The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Read online

  As a chat with Cazimir was in order, I got comfortable on my bed, powered up the laptop, and briefly typed. I connected with the Baron and was greeted with a wan smile as he settled into his desk chair. He looked drawn and older. His vigor was somehow washed out by the lamps of his home, which threw light on more of the interior than we had previously seen. Stately arches of hewn wood were spanned by square beams, their lengths scored with axe marks that attested to the age of the structure. It was rugged but cultured, with meaningful-looking items placed on nearly every flat surface. On a table, a charger of burled wood and chased silver. Pears sat within the platter, huddled together in the middle of the smooth depression made from years of use. A museum-quality table spanned half the room, enhanced by turned wooden candelabras placed at every third chair. Tapers of beeswax sat unlit in their bases, and on each wall, tapestries hung with the stillness that only great weight and craftsmanship can bring to so large a weave. Lurid scenes of the hunt quivered with motion in the threads, still brilliant after years on the wall.

  But these items paled in comparison with the crown jewels of the lodge, mounted on the beam closest to the Baron’s desk. Five feet long, more than a foot in diameter, and tailing away to a lethal point, the aurochs horns shone like obsidian. I could not envision what type of beast might carry those upright, let alone wield them like swords. Periodic specks of gray broke through the unrelenting blackness of the horns, which were held in place by a bronze ring nearly a foot wide. The display was an otherworldly image out of time, driving home the point that the Baron’s family- and residence- were far different than anything we had ever seen before. My house had the feel of a roadside motel; the Baron’s was a portal to a life that disappeared centuries earlier. I sat mute in the face of this otherness and asked, somewhat cowed by the scene, “Sir, are you feeling well?”

  “No, Ring. I will not draw out my answer, I am tired, and I have an inarticulate fear that something is happening with Elizabeth and the women she brings into her sphere of influence. I cannot say why, but I have an echo in my bones that she is moving inexorably to some sort of violent conclusion. I fear for her. I fear for those around her, and the good souls that she may take because of her moral corruption. And, for the first time, I fear not being here to help her.” He bowed his head, looking more elderly than I thought possible. It shocked me to see him deteriorate this quickly, but stress can eat a person from within until he collapse in a rumbling heap. I tempered my sympathy by recalling the fact this man, essentially a stranger, still had someone watching us from a distance. That jolted me back to the middle regarding my opinion of the Baron, no matter how I felt about his current situation. I decided to remain on his side, at least on the surface.

  “I know we are getting closer to her, Cazimir. We’ll find her, I promise you. One by one, her daughters make themselves known to us through their crimes or our diligence. So rest, sir. Rest, and I’ll call you with each step as we narrow our search. I won’t stop until I have my hands on her.” I hoped my resolute tone would give him some solace.

  “Thank you, Ring, I trust your efforts. Let me give you a bit of advice from an old man, if I may. When you get close, very close, be sure you are speaking to her directly. Because you do not want to grab a creature as spirited as Elizabeth by the tail,” he finished. He bid me goodbye and cut the connection, leaving me to wonder about tigers, tails, and how I could convince Elizabeth that anything other than her surrender was suicide for her.

  But first, I had to convince myself.

  Delphine was no ordinary courtesan. While she certainly had a small presence on the internet, it quickly became apparent that seeing her involved a more traditional methodology. My email expressing interest in meeting her was returned promptly by a staff member named Joseph. He informed me that, after a brief description of myself, I might be permitted to speak directly with the lady herself. Given that I was going to tailor my personal history directly to her particular needs, I was confident that, no later than dinner, I would hear the voice of a succubus who had been operating in New Orleans for decades, if not centuries.

  And, Delphine, who would certainly be the model of decorum, would hear the voice of her very last client: Me.

  I called the given number, and Joseph answered on the second ring, neither anxious nor dismissive, but, nonetheless, making me aware that I wanted something to which he controlled access. His voice was silky, cultured, and capable of turning even the smallest words into insults. I hated him in seconds. He was the type of officious prick that graces desks in government agencies and salons, alike. But even roadblocks like Joseph can be surmounted, and, when I combined the words inheritance with jewelry, his voice quickly changed into a more subservient tone I instantly recognized as interest.

