Apotheosis of the Immortal (32 page)

Chapter 67

Ayda woke up
and a smile graced her face as memories of the night spent with Elijah came rushing back.

“Elijah!” she sang out, full of life, as she rose from the bed and slipped into her robe. But when she stepped through the bedroom door and into the kitchen a pain tugged at her throat, as if someone were squeezing and yanking it down, into her stomach. The sight of Sara’s old leather bracelet lying on the table was Elijah’s bitter farewell. She knew he was gone, for good.

She sat down at the table and her tears soaked the bracelet she clutched to her chest: the only reminder of the fool’s errand she should have given up on years ago.

Still, in spite of everything, she hoped beyond hope he would find his way. She believed in him; she loved him.

Khalid & Emira

2014 AD

“…An immortal’s entire demeanor is different from a human’s; there are subtle differences in the way they carry themselves, how they stand and move. All that power is hard to hide from someone who knows what to look for, and, for me, knowing what to look for can be a matter of life and death.”

Chapter 68

Solomon had become
accustomed to adulation at an early age. Even in his youth everyone had seemed to look up to him—to admire him. He had been a beautiful young boy, and as he grew he only became more handsome. Now his angled and muscular jaw was a foreboding reminder of his strength and the power he could unleash. For Solomon, the downward glances of professors and students passing through the corridor were expected, even in a place as distinguished and proud as Princeton University’s Nassau Hall.

Prof. Tariq Amon
read the plaque on the door. Solomon was glad to finally be standing here, ready to enter the professor’s office. He knocked twice, and after he heard the shuffling of papers and the squeaking of an office chair wheeling around, the door swung open.

“Come in.” The professor’s voice was pleasant but rushed. Solomon’s imposing presence and disposition immediately informed the professor who his visitor was. “I just got off the phone with your associate, and as I told him, I’m no expert on the ME, or the Tablets of Destiny, as we call them today. I do know the ME are merely part of a legend from ancient Assyrian mythology. They are certainly not real,” he spoke with conviction and an amount of empathy, as if he were concerned for Solomon’s disappointment.

“I know the legends professor.” Solomon’s voice was deep and gravelly. His expression was uncompromising. “Is there anything else you can tell me; anything at all?” The professor had been scribbling something on his notepad. He tore the page loose and handed it to Solomon: it read,
Khalid Gondal, 245 Caleb Ln., Rallo, VA
.

“This is the name and address of a former colleague of mine, now retired. I’ve heard he has become something of a recluse, but he is brilliant, and he knows more about mythology than anyone alive,” the professor assured Solomon while he adjusted his glasses.

Solomon stared at him for a moment, watching for any tells which would reveal that he was lying, but, seeing none, he snatched the paper and left the professor’s office.

Chapter 69

Elijah arose wearily.
Like Atlas, the weight of the world, his world, his immortal curse, weighed heavy on his shoulders. He should have been too strong to be sluggish and uneasy on his legs, but so often his incorruptible form was no match for the unrelenting and unseen albatross that forever clung to his mind. Hate alone propelled him.

He looked in disgust at the three women lying naked on the king-sized bed behind him. As the night waned, so had his passion, and the all-too-familiar stench of used women, infused with the strong odor of clashing perfumes and rose-scented oils, now sickened him. He was tired of this life, this charade of indifference… but most of all, he was tired of himself.

He laughed sarcastically. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. After nearly a thousand years, he still couldn’t be honest with himself.

It was easier this way; seeing himself as apathetic allowed him to hide from his true feelings, from the fact it still mattered. The sting of his childhood betrayal was just as sharp today as it had ever been, and the lifetimes of failure, of allowing himself to be eluded, had taken their toll. So he chose to take whatever small pleasure he could from the distractions he sought when his frustrations grew nearly unbearable.

“Where are you going?” A soft, muzzy voice from behind him nipped at his nerves. One of the girls sat up in the bed and playfully pawed at his right thigh. Without a word, Elijah shoved her back down.

