The Forest Bull (The Fearless)

by Terry Maggert

  When she remained silent, I continued. “First, don’t scream. Any excessive noise results in this blade,” I tapped the point against her breastbone, “being driven through to the mattress. Blue stars, ashes, poof, no Sandrine. Okay?” She nodded once, grimacing. “Second issue. Do you know what you are going to tell me tonight?” I cocked my head, listening.

  “No, I do not. I hope you will explain what you wish to hear.” She seemed unsettled, even a bit fearful. That was a new and unusual sensation for her, I was certain.

  “I want to find Elizabeth. I want her with no misdirection. No warnings. No tripwires, verbal or otherwise, that will alert her in any way. You will tell me, beginning this instant, or you will live much longer than you ever thought possible. While dissolving. You see, my friends and I are compulsive researchers. We love facts. Information is power, as I am sure you know. And the fact that I find most relevant now is that you will find this,” I waved a small plastic bag, filled with white powder, “is going to prove very persuasive, should you choose to be less than forthcoming.”

  Even restrained and with a fractured skull, she managed a derisive laugh. “Heroin? Or something else? Do you seriously think that flooding my body with narcotics will do anything other than anger me further, let alone debilitate me? My metabolism will shrug that off without hesitation. Please, allow me to assist you.”

  She opened her mouth wide. Her tongue was very pink and narrow. I halted my hand from moving too close, unsure about the range of her stinger hidden underneath that curving palate.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Boric acid is quite fatal to your kind. A common insect killer, easy to find, and easy to administer. The death is rather slow, and doubtless, painful. So, your vaunted metabolism will heal you, only to be overwhelmed by the next round I administer to you, which you will, of course recover from. Somewhat. And the beat goes on. You see? Unending pain. Continual living death and renewal until I tire of your presence or run out of poison. Neither of which will happen quickly, Sandrine.”

  As I spoke, she closed her mouth, her face paling from my gravid tone.

  “So, first things first. Tell me about yourself. From the beginning. And leave nothing hidden. Begin.” I tapped the knife handle in her skull fracture. She hissed and stiffened. But then, she began to speak.

  “I was born the bastard of a defrocked bishop who backed the wrong Papal court. After Avignon surrendered the seat of Catholicism in 1377, my father was another castoff who had lived a life without concern, suckling at the teat of the Mother Church in repugnant glory.”

  She ignored my expression of shock at her age. She was far, far older than I had known. It presented an unusual opportunity for me to gain insight into the immortals and their culture if she kept talking. I chose silence, inviting her to fill the void.

  “Rome inexorably wrested control of the Papal throne from France, and I was young, born without title, and had precious little chance of marrying anyone substantive. At best, my father hoped for me to wed another by-blow and remove myself from his demesnes, which edged closer to penury with each passing year.”

  “Is Sandrine your real name?” I asked out of pure curiosity.

  “No. I cannot even recall my birth name. Memory is imperfect after so much time. Even glass becomes warped with age, and so it is with my mind’s eye. Sandrine was a hatchet-faced nun who slept with my father for political favors. Her, I still remember clearly, a horrid woman. Stick thin, with nose hair and a braying laugh, but enormous breasts and no scruples whatsoever. I killed her when I was sixteen. Not that I regret it. Not one bit.” Her tone was dreamy as she peered through a river of memory. “My last name is a shabby joke. Humor is so thin among the everlasting.”

  “Destot? What is the joke, then?” I asked with interest.

  “I would show you, but I do not think you will remove these bonds, so I shall explain. When Jesus or any other victim of crucifixion was impaled, they were not hung by their hands. That myth is a creation of artists who sought visual symmetry in their work or who were lazy and ignorant of anatomy. No, the nexus of three major tendons in the wrist is the perfect weight-bearing locale for a sadistic excursion on the cross. Oh, to be sure, one might expire from shock, or other wounds, but the intent was for the victim to endure an unending war against asphyxiation and thirst. A most creative punishment, in my eyes. And I have seen many. That point on the wrist is called Destots place, after the French anatomist. My little nod to a countryman who named something quite useful in cowing the populace.” She smiled and her eye leaked a stream of aqueous fluid, which she ignored. She was a tough one, to the bone.