  “Let me connect you to Miss Delphine, if you’ve a moment, Ring,” he gushed. I had tickled the right ivories to hear the tune I wanted. A static click announced that Delphine was on the line, in more ways than one.

  “Mister Hardigan, thank you for calling on me. I understand you’re interested in the two of us getting acquainted?” she asked in the measured tones of a belle. She was good.

  “I am, and thank you for taking my call without a prior, written appointment to chat. Manners are fading, I’m afraid, but I admit to being a bit anxious about meeting you. What with my new situation and all,” I finished, leaving the unspoken dangling for her. She bit.

  “Situation? Tell me, Ring-may I call you Ring, since we may be friends quite soon?” she asked, and I gave my permission, quickly. “How has your situation changed, that you find yourself wanting my company? You realize, of course, that I see only very select gentlemen, and, not to be rude, but may we start with me asking what it is you do?”

  I knew that this was the delicate part of the conversation. A mixture of truth, lies, and something in between was what Wally and Risa suggested as a tactic to draw her into the discussion, that we might convince her to leave her gated walls.

  “Well, to be honest, very little. I had hoped to enjoy your company, show you around my city,” I was interrupted by her peal of laughter.

  “Oh, Ring, that is precious. I think that Joseph- whom I’ll deal with directly,” her voice took an iron tone, “has sorely misread who you are. You most certainly do not meet the qualifications of the men I see.” She finished and dragged on a cigarette, waiting for me to speak so she could end the conversation. Now was the time where I would demonstrate the fine line between carrot and stick. How she would react was uncertain, but appealing to vanity was a fine place to start.

  “Miss Delphine, if you’ll hear me out,” I began in my most placating tone, “True, I have very little money and no job, currently. But I am a confident man. I’m also quite nice-looking, according to my neighbor. She says I remind her of her middle son, who lives in Illinois” I preened. I could not imagine Delphine’s face. “I can show you a really nice time. We have a great pizzeria just around the corner that serves wine.”

  With that absurdity, she brought the hammer down. “Ring, I am holding a cigarette. Do you think I lit it? No. I cannot recall the last time I drew my own bath. I have a staff that respects and fears me because of my reputation and men who will gladly give their last cent to be with me. Now, I think this jest has gone on long enough, and I bid you a pleasant day.”

  Before she could hang up, I set the hook. “If you insist, Delphine . . . I only thought you would visit me because my uncle was a baron, and I wanted to use the jewelry he left me for something memorable. Like you supposedly are.”

  Her intake of breath told me all I needed to know about her curiosity, which was alive and well. It was time to close the negotiations.

  “I can send you the same picture of the necklace I gave the other French lady. She told me she was very interested in visiting after she saw it, since she thought it might be a family heirloom.” Now I brought the stick to bear. “I think that you might reconsider, given that the necklace was handcrafted by an artis
an of incredible skill, one of the finest in Europe. What would it hurt for you to take a look? I mean, if it’s good enough for someone as classy as--I think you pronounce her name Sandrine --is it good enough for you? I just want to have a really memorable time, you know?” I chided her and held my breath.

  “Sandrine?” she asked, and I heard her breathing quicken. “I may be interested, after all. I do have some free time this week, as it turns out. Social seasons can be so dull.” She was struggling to regain her velvety composure, and failing.

  “Can you describe this jewelry, Ring?” she asked me, solidly on the line.

  “Why don’t I show you, instead? Remember, I’m just an unemployed nobody, so my description would be crude. Let the necklace speak for itself, right?” I asked her. She covered the receiver momentarily and then read off a phone number for me to send a picture.

  “Send it right along, won’t you?” she asked, letting her mask of control slip ever so slightly. “Who knows, Ring? It may be time for me to visit the tropics again.”

