Victory of Coins (The Judas Chronicles, #7) (27 page)

“So, you own it?”

“Yes...
we
own it.”

It would take time for that notion to settle in, as I still felt homeless in my heart. One can’t just shift gears and forget an investment of time and memories—and I had quite a few from both our old house and Wheaton itself, as well as the rest of Chicago. But for now I could pretend to be a guest in this grand old house. Being the proud owners of a frigging, Cat-Daddy, plantation house was pretty damned cool. Just wished it was in upstate Illinois.

Maybe the idea of residing in a quaint southern town would grow on me. Hell, at least it was far away from our enemies—the family determined to wipe us clean from the face of the earth. Maybe they’d never find us here....

We exited the SUV to climb a flight of wooden steps to the immense back porch that encircled much of the house. Alisia was the last one to join us, and had purposely left her car door open, grinning wickedly as she wiggled her right forefinger behind her to close it.

“Not here... remember?”

Mom’s elation faded slightly from her hissed admonishment. The Escalade’s door was already closing, but my sister lowered her hand and it stopped. She walked back down the steps to the vehicle and closed the door like normal people would do. As people are wont to do anywhere else in America... north or south.

People blissfully ignorant of magic, and a deadly war on the horizon.

––––––––

I
suppose this is a good place in my story to mention a few very important details before moving forward.

The reference to magic and a coming war are certainly dead giveaways that we are not your typical suburban family seeking a new start in Small Town USA. My parents would appear like anyone else in their late thirties, and Alisia looks and acts like most sixteen-year-olds. As for me, I sometimes act like the eighteen-year-old kid that fits my physical appearance.

My affinity for the Victorian era might stem from the fact I was born in Paris, during a bitterly cold November in 1889. Yes, the very year the Eiffel Tower was erected as the entrance arch to the World’s Fair.

Bet that got you.

So, if you were thinking this was a story about slightly agitated parents moving their beleaguered kids and belongings to get away from big city life, in favor of the stereotypically simpler lifestyle in a quaint little town in the rural south, then this is where you should get off. Get off this train and go find that more typical American drama. Otherwise, get ready to hold on to your seats as we move on in this chronicle. The shit, as they say, is coming... from our enemies and by virtue of whom and
what
we are.

Since much of what follows after this chapter in my journal is pretty far out there for most people, it seems appropriate to share some of my family’s history first. Especially, the history that impacts the here and now for us in Denmark; as well as the reasons why we have moved five hundred miles to start a brand new life.

I was born after my father and mother had fled America to return to Romania. Ironically, my birth while my parents were stranded in Paris became the catalyst for their decision to return to the United States. To return, and take up the fight against the Mateis—a rival family of warlocks and witches who once held close kinship to my family. A tragic event in 1877 crushed our two families’ friendship, and destroyed all alliances beyond repair. Alliances that were in some parts of the world over one thousand years old.

I will detail that tragedy in due time.

But first, let me start with a fuller introduction to my immediate family. My sister, Alisia, is the only one—other than two of my cousins—to be born in this country. Not only is she native to the red, white, and blue, but she also hails from the town we just left: Wheaton, Illinois. Born in April, 1928, she just celebrated her eighty-sixth birthday.

Yet, she looks barely old enough to request a ‘learner’s permit’. Considering that the rest of us are much older than her, and in some cases look hundreds of years younger, one might say we, and those like us, hold exclusive rights to the legendary fountain of youth. No, we are not fully immortal, though it is difficult to kill a warlock or witch consecrated by
naștere la întuneric
, or
birth to darkness
, as it is translated from Romanian to English.

Although I preceded my sister’s arrival on this planet by almost forty years, as the aging process is very slow per the ceremony I just mentioned, I hadn’t reached adolescence yet. So, like Alisia, my formative years were spent in Chicago at first, and in Wheaton from shortly before her birth. Our family resided in three different homes during our ninety-year stay in America’s Christian Mecca, and each residence met the rigorous standards of ‘The Code’ mentioned earlier. By the Roaring Twenties, our line of the Radus had amassed a significant fortune that has since been distributed among a myriad of investments overseen by my father and grandfather. Enough to live lavishly for centuries, it will never happen. Yes, it often sucks, but
Blending in Modestly
has been the mandate protecting our clan for these many centuries. Temptations to stray are handled harshly. Many of our less scrupulous brethren have paid a steep price for such foolishness, and sometimes it has been with their very lives if they try to live like kings and queens.

I will leave Wheaton alone for now, with a brief mention of a fond memory of Grandpa and me flying up to the famed college’s chapel bell tower last fall, and re-hanging the bell upside down. It caused quite a stir among the students and staff, from what we understand, given the location of the bell and the enormous weight involved. Then, just before a crew was scheduled to fix it a few days later, we returned with Alisia in tow to change it back to its original position—all captured on film by my sis for YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram. Great fun, though Grandma stepped in to stop Alisia from posting the footage. What a shame.

Why Denmark? Of all places on God’s green earth, why move to a tiny town in Tennessee that until two months ago, I had never heard of? Well, none of us had heard of it. Except for Grandpa. Grandpa said Al Capone once told him about the place, back in the days of Prohibition. If drinking, buying, and selling alcohol didn’t get you arrested, it could get you killed just as much in the south as the north, according to him... but not as well publicized.

Anyway, when the latest Matei vendetta made it far too dangerous to remain in the Chicago area, Grandpa mentioned how he wished for a hideout like Capone once had in Denmark, Tennessee. Obviously, it was more figurative than anything, and moving south was at first dismissed. Las Vegas sounded like a better choice, since blending in with a steady stream of tourists seemed much safer. But, after Grandpa became more and more convinced that the initial idea might be some heaven-sent omen, my folks made arrangements to visit the town of Denmark, check out the available real estate, and... voila! The rest snowballed quickly. When our house in Wheaton sold nearly overnight in a soft market, it seemed like everything—other than Alisia’s and my fractured hearts—supported the move.

My one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday will be here two months from now, in September. I hope by then to discover a genuine silver lining from this move.... Maybe it will come from the fact I look closer to a nineteen-year-old these days. Dad and Mom told me the night before our move that I no longer had to participate in the middle school/high school circuit—a tour that my poor sis must still deal with for another, oh... thirty to forty years would be my guess. It sucks for her, but hell, I’ve been in high school from the time Elvis Presley first made the airwaves, and on up until Miley Cyrus lost her damned mind. Sixty frigging years of name changes, hair color changes, pretending to ride a bus across town—or even pretending certain homes were where I lived when walking the supposed mile or so home with buddies who now draw social security checks.

Why in the hell would we put up with such a torturous exercise, one might ask? Believe it or not, I have sometimes wondered that myself... but in the end, it has always been easier to try to ‘fit in’ when we can. Less questions and less noticing that my sister and I haven’t aged much over the years. Of course, none of us have aged much during the past one hundred years. Occasionally, Alisia and I have been able to sit out a decade or two from school, disguised as young men and women living as boarders in our own home. Pretty humorous, except when it has sometimes meant ‘bewitching’ the neighbors who had become suspicious.

To purchase your copy of
Welcome to Denmark
, please visit your favorite ebook retailer.

~~~~~~~~

A
iden James
has spent time as a real life paranormal investigator in Tennessee. In love with the legends and history of the Deep South, he and his wife, Fiona, share an old antebellum home with several ghosts.

Please visit his website at:
www.aidenjamesfiction.com
. Or look for him on Facebook (Aiden James, Paranormal Adventure Author) and on Twitter (@AidenJames3).