  “When did you become an immortal?” I assumed at a young age, but I wanted a definite answer. Thus far, I had not been forced to urge her to speak. I remained alert, nonetheless.

  “Truly? Two years earlier. On Michaelmas, we had a visiting party from the Church who brought countless servants, scribes, whores. An ostentatious waste to remind us that Rome was the true muscle behind the Fisherman’s ring. Among them was a woman who was so regal that every country priest found a reason, no matter how thin, to seek her company. It was as if Aphrodite had appeared in our midst. Even the most desiccated clergy found their loins afire for the woman.” Her expression was one of proud remembrance. I could see she spoke of her maker.

  “Elizabeth?” I asked to confirm. “What was her position at that time?”

  “No one ever truly knew. She was a confidant of the Papal secretary, that much was certain. He listened to her as if his life hung in the balance, which later would make a great deal of sense, since it did. All of our lives existed by her whim. My seduction at her hand was so complete, so overwhelming. She summoned me to her room after vespers. I was to deliver candles and a trencher with hard cheese and pears, as she had missed dinner due to illness. I was expected, as a child of the house, to extend the utmost in courtesy for our guests despite the tension between the parties. I knocked at her door, a heavy, iron-bound affair of bleached wood, and I heard her call to me. I was bid to open the door and enter, which I did hesitantly. She sat in a sagging cane chair; the fire hinted at, by moving light, a physical perfection that was rare. Her face, her hands, every part of her. Even her voice was charged with unknown treasures. A pervasive aura of sexuality clung to Elizabeth, even sitting in a shapeless, woolen gown. I stood transfixed, captive in her gravity. She never blinked as she took my measure. I wilted under her intensity.

  ‘Put them down,’ she told me. I could not disobey. With a thump, I dropped the food and stood at attention. I quivered like a tuning fork until she spoke again.

  ‘Do you find your life here austere, despite your devotions? Has your work for the Lord given you succor?’ she then asked me. My ascetic appearance was amusing to her. I felt small.

  ‘No, my lady. I mean to say, yes. I have many blessings. I can ride horses when I wish, and there are books here. My master allows me to read on Sundays if there is time. And I am never hungry, really,’ I revealed, shrinking further as the words hung in the room, mocking the insignificance of my existence.

  ‘Your master must be kind indeed. Bind not the mouths of the oxen that tread out your grain,’” she quoted to me. “’I do not see hooves on you, I see hands. Are you a beast of burden?’ the lady teased me.” She paused, gulped air and winced. Then she continued.

  “She mocked me, but I welcomed it because it meant I had her attention. I felt the pressure of her gaze, do you understand?” She asked, adjusting her arms behind her. I knew she was in discomfort, and it bothered me. “I was being recognized. It was a generosity I had not experienced, and I found it to my liking. Even my youthful senses detected a kinetic threat from Elizabeth, although I was too naïve to quantify exactly what I felt. In moments, I was sitting next to her, on her bed, and the blood roared in my ears as she whispered secrets and promises in a single kiss. When she touched my face, I knew, somehow, that I was in danger. I became a marionette to her fingertips, and she pushed me
flat, sliding over me in a serpentine glide. I saw the ridged timbers in the firelight, and then her face, and then she laughingly drew me into her and I was mounted. Raped, you might say, but I would not because I gave her my entire will and spirit in my childish thrusting, calling to my God to stop the pleasure and absolve me of my guilt at wanting her mouth, her hands, body, all of her covering me in a smothering wave of sin.”

  “Raped? What? Is that how you were turned? Did she . . . ?” And I really looked at Sandrine, beyond my suppositions and everything I allowed myself to believe.

  “Paul. I remember it now. My name was Paul, and I was a young man. But no more. Elizabeth saw to that. Over the years, I grew smooth, fine-boned, and feminine in every way. Except one. I felt my innards rearranging. I became sensitive to sounds and scents. That abomination between my legs grew, and I became a slave of my desire to breed. Elizabeth told me I would feel like a youth forever. I would command lust with a glance. What could be truer than wishing to live to see what was around every curve of the road? Bend in the river? I had never ranged beyond sight of my birthplace. As for the lust, she created a burning want for something I had been unaware of before her ministrations. I found I had a taste for it. My thirst for capitulation has been unending, thanks to her.” She stopped speaking, as a trickle of blood rolled thickly on the pillow, spilling from her delicate ear. Pain shadowed her face, now growing taut and pale. She was fading from my wound, which had been more savage than I realized.

