EHYEH-ASHER-EHYEH (I AM THAT I AM): An Elena Duran/Corazon Negro
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@directvinternet.com)
Fri, 20 Sep 2002 10:06:24 -0400
Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh (I am that I am) 3/34
Julio Cesar divad72@prodigy.net.mx
Vi Moreau vmoreau@directvinternet.com
Watcher's Headquarters
Vienna, Austria
March 26, 2013
The constant flickering of the desk lamp cast a strobe effect over the tiny
oasis of light. The seated figure drummed his fingers, and then finally
raised a hand to strike the recalcitrant lamp. Steady, if not bright,
illumination replaced the flickering just before the blow fell. The hand
lowered slowly...
Joe Dawson turned back to the computer and impatiently confirmed his
messages.
-Original Message-
From: Tirnanog
To: Joe Dawson
Subject: A volcano in Nepal
If you thought this was going to be an easy gig, think again. The Lama
Bhaktivedanta is dead. You heard right: murdered, on Holy Ground! How could
this happen? Who did this? A volcano erupted where the Lama's Temple used to
be. Hundreds died. Not a single clue so far, but I'll keep looking.
Tirnanog
-End of Message-
========
Yussupov Palace,
St. Petersburg, Russia
1916
Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin's mouth burned, and also his esophagus, as he
swallowed the food given to him by that betraying dog, Prince Felix
Yussupov. Yussupov had lured him here, to his palace, on the pretext of
meeting his wife, the Princess Irina, famous for her beauty. Rasputin had
half-suspected a plot against him, but not one quite so open, so obviously
carried out by a nephew-by-marriage of the Tsar himself. He leaned forward
in his chair, moaning, unable to vomit to relieve himself, holding his
stomach while spasm after spasm shook him.
"You look unwell, Rasputin," said the hypocritical Prince soothingly as he
stood over him in mock concern.
Rasputin gasped at the loathsome insect in front of him and realized how
corrupt these Russian nobles, the boyar, were. The only thing that made him
feel better at that moment was the thought that the Russian nobility was
doomed. "Wine!" he called out, and a sterling cup was pressed into his hand.
As he drank deeply, he realized that the wine, too, was poisoned.
"Yussupov," he whispered. His mouth tasted like almonds, and his skin felt
hot. He tried to stand, dropping the goblet to the ground with a crash. "You
will all die!" were the last words he mumbled as he pitched forward onto his
face. He'd died before, the first time in Damascus in the thirteenth
century. He was clearly dying now. But he knew something the Prince didn't
know.
Time passed and Rasputin came back to life with a gasp and a shudder.
Finding himself blessedly alone, he reached up to the edge of the table and
laboriously pulled himself to his feet. His knees could hardly hold him, but
although his body was still weak, his mind was already plotting his revenge.
Wiping his hands and beard with a beautifully embroidered napkin, he
straightened up as he heard footsteps close by. Obviously the Prince wanted
to verify his, Rasputin's death. The bastard would have quite a surprise
instead. And there was only one set of footsteps. The Prince had returned
alone-good. He walked over to examine one of the Prince's many paintings and
turned innocently as his host entered the basement room. "There you are," he
said, happily noting the shock on Yussupov's face. "I wondered where you had
gone, my lord."
"But. I. I thought. you were ."
Rasputin tried not to laugh, but couldn't suppress a fierce smile. "I was
sick there for a moment; but I'm better now," the monk answered, smoothing
his heavy beard down over one of his best black tunics, one he had worn
specifically to meet the beautiful lady Princess. In fact . Feeling
confident that he was now safe from an incredulous Yussupov, Rasputin picked
up the fallen cup and put it down firmly on the table, noticing with delight
how Yussupov jumped at the sound. "Now that I'm refreshed by your very
generous meal," he said, gesturing at the poisoned food, "perhaps this would
be a good time for me to meet your lovely wife."
Yussupov composed himself as best he could. "Certainly. If you're sure-"
"I'm quite sure, Highness," Rasputin answered calmly.
"Actually, I noticed you were admiring that painting. Do you know much about
French paintings?"