  Wally and Risa had gone for a run before dinner, so I had Gyro as my sous chef. We prepared, admittedly with some sampling, an array of bread and olives, cheese, hummus, and basically every pickled item known to man. Peppers, artichokes, hearts of palm, and a sprinkling of capers lay on a large white platter that we could comfortably grab from in the center of the table. Our meals were often simple and informal, but that did not mean they were unsatisfying. I chilled wine and set the table family style, knowing that Marcus, and probably Suma, would be joining us, then opened a beer and took the beast into the yard for recreation. I sat at the dock while Gyro reinvestigated every single blade of Bermuda grass we had managed to keep alive in the backyard. His snorts were comical, and the sun was setting without fanfare as I fought the urge to doze in the light breeze. I rolled my shoulders to loosen them and stretched both legs and arms, getting ready for our dinner guests. I had a feeling that our meal would be memorable.

  Suma joined us, along with Marcus, after picking him up at his hotel, and it made for a cheerful table as they traded war stories about the medical field, lawsuits, and the general decline of civilization. Now and then, it did us good to hear about less belligerent occupations and added an air of normalcy to our lives, at least for an hour or two. When the wine was gone and the plates were cleared, I asked Marcus if he had any training with weapons. His look confirmed my suspicions, so we all filed into the yard for an impromptu seminar on the finer points of knife fighting against ancient succubae that may or may not be wearing crinoline skirts. I really know very little about fashion among the moneyed immortals of New Orleans, but it seemed plausible.

  “Stand light on your feet, okay?” I instructed Marcus, as Suma sat on the grass while Wally and Risa assisted me on posing his limbs properly. I hadn’t given him a knife for the same reason I wouldn’t strap a butcher knife to Gyro’s paw; he simply wasn’t ready for it and it was patently unsafe. We drank a lot of wine, too, which added to the general danger. although I had stopped at one glass, knowing that this lesson was going to occur.

  “How does that feel?” I asked him, taking in his generally clumsy bearing.

  “Okay. A bit stiff. Should I be moving around, or something, you know, lighter on my feet?” he asked, giving voice to a common mistake made by amateurs.

  “No, stay still and breathing easy. Remember this: quiet mind, quiet feet. You want to be economical, not flying all over the place. All that does is make you unbalanced and at risk. Wally, reposition his legs and turn him a bit?” I asked her, as she moved to adjust his placing.

  She placed her arms around his chest and turned him to face me in a side stance, narrowing his profile dramatically. I heard her inhale as she playfully nuzzled his neck. He reacted as expected, with wide eyes and a hint of a blush. Wally can do that to a man in an instant. It’s her trademark. Well, that and a few other things, but this was the one she used at the moment.

  “What is that cologne, Marcus? It’s a panty-dropper.” She asked him in her most lascivious tone. “Risa, come smell this guy. Amazing.” She stepped aside as Risa leaned in and sniffed his neck appreciatively.

  “Well? What is it, handsome? Risa flirted, outrageously. She was at her maximum wattage, gazing up at him with doe eyes and a soft smile. It was a killer look.

  “It’s, well, it’s Armani. You like it that much, really? I’ll wear it more often now,” Marcus stammered, falling in love with his cologne choice just a bit more than he thought possible.

  “Okay, dreamboat.” I laughed, “Turn back, position again, like we showed you. Now, I’ll extend my hand, blade backwards so you’re not hurt. Show me what your instincts are when I come forward, and we’ll see where your skills are at. . .” Marcus settled again, trying to remain serious in the face of such flattery. It was challenging even for me, and I live with the girls.

  I balanced on my back foot slightly in a sixty to forty ratio, arm out slightly and my knife turned towards me. “Ready?” I asked him, and he smiled. Over his shoulder, Risa gave an imperceptible nod, and I lunged forward in a blazing strike as my wrist turned to plunge the blade in his heart, stopping only when my knuckles thumped against his breastbone with a muffled noise signaling the end of Marcus’ life as he knew it. Suma gasped. Risa and Wally stood, unmoving and imperturbable. Before his body could hit the patio, he began to sublimate like any immortal, old or new, and only Suma was surprised by the dainty motes of blue that scattered on the breeze as what had been Marcus, insurance actuary and toy of Delphine, vanished from the earth forever.