  I had suffered through the penance of awkward teen years, as did nearly everyone I knew, save Wally, who transitioned from childhood to godhood without breaking stride. Sandrine, though, she had endured a theft of her youth. Her identity. Even the boy Paul’s death was now part of a purloined future he would never know. Elizabeth possessed a sophistication that elevated her crimes into layered iniquities, stretching beyond the vanishing point of time. Paul, the subtle, seductive killer, was a prisoner of his childish greed. It was humanizing and nearly gave me pause, until I thought of the bodies she had buried over the centuries, stretching into time. They had been given no choice. Nor would she be granted one, either.

  “Elizabeth is nearby, I think. It feels like she brought you here? Or was it of your own volition?” I asked. She was breathing hard from my weight.

  She considered this for a second. “Sent. Called. Both are the same act, only the timing is different. I was called. I know others have been sent, personally. I made my way here, now, on my own time and by my own means, but I have been moving about freely for longer than your nation has existed. As to my sisters, I cannot say where they are, exactly. We seem to squabble quite often, which is rather dangerous for us. And you. I know that when you dispatch me, they will become very interested in meeting you. And your partners.” Her threat was open, palpable. I believed her. “I think it safe to say that you will not wait long at all before unwanted visitors come to call.”

  She shuddered once as I let the knife tip draw another jeweled drop of blood from her chest.

  My blood boiled at her threat. “Do you know how easy this was? I can take your sisters at will if you’re any indication of their abilities. And when I bury this knife in you, do you know what happens? I get a little bit faster. A little bit stronger. Less likely to make a mistake. And let me assure, you, Paul, no one will weep for your ashes when I close this door. A maid will vacuum your memory up, along with any threat you might have posed.”

  I slid the blade along her chest again, lingering on the nape of her slender neck. “So, then. Where is she?” The blade slipped under her milky skin, a chilly violation. She shivered.

  “I do not think you want the answer to that question, boy,” she sneered, even in her agony. “We built a castle on foundations of sin. Money. Power. Souls. All are delicacies on the palate of the true predators among you. You bray and jostle like cattle on the ramp to their deaths and know nothing of the true seat of power. It hides in plain sight, an iceberg of manipulation that seems a small threat until you plumb the depths and see, with dull, captive eyes, what the Horned One is building. A labyrinthine empire hidden beneath the cool shade of a forgotten forest. But I have said enough for this body, and I think it is time for my last kiss.” She curved her lips, playful to the end. Fully evil. Completely inhuman.

  I looked at the blade’s path and began to part her ribs with the tip when she sat up, impossibly strong, her body arcing in a whiplike action fueled by hate. My knife struck true through her flesh, reaching a grating stop in her spine as it angled towards her heart. Her face was at my ear, a searing sting as her dart pierced my lobe and withdrew with the speed of a mongoose. Before I could react, her breath was light in my ear, whispering to me.

  “Did you think the Horned One would remain in the forest forever? You don’t know shit about pain, yet. But you will.”

  My bulk settled on the mattress as her corpse sublimed, ashes and faerie lights, and then silence. And in my bones, instantly, the first salvo of a night-long war as I became imbued with the residuals of a seasoned killer.

  I was still sitting in the circle of Sandrine’s dust when the light tap at the door announced my back-up had arrived. I stood carefully, not knowing what to expect. It was a good policy, this going slow, because the room seemed to tilt as I lurched to the door and opened it, only to have Wally catch me. Suma and Risa were nowhere to be seen, which meant that a hotel staff member was having a very uncomfortable conversation right then.

  “Are you hurt?” Wally searched me, her face lined with worry. I stood against the doorway, feeling steadied by her presence.