"French paintings?" Rasputin knew nothing about French painters, and cared
even less. His strengths were in two areas: medicine and seduction. Long ago
he'd realized that the best way to make people trust him was to find a way
to keep them alive. So, using the skills and especially the knowledge of
circulation of the blood he had learned from his mentor, the Islamic surgeon
Ibn A-Nafis, over six hundred years before, Rasputin had managed to keep
someone very important alive-the tsarevich, Alexis, heir to Nicholas'
throne. By doing that he had gained the undying loyalty of the tsarina,
Alexandra, and had established himself firmly in the middle of the Russian
first family. As for seduction-well, many women, a lot of them boyar wives
and daughters in St. Petersburg, were aware of Rasputin's insatiable
appetites. And an Immortal recovered faster than a mortal and could continue
to have and pleasure women. forever.
It all added up to power for Rasputin-his ultimate goal. And that was what
Prince Yussupov and his co-conspirator nobles could not abide. And as
Rasputin considered this and turned to look at the dreadful painting,
Yussupov pulled a gun out of his belt and shot him. Shot him! Rasputin had
thought the young Yussupov would be overcome with fear and wonder, but it
turned out the puppy could still bite him! Curse him to hell!
Rasputin fell again, this time hitting his head against the stone floor and
almost passing out. As his would-be-killer ran out to tell his conspirators,
the monk decided he did not want to die for a second time tonight in the
basement of this palace. If he could just get away, he'd be able to continue
to be Rasputin, advisor to the Tsar, as long as that lasted. His chest wound
was deep but hopefully not fatal, and he pulled himself to his feet,
stumbled, and fell again, finally being forced to painfully drag himself
along the ground, trying hard to breathe, leaving a trail of blood on the
basement's floor, up the stairs, and through the courtyard. Hopefully by the
time he reached the palace gate he'd be able to walk-
But it was not going to happen. Rasputin heard them coming just as he'd
managed to pull himself up to his knees to a standing position, leaving
bloodily palmprints on the wall. If he only had a few more minutes-but this
time they were smarter, came more quickly and came in full force. The first
bullet slammed into his back, a sword impaled him, and as he blacked out for
the last time he hoped none of them would think to decapitate him.
========
Paris
March 26, 2013
The large, dark bearded man sat in a Paris suite of rooms overlooking the
Seine, finally appreciating all things French. He was dressed in the finest
tailored silk suit, wearing rings on his fingers and drinking a fine cognac
after a dinner of chateaubriand and champignons beurre and fresh
strawberries and cream, prepared by his personal chef-who was also his
current lover. He was full of life and had everything he desired-and he
brooded. He'd been born Abu al-Hazm Ibn al-Quarshi in the thirteenth century
in Damascus, Syria, but his favorite alias had been Grigori Rasputin, the
'mad' Russian monk, and he clung to that name, calling himself Anton
Rasputin, in spite of the jokes made about it.
'Was the mad monk your uncle? Your father? Your older brother?' he was asked
with a laugh or a sneer, every time he gave his name. Rasputin merely
smiled. In those years at the turn of the century, he had actually
influenced an empress! Since that time, it hadn't been the same. Life hadn't
been the same. Oh, he had enough money to lead quite an extravagant
lifestyle, drugs, alcohol, and especially women-he had never managed to
satiate himself of women, he never tired of them-and he'd made a lot of his
fortune selling arms to all sides during both world wars and in any other
bellicose conflict he could find. But the glory days, the days of real power
when he spoke and an entire people trembled, when it had taken princes and
grand dukes to bring him down-those days were long gone. And he missed
them, missed them terribly.
Rasputin had never managed again to get that close to someone that powerful
and with that kind of influence.
Until today. The dark presence filled the room.
She was, of course, an Immortal, and she was glorious, a vision dressed in
black, with flaming red hair and eyes that glowed with fire, knowledge, and
passion. And with power. She floated in the air, a half-meter over his
Bokara rug, and she was wonderful! Every other woman he had ever met paled
before her like milk before a fine burgundy.
"Who are you?" he asked her, knowing only one thing-that he would make this
woman, this majestic being, his, right now, tonight. He reached for her, but
could not touch her, could not bring himself to touch her. She was too fine,
too good for him, this Madonna. Surely she was not of this world, she had
the touch of the divine, he thought. He'd never met a woman like this, a
woman he could not take. He was, for lack of a better word, totally
stupefied.
