Bones and Bagger (Waldlust Series Book 1) Page 17

  A grudge against Charlemagne for an execution that bordered on psycho-gruesome? I thought about that possibility as the DB lady punched our tickets with that validation device they all carry around. Maybe, but probably not.

  Many kings invited Sparky into their courts and it almost always ended badly for Sparcius. Kings took very little crap in those days. It usually took only one or two of Sparky’s shenanigans to breach threshold. And there were those times Sparky got himself executed on purpose just so could close the chapter on one portion of his life and reset.

  With the Ticket Lady satisfied and Sister Christian’s head resettled on my chest, I took that unscheduled trip down memory lane while DB whisked us to Aachen at more than 100mph. Sparky’s ability to endure pain in order to make the sting believable.

  You know those kings with hundreds of wives and triple the children? Ever wonder how they could get all of the happy work done and retain enough energy to conquer their neighbors? I smiled. Many of them went on the anonymous Sparky-assist program. The guy had looks and kings picked pretty boys to guard the harems.

  Old Sparks would intentionally get himself captured. If they executed the prisoners he’d try a different tact. If they kept a few as slaves, Sparky would usually find himself one of the chosen. It often ended up harem duty for him. As a eunuch. That meant he got himself captured just so some guy could cut off his nut sack and put him in charge of making sure no other guy had a go at the wives. Like setting the cat among the pigeons. Sparks could regrow marbles faster than Karl can conjure a steaming ghost-dog dooly.

  He’d get caught. Even Sparky couldn’t keep up with the workload and one of the women would eventually feel neglected. An every-rose-has-its-thorn situation. No problem for Sparky. Another execution and then a whole world of new opportunities out there. I suspect the harem gig was the only job Sparky ever put his heart into…among other things. I chuckled.

  Sister Christian stirred and then resettled. I stowed those mental videos of the old days and fell asleep. One moment I saw Sparky crawling from bed to bed in some long ago desert city and the next I heard the telltale sound of cap removal from beer bottles. J-Rod, Watanabe, and the Prince had each snagged a beer from the dining cart. I checked my phone for the time—oops, I checked my pocket for where my phone should be. Hope Helmet appreciated my sacrifice.

  I reached through the seats in front of me and tapped J-Rod.

  “How long?” I said.

  “About twenty more minutes.”

  “And thanks for the beer,” I said.

  “Whatcha needing beer for Homey,” J-Rod responded. “You got Sister Christian, man.”

  We arrived on time—it’s the way things are done—and walked to the ancient marketplace. Centuries separated that day from my last visit to Aachen though, once we hit the large square with the market on one end and the cathedral on the other, it looked familiar to me. Could have been my imagination.

  We decided to stop for a pick-me-up at a small restaurant in the square. I prefer eating outside but there were no tables available. The interior was old and heavy, the ceiling within an easy arm’s reach for me. The walls weren’t original to the building and looked like a post-war addition.

  Everyone ordered a cheap schnitzel—chicken variety—and French fries. Do I need to tell you what we drank? We sat within a stone’s throw of the cathedral, it was still before three p.m., and the short trip gave us something new to look at and to take our minds off the previous night.

  I didn’t say much. The guys spoke their usual baloney and it almost seemed like we turned the clock back to normal…before they found out about me and took a small bite of the world that comes with me.

  Nobody wanted to order a second round—we’d save that for the train ride home—so I paid the tab and we all stood up. One difference in the crowd worth noting. My pals let me pay for the train tickets and didn’t dispute me when I offered to pay for the meal. Yes, I still owed them for their courage and support back in the plywood tunnel.

  If none of that had gone down we’d be arguing over the bill. Not who would have to pay but rather who would get to pay. Forget shoestring budgets so thin the payer would eat plain pasta for every meal the following week. We did that for each other. Now everyone assumed a two thousand year-old semi-immortal had some cash. Maybe they just wanted to punish me for a long life they couldn’t have. That came out sounding uglier than I meant it.

