’t refuse Piter. That was unwise.

  “I thought we wasn’t allowed in the Arms no more,” Belle said. Across the street, Fancy was staring at her entreatingly. “Werewolf don’t want us there.”

  Piter shook his head and droplets of water flew from his scalp.

  “I’ve worked it out with Werewolf,” Piter said, “and he’s ok with it so long as we don’t do anything inside or right outside. He just doesn’t want anything that can hurt his business reputation.”

  “So he’ll let us in?” Belle asked, watching Fancy out of the corner of her eye. The poor girl was freezing. It would be good to get her out of the rain, if only for a half hour or so.

  “Yeah, we’re good,” Piter said, already looking off in the distance, as though plotting his next moves. “Get going now.”

  Belle leaned forward and kissed Piter the way he liked it and then called to Fancy: “Come on, let’s get out of this soup.”

  They met halfway across the street, and Belle put her arm around the girl. The thin girl snuggled tightly against her body for warmth. They began the four-block walk toward the Welcoming Arms.

  “Oi!” cried Piter, startling the two girls. “Put a little hustle in it! We don’t want to lose this guy.”

  Neither Belle nor Fancy needed to be told twice. They picked up the hems of their skirts and jogged through the wet streets. Their high-heeled chopines made this awkward but you could get good at anything with a little practice.

  2

&n
bsp; The lanterns in the windows had their wicks up high so they burned nice and brightly. Belle could feel the warmth beckoning her from the tavern. She pounded on the door with her fist. For a minute, the two women stood shivering in the rain until Werewolf opened the door. He looked down at them with an expression of distaste.

  “Hello, Wolf,” Belle said timidly. “Piter said it was all right if we came in?”

  Werewolf nodded. He was a tall man with an angular face frozen in a permanent scowl. Long, thick muttonchops framed his features. Belle thought it was an unwise choice for him, who was nearly entirely bald. The muttonchops made his head look like a melon with hairy handles.

  She decided to keep that opinion to herself.

  Werewolf glanced down at their sodden yellow dresses and shook his head. Yet he opened the door for them anyway. Raucous shouting and laughter poured onto the street.

  “Thank yea,” she said in her most docile, appreciative tone. She didn’t want to risk saying or doing anything that would make Werewolf regret his decision to let them in.

  She and Fancy slipped past the large man and into the tavern. Instantly, its warmth bathed over her and it was sweeter than the most satisfying drink. A welcoming fire roared at either end of the large room and she considered warming by one of them for just a few minutes before finding the mark. But that wasn’t thinking ahead. If he slipped out while they were roasting themselves, Piter would be furious.

  Belle shuddered.

  “ ’es up there,” Werewolf said, indicating the direction with a nod.

  Belle followed his eyes past the main dining area, with tables perhaps filled to half capacity, up the wall to the second level, which surrounded the first in much the same way as Werewolf’s ring of remaining hair crowned his muttonchops.

  “On the railing,” he added, disgust evident in his voice.

  It wasn’t hard to find the man he was talking about. Everyone in the tavern seemed to be looking at him: some with interest and others with annoyance.

  The stairwell at the end of the room led up to the second level. Its railing became the railing of that second level.

  Walking precariously along the second-level railing was a man in outlandish attire.

  He was a dandy: that was her first impression. His clothes were of the finest quality. He wore a black velvet waistcoat with fine silver filigree. His shirt was whiter than any fabric Belle had ever seen, and the cloak he wore around his shoulders was a brilliant sky blue. Perched atop his head was a wide-brimmed hat with a rakish white plume protruding.

  This was not a man who liked to disappear in a crowd.

  “As I crossed the low-hanging rope bridge across the chasm,” the man was telling anyone in the tavern who’d listen, “the razor fish in the river snapped their wicked yellow teeth mere inches from my heels! SNAP! SNAP! They actually made that noise when they closed their vicious jaws. It was immediately obvious that even the slightest misstep would bring an immediate and bloody end to my adventure!”

  As if to emphasize the predicament, the man in the hat wavered unsteadily on the railing, extending his arms for balance. When he did, Belle saw that the man wore a sword of some kind on his hip.

  The diners hooted and howled at the man, some shouting encouragement and others trying to startle him into falling. Belle watched transfixed for a minute and then took Fancy’s hand.

  “Come on,” she said. “If he falls to his death here, Piter will flay us.”

  “Ok,” Fancy said, which was quite a lot for her. Belle smiled at her and then led the way.

  She wove among the tables in the dining area toward the staircase. Despite their mustard yellow dresses, no one paid them any attention.

  “… and when I looked down, I saw that one of the razor fish had clamped onto my boot!” The dandy hopped on the railing with one foot, pretending to be trying to shake off a fish from the other. “Worse: one glance over my shoulder showed me that Vanderstan’s army had closed the distance and was even now descending into the valley.

  “ ‘It’s D’Arbignal!’ one of them cried. ‘He’s down in the ravine!’ As you might very well imagine, I picked up my pace, razor fish or no. Vanderstan’s archers were known for their accuracy and range. I, on the other hand, was not known for my arrow-repelling abilities.”