The woman laughed. The melody of it, her beauty made his breath catch in his
throat and filled his soul. "I am Lilitu. And you, Rasputin, are mistaken. I
am not yours. Instead, you will soon be mine."
He didn't know the name Lilitu, but he wondered how she knew what he'd been
thinking.
"Your lust for me is all over your face. And more. Your lust for power is in
your bones. It's in your blood. I can hear it! It called to me in my dark
place!"
He couldn't touch her or smell her, but she was as real as he was. And she
understood him. "Yes!" he said, tears in his eyes. "I have a lust-"
"Which cannot be sated. Because my dear Rasputin, you lack a vision. You
need someone to lead you. Someone to serve. Someone with a vision."
Rasputin knew he could never be a leader. He did need someone to serve.
Could this be her? Could this be his new tsarina?
"I am that person. I am your new queen, your new mistress, your new Goddess.
You will be great again in my service. We will kill all the great Immortals
until only those who serve me are left. And you will be chief among them. At
my side."
Rasputin took a deep, gasping breath as she held out her hand to him. Not
daring to touch her, he knelt before her, overwhelmed with awe and tears.
========
Vatican City, Rome
March 26, 2013
Very few people knew about the room inside St. Peter's Cathedral. It was a
secret place inside Holy Ground. The perfect place to hide and to rule the
Catholic Church.
The only piece of furniture in it was a straight-backed wooden chair,
occupied by a tall, bronze-skinned man in an immaculate red Cardinal's robe.
His boots were planted squarely on the floor and his hands were folded
neatly in his lap. He was silhouetted against the moonlight that poured
through the window behind him, but nothing in his posture indicated the
slightest trace of tension or fear. The great wooden doors at either end of
the room were barred from the outside, and the walls were featureless and
white. A candelabrum, marred by the wax drippings from countless tapers,
swung silent and black from its chain. If legends were true, Lilitu couldn't
enter this patch of Holy Ground.
A hollow wish, because Cardinal Felucca felt the strong Immortal presence
right in front of him as he heard her voice.
"Here you are," her graceful accent echoed shrilly through the empty room.
Almost instantly, Lilitu walked out of the shadows like Venus rising from
the waves at Cyprus. The darkness flowed off her, leaving her facing her
prey alone. Her hair was tied back with a simple black leather cord. "I'm
disappointed in you, Felucca, hiding on Holy Ground. I thought you'd know
better. No one is safe from me. As you can see, I found you here after a
thousand years, still playing the protector of the Church I see, while
waiting for me. Tired of existence?"
Cardinal Felucca chuckled for precisely two seconds, then cut himself off.
"Hardly. Though I do confess to waiting for you. I heard about holy
Bhaktivedanta in Nepal. Have you been looking for me long?" His voice bore
traces of African burr, long since washed away by centuries away from his
homeland.
"Naema loved you, in her bizarre way. You were her Immortal protege," Lilitu
said as she nodded primly. "You shouldn't have turned your back on me."
Felucca blinked. "You're going to destroy me because I have Naema's
affection? That hardly seems fair."
Lilitu waggled shook a finger at him. "Of course not. I am going to destroy
you because you're inside Holy Ground. The fact that I think you're
ridiculous, worshiping Christ-just like Darius used to do before I sent my
Hunters to kill him-is entirely beside the point. You never should have
strayed, Cardinal. Sanctity doesn't suit you."
Felucca deliberately crossed his legs but made no other motion. "Until
tonight, I was happy with the choice." He tugged at the patterned cloth of
his robe. "The wardrobe is a small sacrifice."
"A poor one to make. You look like a clown. It matters not, though. Your
story ends here. Your Quickening would destroy the Vatican. I will let you
pray for a minute, if you wish."
Felucca gave a tight smile. "I'm not quite ready to die yet. Are you?" He
clapped his hands once.
Nothing happened. "Hmm?" Lilitu said. "Were you expecting someone?"
Clearly angry, Felucca clapped again. There was again no answer but silence.
He leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over backwards with a loud clatter,
and screamed, "God damn it, where are you? Get in here! She's in here with
me!"
