Immortal: The First Tango: A Novel

By J. E. Mayer

An immortal aristocrat with mysterious powers must battle a secret society and their deadly guards to connect with a woman who shares his condition and who he believes is his reincarnated soulmate

The wealthy Hungarian aristocrat Octavius Kalman harbors a virus that makes him supernaturally strong, supremely intelligent, and physically attractive, while protecting him from disease and death. Kalman has lived for over 400 years thanks to this virus, which stems from slight genetic mutations that are possible in humans and exist in various animals. The virus requires its human host to feed on blood to survive, granting traits reminiscent of legendary vampires, though without the mythical elements like turning into bats or burning in the sun.

Kalman contracted the virus after befriending a mysterious man from the secluded village of Magyar, where inhabitants have secretly thrived on the virus's benefits for centuries. The village leaders strictly controlled the people of Magyar, isolating them from the world to keep their secret. Disobedience meant death.

In modern-day America, Kalman encounters Mira by chance and immediately senses she shares his condition. Moreover, she could be his long-lost love, whom he witnessed being killed by the Magyars over a century ago. Despite his heightened powers, Mira is skeptical of Kalman’s intentions and dismissive of the virus's existence. Their intense love story forms the core of this action-packed adventure.

To reconnect with her and uncover the truth, Kalman must survive multiple assassination attempts by the Carpathian Guard, who accompany Mira and are tasked with killing him. Kalman gains Mira’s attention with a tango move known only to his past self, leading to secretive meetings, mostly in tango dance halls. As he shares his story, Mira remains skeptical yet deeply attracted to him.

Kalman uses a technique called ‘remerging’ to place Mira into historical events, making her experience them as if she were there. Through these immersive retellings, Kalman reveals how the virus controls its host, the secrets of her native village, and the history they share. He recounts his escape from Magyar, his time in Argentina, his role in the creation of tango, his witness to historical events like the assassination of the Archduke of Prussia, and his encounters with notable figures like Johann Strauss Jr. and Jack the Ripper.

As romantic tension builds, Mira fluctuates between attraction and disbelief. They continue to meet secretly, finding refuge in tango halls, where Kalman’s extraordinary dance skills captivate Mira. Their relationship deepens amid escalating action as the Carpathian Guard intensifies efforts to control Mira and kill Kalman.

Through these historical immersions, Mira begins to accept her condition and the customs of her home village. She and Kalman decide to investigate whether she is a descendant of his lost love or the same woman with centuries of memories to recover. Their dangerous visit to Magyar culminates in an all-out battle against the Carpathian Guard, leading to Mira’s mortal injury. This trauma triggers her realization that she is indeed the same Mira Kalman loved over a century ago.

Spanning from 1600s Hungary to present-day USA and Hungary, this epic tale weaves together history, romance, and supernatural intrigue in a timeless love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496940230

J. E. Mayer

J. E. Mayer is also the author of Shadow Warrior, a thriller that has been optioned by 4C Films and is being made into a major motion picture, and the upcoming psychological thriller An Anger at Birth. He also writes scripts and screenplays. For more about the author or his works, visit his website, jemayerbooks.com, or follow him on Twitter @jemayerbooks.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2014 J. E. Mayer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Cover art by Benjamin D. Flores.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/05/2024

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4024-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4023-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916504

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Though our bodies are mortal,

our imaginations create tales

immortal.

CHAPTER ONE

Kalman knew Lisette wanted more of him, but to him she was a wonderful dance partner-nothing more. He enjoyed her company, and particularly the spectacle of her, but they were not lovers.

Over the years he had draped many women over himself like formal attire; Lisette was just another one.

Lisette was beautiful, with an elegant, classic dancer’s body. She appeared to move in slow motion when she walked, yet her fluid, athletic body traveled a distance with economy.

With her posture erect and chest out, she was a silhouette when she moved, less human than art in motion.

Octavius Kalman admired a woman with grace and style, and it wasn’t lost on him that Lisette pulled her black hair back into a tight ponytail to please him, its brilliantine strands luminescent, even in the dark of night.

Cold and aloof to others, Lisette became affectionate and possessive around him. When they were together, her body clung to his—a hand on him, a hip pressed against his, a quick kiss that he wouldn’t dismiss. He knew if he just gave her the cabezeo, the look, she would gladly surrender herself to him. He never extended that invitation.

Lisette didn’t warm Kalman’s blood the way a woman who excited him did. He could sense her complete admiration of him. She offered herself as too much a fan, and fans were like one’s children—they were to be protected, nourished, and cherished, not manipulated or taken as lovers.

Lisette’s radiance complemented his tall, athletic body, dark features, and elegant manner; the couple turned heads as they made their way through the receiving line. Kalman knew that Lisette’s lust for him grew with every admiring look they received.

Like most other women, Lisette didn’t really know him. He projected a certain persona, and she simply saw what others saw: a man whose image was meticulously maintained. He was well aware of his physical attributes—a long, lean frame; a strong jaw; brown eyes with amber halos crowning the pupils; wavy hair with hints of gray; and a pronounced athletic build, dramatic even through loose-fitting clothes.