  “I’m good. I got to her first and put everything I had into the first shot. Nothing but ashes, now, Blondie..” Wally kissed my cheek in relief.

  “But, she was very different, totally new to us, and very old. I think I need to go home, and we can talk on the way before I crash.”

  We left without a backwards glance and turned down the carpeted hallway. wherewere two more anonymous faces in a building made for them.

  Muscles have memory, and, by the time Wally pulled in our driveway, mine had acquired another lifetime from Sandrine. I noticed high spots of color on her cheeks as she walked with me, arm in arm.

  “Contact buzz, or out of shape?” I asked her.

  “Buzz! I am sailing just from being near you. Crazy! I’ve never felt this way, like our best sex ever, but we’re upright and walking. This is . . . ,”and she shivered, pulling me closer as we opened the door to find Suma and Risa in the living room, pouring wine.

  “Our little friend here is quite high from the kill.” I said to them, tugging at Wally. “Sandrine packs quite a punch. I’m already feeling her all over me, in me, and Wally’s got a bad case of the chats.”

  She disengaged from me and downed a whole glass of wine in two gulps, motioning to Risa to fill it again. The surge from Sandrine was pervasive. I felt like chewing a chain in two and then ravishing every woman in a three mile radius. Not bad for an aftereffect.

  That’s when I noticed the man sitting quietly at the kitchen table, admiring the necklace Wally had gotten from the Baron.

  “Hello?” I cut my eyes askance. “Who’s our new friend?”

  He turned and waved, somewhat meekly. A beer sat in front of him, and his shoes were off. He was clearly comfortable, which was odd, because we usually just bludgeon intruders. He was early thirties, professional-looking, brown-eyed and sandy-haired. Innocuously covered with the air of middle management, he seemed a friendly sort and was doing well, given the circumstances.

  “Ring, meet Marcus. Marcus, Ring. The knockout drinking like a twelve-stepper is Wally.”

  Wally waved carelessly, her nose buried in another glass of red wine. Risa indicated he should come over to the living room, which he did, albeit slowly. Wally caressed his face as he passed, winking lasciviously. “And please ignore her trashy behavior. She’s got quite the glow from Sandrine, the escort Ring popped in your hotel tonight, by the way, so she’s even more
randy than usual.” She rolled her eyes to indicate this was not a unique situation.

  To Marcus’ credit, he didn’t blink but merely sat on the cushion next to Suma and looked awkwardly at each of us in turn.

  “Sandrine? The French girl? She’s dead?” he asked, worry on his face. “You killed her? I knew something wasn’t right about her. Knew it.”

  I nodded. “I wouldn’t call her a girl, exactly. But yes, she’s dead, I killed her, and I assume that you’re not here for just a cold one?”

  I raised an eyebrow at Risa, inviting her to elaborate where Marcus could not. Wally belched and stretched with an erotic groan. Quite the lady. Suma snickered and then caught herself, focusing on our guest.

  “Marcus was in the hotel lounge, but he wasn’t working. He’s not a true Helper, either, not like we understand. He’s sort of a . . . groupie? Or a really enthusiastic fan of a particular lady. Right, Marcus?” Risa inquired politely. “Why don’t you start with how you got here? Then we can move on to other details, okay?”

  She was being overly polite. I distrusted that voice; it reminded me of her interrogations about my use of her towels.

  Marcus gathered his thoughts for a moment. You could see the wind filling the sails of a narrative in his mind, and then he spoke.

  “I’m from Chicago. I’m a-- well, it doesn’t matter what I did. I was a nobody, but I made an okay living. My wife left me two years ago for some shithead from Colorado who wore a buckskin jacket, for Chrissakes, and to boot he had a--”

  “Marcus!” I snapped. “Let’s focus on the other aspects of your story, m-kay?”

  Suitably reprimanded, he continued, “Okay, so I’m single. No wife, no dog, living in some kind of country song. I’m on a cold streak with women, like I’m a penguin, I couldn’t even get a look from the maid at my gym. So after about a year of that shit, I do something I’ve never done before.” He paused, sipping his beer.

  “You called a pro, right?” Wally spoke up from the floor where she lay supine, her feet in Risa’s lap. She knew men.