  The two women had nearly made it to the stairs when a group of men at a nearby table started shouting crude innuendos to them. One man, a thin weasel with a sheathed longsword lying flat on the table before him, slapped Fancy hard in the buttocks.

  “Hey!” shouted Fancy in outrage and the men burst into guffaws.

  “Come on, Fancy,” Belle said and tried to lead the furious teen away. She still hadn’t learned to recognize the dangerous ones. Belle pointed to the stairs. “That way.”

  Fancy tried to break away from the pack but the one who had groped her cinched her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. His comrades laughed uproariously. Fancy squealed furiously but could not break free.

  Something fell onto Belle’s hand and she nearly shrieked and dropped it. It took her a moment to recognize it as the dandy’s—D’Arbignal’s—plumed hat. She stared at it for a second, perplexed.

  She looked up just in time to see him plunge from the railing. He plummeted a dozen or so feet and crashed onto the table with the ruffians. The table flipped onto its side and drinks flew into the air along with the groper’s sword. The men at the table scattered and the room went deathly quiet.

  “I seem to have misjudged my footing,” came the D’Arbignal’s voice from the floor beyond the table. Now that she was closer to him, she could make out the slight slurring in his words.

  Cheers and whistles filled the room.

  “What in the Hells?!” shouted the groper, sputtering with rage.

  “Get him, Devan,” one of the groper’s friends urged.

  “Come on,” Belle instructed Fancy. She didn’t know exactly what was happening but she recognized trouble when she saw it.

  D’Arbignal lurched drunkenly to his feet, feeling his head and reacting with alarm.

  “My hat!” he cried. “Where is my hat?”

  The groper—Devan—lunged at D’Arbignal, grabbing a fistful of his waistcoat. The dandy looked down at the bunched fabric in confusion.

  “Why you careless drunken oaf!” Devan growled.

  From her vantage point by the stairs, Belle saw Werewolf heading their way, brandishing a large billy club.

  “What have you done with my hat?” D’Arbignal did not seem to grasp the danger of his position. “Did you steal it?”

  “Steal your hat?” Devan growled incredulously. “Steal your mother’s virginity, maybe, but not that ratty piece of filth.”

  D’Arbignal started to laugh good-naturedly at the insult but then his feet slipped out from underneath him. Unfortunately for Devan, his hand was still knotted in the fabric of the waistcoat and he was yanked down with the dandy.

  Belle thought she saw D’Arbignal move his leg as he fell but she likely had imagined it. For surely, the dandy hadn’t just kicked up into Devan’s inner thigh as they dropped. Surely, he hadn’t intentionally sent Devan flying ass over heart through the air to land on his back with a crash on an adjacent table. I mean that had to have been an accident, right?

  “I think I lost my footing again,” said D’Arbignal from the floor.

  This was greeted with general laughter and approval from the diners, though there was total silence from the men at Devan’s upturned table. One at a time, they went over to where Devan lay sprawled and together, they helped carry Devan from the tavern.

  “Where is my hat?” D’Arbignal was clambering to his feet, helping to pull himself upright using the flipped table. His eyes had narrowed into a pugnacious expression and he gripped the hilt of his yet-undrawn sword.

  Werewolf was almost upon them. Without thinking first, Belle found herself running to interpose herself between the two men.

  “Here!” she said to the dand
y. “Here. Here’s your hat.”

  It took a few seconds for D’Arbignal’s eyes to properly focus on the plumed hat. When he finally managed to do so, he pointed at it.

  “I very much like your hat,” he said. “It reminds me of the one I used to wear.”

  3

  Werewolf opened one of the back rooms for them, the iron key dangling from a ring of similar keys. He headed to the room’s fireplace and set to lighting it.

  “Keep him quiet,” Werewolf warned Belle, “or I’ll be sure that Piter holds you to account.”

  Belle smiled warmly. “No worries from us, Wolf. We’ll keep him out of trouble.” She elbowed Fancy gently. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah,” said Fancy. “We’ll keep him quiet.”

  The two women helped D’Arbignal stagger into the room and to the large rectangular table. They sat him down on one of the long benches. As he fell onto the bench, he pulled Belle down with him and she had to scramble to get back to her feet. D’Arbignal smiled mischievously.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, laughing. “I just couldn’t resist.”

  D’Arbignal looked to be in his mid-twenties. His hair was curly and brown, his eyes a deep hazel. He wore a thin mustache and when he smiled, his teeth were even and white. In all, a very handsome man.

  As Belle straightened her dress and hair, D’Arbignal raised two fingers to Werewolf.

  “A bottle of your best wine and three glasses, my friend,” he said.

  “You’ve had enough,” Werewolf spat threateningly.

  D’Arbignal didn’t miss a beat. “A bottle of your best wine and two glasses, my friend.”

  Werewolf scowled and left the room, leaving the three of them alone in the relative silence. The two women and the man regarded each other.

  “Ladies, may I point out that those are beautiful dresses that you’re wearing.” D’Arbignal gestured vaguely in their direction. “I love that you’re both wearing identical outfits. Are you sisters?”

  “No,” Fancy said.

  D’Arbignal narrowed his eyes, looking questioningly at Belle.