  BTW, their assumption about cash was a good one. I socked enough away through the years to make me comfortable by anyone’s standards. Trusts in the USA, Europe, and Singapore. Each of them could keep me in whatever I needed many times over. I had help with the financial intricacies and might someday let you know how it all came about. Just not today. I didn’t mind paying for the crowd, that’s not what bothered me about the new situation. To some degree I felt liberated…I’d wanted share more with my friends for a while. But another wall between us, this one constructed of the almighty dollar. That’s what gnawed at me.

  I’d like to say I’d give all my wealth away for the opportunity to return to my previous, less conspicuous role. One of the gang. But only a liar would claim such a thing and only an idiot would go through with it. I’d find a way to deal with my new status outside the innermost circle of my friends. If I lived to next week. First things first, we had a cathedral to visit.

  My warning bells must have been out for repair because, in retrospect, I should have noticed how dark that medieval square had become in the quick hour we’d spent eating. We headed across the courtyard to the Aachen Cathedral.

  Chapter 24

  A thick overcast weaved its way in front of the sun while we ate the schnitzels. The gray above us dimmed ambient light and dulled visual acuity. I could still see OK but I’m was sure my friends saw the cathedral through sepia tints as we approached.

  Snowstorms are always a threat between mid-autumn and late-spring, and I had the notion Mr. Frosty would put in an unscheduled appearance. Not a problem. The previous night’s temperature reached down into the low 50’s, so everyone was dressed appropriately.

  The Aachen Cathedral was built, expanded, and rebuilt a number of times through the centuries. Have I already mentioned the German love for construction makeovers? The main building reminded me of Mainz’s thousand-year-old Dom, only in a dull cream color versus the red masonry over on the Rhine.

  The wind picked up as we reached the steps and I smelled moisture in the air even as bits of cold wet flecked against my face.

  “I don’t think it’s open,” said the Prince.

  I wondered how he knew one way or the other because he was scanning a sign that pointed to the public restrooms. No words, just the international symbol for dudes and chicks.

  “Has to be,” said Watanabe. “Saturday must be a big tourist day.”

  Probably right, but I didn’t see a lot of folks milling around. A lot of folks? Try just about nobody. The change in weather must have driven everyone indoors. I did see a procession of monks walking toward what must have been a side door.

  Sister Christian gave the front door a tug.

  “Locked,” she said.

  “I’m with Watanabe,” J-Rod said. “I don’t think they’d close the place on a Saturday.”

  Germans have their own reasons for doing things and they all make sense. To other Germans. I thought of the Bad Homburg train station and the renovations underway. They’d close the place if something needed work inside. Heck, they’d close it for lunch. Got to love socialism.

  “Where’d those monks go?” asked Sister Christian.

  Watanabe pointed one way, the Prince the other.

  I thought her question more rhetorical than directional. Sister Christian walked to where we last saw the monks and we all followed. I didn’t know if they’d let us in if the place were closed, but it seemed a shame to come all this way and not accomplish a thing. Kind of like getting elected President of the USA.

  We made it to an alley between
the main cathedral section and the building next door. And there we saw the monks playing with an ancient, iron door loop. They looked like they should be there—monks and cathedral, dead giveaway. Us in our mishmash of sweaters and coats? Not so much.

  Nothing odd about the monks or the way they were dressed: black tunics covering their bodies and the cowls covering their heads. Made sense that they’d also anticipated bad weather. The only weird thing was that the five of them looked big enough to play offensive line for the Wisconsin Badgers. And one of the brothers was actually a sister. A nun. A big girl. Definitely right tackle material in Madison.

  Most nuns these days are tiny things. Not this woman. I heard the door creak as we got to within a few paces and the Blessed Brothers and Sister of the Order of the Sacred Behemoth disappeared inside. Nobody closed the door. Was this a cathedral or a barn?