His heart seemed to have died when he lost Sara, and once more when he came down from the mountain where he had spent so many years with Ayda. No one could take Sara’s place, but it was Ayda he dreamed of now. He had spent many lonely nights thinking of her, longing to feel her warmth, wishing he had been able to remain with her on that mountain and forget about this world forever.

But he knew that was just a fantasy; he loved Ayda, but he couldn’t shut out his past. He was a warrior; the need for battle and blood had become a part of him long ago. The blood of his family had been his oath. He had fought many battles since then, but the important ones were yet to come.

Elijah had left Sara’s bracelet with Ayda. Now, his mother’s pendant resting against his chest and the tattered and worn miniature horse tether bracelet—that was now known as an infinity sign—clinging to his wrist, were nearly the only tangible pieces of evidence left to remind him his story was still true, he had loved more than once, he had been betrayed, and there was still blood to be spilled.

Over many lifetimes, Elijah’s memories had slowly faded away, especially the good ones. Trying to find one to cling to was a bit like grasping at air. Only the most important ones remained, the ones that left a truly lasting impression, and unfortunately for Elijah, only a precious few of those memories were happy ones.

He had a random memory of his mother kissing him once on the cheek and then on his forehead, but he couldn’t see her face. He remembered lying next to Malaki and listening to Solomon tell tales of adventure and derring-do, and he remembered Sara every time he noticed the bracelet hanging on his wrist.

He remembered the fear that had consumed him when he thought he had lost her, the cool of her wet dress as she tied the bracelet around his wrist, the wet lock of hair he pushed away from her face when he first kissed her, and the inexplicable pain and burning rage that became him as he watched her body burn. But most of his pleasant memories, at least of late, revolved around Ayda. He feared forgetting, that one day he would wake up and remember nothing. Even now, voices sometimes eluded him, and sometimes faces were hard to recall. He feared being lost in this world that had become so foreign to him.

Elijah slid into his Armani jeans and his black canvas shoes. Picking up his shirt and jacket, he opened the hotel room door, needing to get out of there before he was forced to speak again. The comparatively fresh air from the corridor drifted into the open doorway and refreshed Elijah’s senses. The welcome change sharpened him. Donning his shirt and swinging his jacket over his muscular shoulders, he shut the door quietly and walked down the corridor.

As he went through the hotel lobby, Elijah could feel his pulse racing. This had been a long time coming. He stepped out into the night, shuddering as a cold wind rushed across his cheeks and down through the open collar of his burgundy leather jacket, but it didn’t matter, not tonight.

Nothing could bother him tonight. After so many years of searching, he was finally closing in. By the time Elijah had left Japan, the Mongol Empire had splintered and dissolved. Elijah had no idea then where to find William and Solomon. Or how.

He had been forced to return to an expanded version of his original method, which had relied mostly on luck and been confined to a much smaller area. In just the past hundred years he had visited thousands of churches, temples, synagogues and mosques, hunting his father and brother through Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. He was constantly on the move; he hadn’t had a real friend since Ayda.

One thing he did remember was Solomon’s habit of seeking refuge and solace at holy places: shrines, altars, places of worship. Solomon had often said it was important to reflect, to allow the beauty outside of your body to resonate within. Elijah hoped this habit, this ritual, would eventually lead to his discovery, that it would eventually bring him face-to-face with Solomon and his father.

He had picked up hints of his brother’s presence a few times, but always too late. Once, in Greece, he had met a woman who remembered seeing his brother at the great Temple of Poseidon at Sounion just three weeks before. Since the day Ayda had pulled him off the prow of the Khagan’s ship, that was the closest he had come to facing his betrayers.

Fortunately for him, his brother’s presence was extremely imposing, nearly unforgettable. It seemed everyone remembered him, even if the encounter lasted only a moment. Because of this, Elijah was finally close. After centuries of missing his father and brother by years and months, he was now only days behind them.