Lilitu eyed him, her gaze wide with mock innocence. "Oh, don't tell me. You
are calling for those twenty men, the well-trained Swiss Guard you had
waiting outside, yes? The ones who were supposed to charge in here when I
approached you and then overwhelm me by weight of numbers, yes?"
Felucca turned to her, his mouth hanging open in shock. "I'm terribly sorry,
eunuch. They had a little accident. Hell itself came for them." Lilitu
paused and appeared to reconsider. "I must correct myself. The ten through
that door," and she pointed to her left, "had a terrible accident. They died
between my shadows. The ten through that door," and she swung her arm around
to her right, "died even worse. Now, does that clear everything up? I think
the next step is for you to attack me in a blind rage, and for me to kill
you. Then I leave to prepare myself for my next target. Yes?"
Felucca glared at her with pure hatred for a moment, then turned and dove
for the door.
Unsurprised, Lilitu was frozen for a full half second. Then she simply
pointed at the fleeing Cardinal. A tendril of shadow darted out of her hand
and with whip-like speed slashed the back of Felucca's calves. He collapsed.
Lilitu gave a cluck of disapproval, and then walked over to where her prey
writhed on the floor, still struggling to reach the door.
"You disappoint me, Felucca," she said. "Showing your back to the enemy? I'd
thought Naema taught you better. How did you manage to spread the doctrines
of the Catholic Church with that poor tactic?"
The bubbling noises coming from the floor might have been curses, or they
might have been pleas. Lilitu ignored them in either case. Finally, after a
long minute, she leaned down close to Felucca's ear and whispered. "My
child," she said, "I want you to know something. It does not matter to me at
all that you die now. Your death is necessary to limit the Ancient
Gathering's ability to fight against me. Without hope in your Christ, the
world is nothing. I will be the new Goddess. On the other hand, you have
wasted my evening with your posturing. You make a terrible holy man. The
role never suited you and you would have done better to stay where you
were." She dropped to her haunches. "You are so naive, and a coward, and I
dislike both of those things intensely. That is why I am taking this moment
to speak to you, rather than putting you out of your misery immediately."
With a snarl, Felucca tore his hand free from the floor and clawed at her
throat. Lilitu danced out of the way, easily avoiding the strike. The
Cardinal flipped himself and got to his knees, but as he did so she struck
his nose with an open-fist punch. Felucca gurgled and fell over backwards,
fear in his eyes as Lilitu took a step toward him. She raised her hand for
another strike, and he toppled as it caught him in the throat.
She stared down at him, pleased by the ruin of his face. Blood ran
everywhere. "Good-bye, child," she said softly. "I won't play with you
anymore."
The Cardinal's eyes, wild with terror and hatred, stared up at her as his
ruined legs flopped desperately. He threw up an arm to defend himself, but
she slapped it out the way. Then, with slow deliberation, she cupped her
hand below her mouth and blew him a kiss.
Felucca gaped. Nothing happened for a moment, but then Lilitu exhaled as if
she were blowing out a candle.
Felucca's face exploded. Lilitu failed to blink as bits of it spattered on
her legs. With her second exhalation, an invisible force cut off the
Cardinal's neck, and the head rolled to one side, dripping gorily.
Lilitu looked around her. It was a pity to destroy such a lovely old church,
she felt, but more of a pity to leave Christ's believers around to pollute
her new world, her eternal night.
Moments later, the Quickening and the earthquake began as Lilitu disappeared
into the shadows one more time.
========
Watcher's Headquarters
Vienna, Austria
March 26, 2013
The desk, large as it was, barely accommodated the stacks of books and
papers piled all around the computer. The lamp nearby performed its duty
even less adequately. Darkness threatened to swallow the desk, as well as
the figure behind it.
Joe Dawson, however, seemed to take no notice of its environs. One piece of
paper, held in his fingers, held all his attention.
-Original Message-
From: Pat Flores
To: Joe Dawson
Subject: Vatican City is gone
All hell broke loose. This evidence is starting to look like ropes.
According to reports, a Quickening occurred somewhere near the Cathedral of
St. Peter. Next a terrible earthquake shook the city. Just as in Mexico back
at 1985, remember? Thousands died. We can assume Cardinal Felucca is dead.
Who did this, why and how? We don't know. Waiting for orders.
Pat Flores
-End of Message-
========