  “How did you know?” Suma asked me, blanched and shaken.

  “He smelled like Sandrine, but not a perfect match. Close enough for me. He must have begun to turn from fucking Delphine every night, not even knowing he was being recreated in her image. It was a matter of time until he began to kill on his own, probably starting with his ex-wife and moving on from there. I asked the girls to confirm it, and, once they did with their little bit of theater, it was time for him to go.”

  Suma shook her head sadly, her gaze lingering on the empty clothes that Marcus had worn. Risa snatched them up and began walking towards the trash cans on the side of the house; while Wally casually asked us all if we were ready for another bottle of wine. It was business as usual. But, I sensed that Suma was receiving an education in casual death that she could do without if it were her choice.

  Being around us, it wasn’t. With a steadying hand, I helped her to her feet and led her inside, where she could shake off the adrenaline in a more civilized setting than the scraggly Bermuda grass of our backyard.

  “Why don’t you stay over? No funny stuff, I promise.” I beamed at her, conscious of her mental state. “But you can rest here, and, in the morning, you can head over to the Butterfly for a normal, death-free lunch.”

  “That sounds like just what I ordered.” she replied gamely. Her good humor was returning, and we had wine to drink, so we joined Wally and Risa inside and gave Marcus no further thought. It was as if he had never been born, which was just one of the sad details that immortals brought to bear on innocents, day in and day out.

  I stayed true to my word. Suma’s virtue remained unsullied, at least by my hand. After coffee and some lounging in which we were miraculously alone, Suma asked me a question that caught me off guard as I was rummaging breakfast for us.

  “When you were in the Army, did you think about what would happen afterwards? If you killed someone or did things that you thought you would have to answer for later? Like sins?” She was looking past me as she spoke.

  It troubled me that she knew that detail of my life, as I couldn’t remember telling her, but she had spoken to the girls at length. The topic may have come up. I certainly didn’t hide my time overseas.

  “I didn’t think about it. I was hot and tired, hungry most of the time. Thirsty. miserable. I learned to despise the uncertainty of violence but relied on my team like they were family. The oldest in my squad was o
nly twenty-six. Three of us were married, some had kids. We were all homesick. I would’ve strangled someone for a cheeseburger that didn’t taste like dust. I was the loner among us, but that didn’t mean I was an outsider. On the contrary, I was accepted. I always volunteered for shit duties because I knew that I could do the job. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an exemplary soldier; I just sort of glided through things. Even combat. It was always a little easier for me. But, even though I was a bit different, my team always included me, accepted me. We were forged together. Some of us become men, a few of us died. I’m sure some went nuts. Or are going nuts, slowly. Every time I used my weapon, I did so in the interest of my team, never from raw anger. I was, like I said, floating. . .” I paused to hand Suma a wedge of orange. She took it and inhaled the scent with appreciation.

  “I’ll never get tired of that smell. Like the sun.” she said, nibbling. Around her bites, she asked “But you didn’t think about sin? About whether or not there would be some cost for doing what you were doing?” It was a fair question.

  “Are you really asking me if I believe in God?” I countered.. “Because the answer has to be yes.”

  I think that surprised her. She looked expectantly at me for details, finishing her orange.

  “It just seems logical to me, that’s all,” I explained. “I don’t know about heaven. I don’t think that there is a hell; at least not like some of us portray it. There are no lakes of fire or beasts and ice and darkness. All of those things are here, now, with us every day, so it doesn’t make sense to create a place to hold what is already a part of our daily lives. There is fire, endless fire from wars that we make. The cold of loneliness. Beasts that we hunt and kill, or the worst among humanity. Those people are beasts, at least to me. I see what they are capable of, up close and personal, and it’s nauseating. And I believe in counterweights. After seeing what we have seen, here, in the dark and sometimes in the light, well, I just think that there has to be something, someone, holding onto the other side of the rope and stopping all of us here from sliding down some shithole to be lost forever. And I think that God doesn’t really care what I’m doing, as long as I’m helping to hold the rope, instead of stepping on the heads of everyone who is circling the drain around a long, cold fall into the permanent darkness.”