Through sources of his own and recent personal accounts, Elijah had traced them to this specific region of the United States. He didn’t know exactly why they were here, in the eastern part of the Commonwealth of Virginia, of all places. He only knew they were looking for something. Still, he didn’t know what they could find in a place such as this; he couldn’t imagine Ayda had brought the parchment all this way.

Elijah didn’t care why they were here; all that mattered was finding them. He would search every temple in Eastern Virginia if he had to; someone would remember seeing his brother. He was anxious to get started. The town was filled with churches and temples, but most of them could be ruled out.

Elijah knew his brother; he knew his admiration for art, especially in architecture, would lead him to the most elaborately and artfully designed temple in the city. There were only three possibilities he had noticed the night before, two large Christian churches and one small but beautifully designed mosque.

He would begin with the mosque; it would be less crowded and quieter. If his brother was in the area, that is where he was most likely to be. The mosque wasn’t far from his hotel; he was there in minutes.

Stepping into the foyer, he took off his shoes as was required. The musty heat of a freshly vacuumed carpet penetrated his nostrils, making it a little harder to breathe. He had come to hate religion, and thought it ironic he had spent so many lifetimes traveling from temple to temple.

He was not really expecting to find anything here in this little mosque in Carlisle, Virginia. Experience had taught him the uselessness of hope. It seemed only to lead to disappointment, but fate had brought him here for a reason.

He had spent more time at mosques than anywhere else over the years, so he knew all the customs and traditions and it was easy for him to fit in. Not wanting to wash up and go into the prayer room, he was relieved to see a middle-aged man walking past him towards the door. The man was Elijah’s height, but thinner; he carried himself with confidence.

As he approached, the sweet smell of jasper soap washed across Elijah’s face. The man looked Elijah directly in the eye and nodded. His demeanor was uninviting, but Elijah didn’t have time to wait for the perfect candidate. He took the opportunity to quickly ask about his brother; he described him the same way he had so many times before. Elijah noticed a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes as he began to speak.

“I remember him distinctly. I saw him three days ago.” The man’s eyes were wide and his voice was filled with certainty. “He had the most tired-looking eyes. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but he seemed to carry lifetimes of pain.”

By the man’s broken accent, Elijah could tell he was far from home, and by the deep scars on his hands and face he knew the man was no stranger to pain himself.

“He was at the
masjid
in Rallo, a small town ninety miles south,” the man concluded, helpful, but by no means pandering. As soon as he finished speaking, he quickly slipped into his shoes and exited the building.

Elijah had been caught off guard. It had been a while since Elijah had ran into someone who had seen Solomon. He had forgotten how Solomon seemed to be carrying sorrow that he didn’t deserve. Still, for a brief moment empathy played its hand, and for the first time in centuries he remembered why he had admired his brother so long ago. But his nostalgia was quickly trumped by visions of his brother’s betrayal. He had spent centuries trying to excuse Solomon, trying to imagine what could have happened to warrant his brother’s actions. There was nothing.
My brother was the great deceiver
, he thought.
His pain-filled eyes are nothing but lies
.

Elijah slid his feet into his shoes and scrambled for the door as visions of killing his brother filled his mind and warmed his soul. Dreams and visions of revenge were the only true pleasures he had known for centuries. Losing his loved ones had been difficult, but being betrayed by the person he loved and trusted most, his big brother Solomon, had stripped him of his soul. Over the years his anger had seemed to change focus, moving from his father to his brother. He sometimes thought it was because he had been able to face his father and see him for the monster he was; he had yet to face his brother.

The things Elijah had done still haunted him; if it hadn’t been for Ayda and Hassan he would have been lost in darkness forever. At least now he was able to live without being dogged by constant bloodlust, to move about in the gray areas without making ripples. People still feared him everywhere he went. They no longer greeted him with the warmth he remembered as a child, but he was no longer a child, nor was he the murderous monster he had been, despite the guilt that was an ever-present reminder of a past he couldn’t leave behind.

The years of meditation he had spent on that mountain had taught him to control that part of himself to some degree. He was able to live amid the masses, and, for the most part, to go unnoticed.

He still killed when he had to, but only vampires.