  We paused to look inside. Nothing but a black curtain that pretty much obscured everything. Confirmed my thoughts regarding renovations. We’d need to get on the other side of that curtain to see all the Charlemagne stuff. And likely as not, the bros and big sis would chase us out.

  “I’m going,” said Sister Christian, and in she went.

  Here’s a secret about men, women, Mars and Venus. Most guys try to follow rules. At least the basic ones. Front door closed and locked means no entry. So we hesitated. On the other hand, nobody wanted to look like a chicken, so we filed in after Sister Christian.

  Watanabe led, I waited until they were all inside and then followed. I didn’t want to suffer the embarrassment of getting kicked out of a church. When my friends remained inside for thirty seconds or so, I decided we wouldn’t face the humiliation of the bum’s rush. I parted the construction curtain and walked through. My brain said stop just before I ran into the big nun’s backside, and I controlled the urge to yell HIKE as I scanned around for my friends.

  The beach ball feeling inside my stomach didn’t inflate all at once. They could have been anywhere in the bad lighting. And what I saw looked more substantial than a simple renovation. All the walls were covered in the same black construction draping. No wonder we didn’t see tourists.

  Sister All American waddled toward the only corner inside the ancient building where any light shone at all. Thinking the light may have drawn Sister Christian and the boys, I followed the nun and expected J-Rod or Watanabe to jump out of the shadows and yell boo. The mental warning bells turned up their volume after a few seconds of trailing the nun. Maybe it was the location, but I imagine an army of tiny hunchbacks jumping up and down on the bell ropes in my brain. Clang, clang.

  The cute little monsters melted away and that old weed called worry replaced them. And boy did it flourish as I mindlessly trailed the nun. She didn’t seem to notice me. Just kept shuffling toward the beam of light.

  It took a few more steps for a sense of desperation to close around me like a hungry python just beginning the squeeze. But I thought all that could be crap, that my friends were hiding or had found another room to explore. Yelling for them might prove the quickest way to find Sister Christian and the boys, but instinct warned against calling attention to myself. As if everyone or thing didn’t already know I was there. But if the gang responded, I had the feeling they’d be revealing their positions to more than just me.

  I possessed strength enough to dismantle the building and search under every stone. I also possessed a more subtle capability that might come in handy. You’re probably thinking I mean my sex drive, but that’s not it. Couldn’t have invoked it anyway. Not with so pious—and potentially hideous—a female standing in front of me. Besides, I don’t go after other guys’ wives. So I pushed sex drive to the bottom of my bag of tricks. And I brought forward the most dangerous of my abilities.

  I did the thing I avoid with innocents nearby. Think of the way bats screech and use the returning sound wave to detect quarry. Vampires can do something similar. Perhaps it’s the reason we’re associated with the furry little creatures. No screeching, though. Only concentration. And that’s what I did. I concentrated on my need for living blood and felt my senses extend in every direction.

  Living blood. I’ve long ago stopped considering the Zen aspects of my existence. For me, there’s one truth, a single constant. Blood. Human blood. An instinctual craving so powerful I could no more turn my back to it than a lifelong alcoholic could refuse downing just one more. I never intend to harm anyone, unless you call getting out of bed in the morning intent.

  The sense comes in handy for finding food…especially when the food understands the danger. Synonyms. That’s how my kind lives. What word means the same thing as human being? Food.

  Psychoanalysis aside, I tuned into my blood lust—blood radar might be a better name but they used what was available back then—and strained each returning vibration for my bagger gang. I’d need to be careful when I did detect them. Because I’d want to sprint to their location—removing any object blocking the path along the way—and then to bite into flesh. That simple, and that undeniable. My teeth obeyed the blood hunt. They grew in anticipation.

  Bottom line. Releasing the blood lust with humans nearby would be like setting a Bengal tiger loose after a mouse in your bedroom. You better hope you’ve got that tiger trained. Here’s a bit more of the ugly truth. I’d never practiced for this contingency…the one where I release the lust and withdraw it without tasting blood.

  Sister SnapCount didn’t look overly appetizing so I thought it safe to release a portion of the blood lust, just a trickle. In addition to the possibility I’d devour one of my friends, I already mentioned the other minor side effect. I wanted the plywood tunnel demons to see extended teeth sure enough, but I didn’t think that sort of primal war paint acceptable in a house of worship—check that, a house where they used to worship—with monks and nuns running around.

  The odd, early-afternoon darkness inside the cathedral went a long way toward mitigating the risk that one of the black-robed walruses would notice my anomaly. Initial probing returned nothing, so I turned up the intensity. I extended past the nun in front of me—no easy task--and sought out every Latin-named nook, cranny, and confessional.

  Nothing. All I could do was continue to trail the nun toward the light. And I mean nothing as in not only no human blood, but also none of those cathedral structures I just mentioned. Renovations are one thing, overhauls something completely different. Germans might move things around as they work on old buildings, but they seldom remove the artifacts. My blood lust should have been bouncing around the walls and furniture. But it came back in a straight line.

  I pondered the surprising lack of interference when obvious point number one hit. No displays or cabinets. No throne of Charlemagne. No nothing. Big deal. Because there was also no sense of blood. No living creature inside the building. Not a single human. I wondered if my crowd went through the black drape and then immediately exited a nearby door that I ended up missing.

  Had to be it. The old cathedrals were full of doors leading here and there. Weren’t they? I almost smiled as I reached out to touch the back of the nun’s shoulder. I’d fess up for being inside when the place was closed and asked which way she saw my friends depart. I’d just touched habit and felt the doughy skin beneath give way when obvious point number two dawned.

  How could my blood lust return void when a big bowl of metaphorical spaghetti—the nun—stood a few inches in front of me? I pulled back my hand like I’d just touched a Frenchman. I’d already discounted the possibility my blood lust could induce me to attack on the nun. She looked that bad from the rear and I didn’t expect any improvements when I saw her face. But ignoring something doesn’t make it not there. Like the power company bill. Had I not been so keen on detecting my friends I would have seen how fruitless the blood lust option would prove.

  Dive into a pool of cheap perfume and do you expect surface and detect the odor of a single miniature rose? My blood lust shouldn’t have been able to fight through the sheer volu
me of blood flowing through the rivers of veins in the specimen in front of me. But my senses returned nothing. Not friends in the building and not a great wooly mammoth.

  We reached the light and I saw the beam lit the only item in the cathedral not draped in black.

  I’m no art critic, and when you’ve seen one of those old paintings of shorelines, storm clouds, floating angels, people being disemboweled by demons and a smiling half-man, half-goat, you’ve pretty much validated the genre. I would have turned away to resume my search but something on the painting caught my eye.

  Four monks in black robes. I sensed Sister Orson Welles turning to face me as I looked closer at the painting. Was that Watanabe in the movie version of ninja en garde? I stepped around Brunhilda for a closer look. Definitely Watanabe frozen in a menacing, but impotent karate pose. But the painting was dusty and the paint stippled by centuries of hanging there.

  How could Watanabe’s likeness be in it? I stepped nearer and scanned for the rest of the crowd in the way kids look for that skinny guy with a striped shirt and glasses. And there was J-Rod. One of the monks was tying him to a wooden pole while another appeared to be pulling arrows from a quiver. Terror on J-Rod’s face. The Prince stood knee-deep in rolling, black waves, apparently unaware of the pointy-eared, dragon-faced sea-monster bearing down on him. Where was Sister Christian?

  In the air. Of course that’s where she’d be. Above the fray, but not above the danger. She didn’t fly under her own power. A beautiful angel, serene and soft in her blonde hair and puffy white robes, tugged at Sister Christian’s right arm while a red, cloven-hooved, leathery-winged, horned and bearded demon pulled on the other. Tug-o-War for Sister Christian’s soul. Short of that, the demon would find victory in ripping her in two. Those bastards are like that.