Women often complimented his hands and wrists. His slender fingers belied strong hands, all muscle and bone, and sculpted veins. His wrists provided perfect pedestals—slender, like his hands, but even stronger looking, like corded steel pathways to his well-muscled arms. Kalman’s hands moved with a rare combination of precision and strength, yet when they stroked a woman’s skin, their gentle touch was electrifying.

Men and women both were attracted to Kalman, and he accepted their attentions as mere social greetings. None of them knew of the disease that raged in his body—especially not Lisette.

Kalman didn’t allow others to see this inner life. The ones who had seen it could not share their revelation, and the few who sensed the nature of his disease dared not expose themselves.

The virus inhabiting Kalman’s body never died and didn’t allow its host to die; generations of mutation ensured the survival of the virus by protecting its host. Kalman’s own research into his condition had revealed that cellular regeneration and mutation are common in the human body. Many organs, such as the skin, liver, and kidneys, can regenerate damaged tissue.

It was not scientifically remarkable that parts of the human body could regenerate themselves time and time again; in this regard, humans were no different than other species. The body’s largest organ, the skin, accomplishes this feat daily. It would take just a tweak in the structure of the human DNA to spread this regenerative ability to the entire organism.

The virus in Kalman’s body provided just that tweak, changing the molecular structure of every cell, enabling it to regenerate constantly. It was then in the best interest of the virus to protect its host—the human—at all costs.

Evolved over centuries, the virus created a protection so complete that it empowered its human host with attributes that distinguished him from other humans. He was, in essence, a human fortress in which the virus thrived. Most people would envy the side effects: great strength, good looks, hypersensitivity, high intelligence, an intuitiveness that bordered on clairvoyance, and irresistible sex appeal.

When he first studied his disease, Kalman doubted that all his unusual gifts were a result of the virus’s alteration of his body. Then his research took him into the social sciences, and he learned how all social and interpersonal skills had evolved to serve a single purpose: human survival.

Why else would humans have adorned themselves with all manner of illogical wardrobe, but to advance their survival? Attractiveness, chivalry, insight, empathy, and intelligence weren’t just pleasant human attributes; they served to protect the organism, no different than the most mysterious appendage on some tiny creature on the ocean floor.

These uniquely human characteristics, worthless to other species, were part of the blueprint of human evolution, and best understood in that context. The virus accelerated that evolution for no other reason than to survive.

Kalman had come to understand that fact not as something amazing, but as organic science. The human host must be invincible in every way possible, or the virus would perish. This rare disease followed the laws of basic genetics. Kalman understood his disease—both the endowments and the captivity that enslaved him.

When women encountered Kalman, the virus’s gifts overwhelmed their feminine instincts, not for the purposes of mating—the virus didn’t spread by such conventional means—but for the virus’s own survival to keep its host alive.

If its male host could evoke unquestioned adoration in women, the virus would be safe. A woman’s attraction to Kalman had at its foundation a primitive, mindless genetic instinct, not the old black magic, a love potion, or something as brittle as charm.

Kalman’s condition was always foremost in his thoughts, not because he was inclined to brood, but because his every contact with reality involved the virus; every conscious thought and action served as a reminder of its effects.

CHAPTER TWO

This night, as they approached the deep-blue and gold baroque tents of the Cirque du Soleil, Kalman sensed Lisette’s pride at being on his arm at the black-tie charity event. He could feel the stares of the many onlookers they passed.

Kalman may have been more aware of his effect on Lisette because of the ambivalence he felt about the performance. Their attendance at the premiere was a standing date.

Kalman was overwhelmed by the tiresomeness of this once-venerable enterprise. He had grown indifferent to the colors and designs that once seemed so unique and bold. Now Cirque du Soleil, the brand, was a familiar and predictable franchise. He thought of it as Ameri- marketed. If one Cirque was a success with the public, then several replications were even better. It didn’t even smell like a circus.

As blasé as Kalman felt about the Cirque’s aesthetic, he still held out hope that the performance would grab hold of him in some way, as it had in the past. He expected the standard fare: clowns walking up and down the aisles as the crowd poured in; the emcee narrating in some unintelligible language; a ridiculous, labyrinthine storyline intended to bind the whole performance together. His expectations were dismally low.

But as he and Lisette walked past the ticket taker and into another tent resplendent with Cirque du Soleil merchandise, none of which compelled a glance, something aroused him. His heart began to pound in a deep, long cadence, and his nostrils flared at a distinct scent.

He became lightheaded, and the muscles in his upper body seemed to weaken. Initially, Kalman couldn’t distinguish whether he was experiencing danger, fear, lust, or some other instinct. Then an icy sensation filled his heart muscle, as if his blood had been mixed with menthol.

The chill flowed through all his veins and arteries down to his extremities. The subtle odor of fresh lily of the valley filled his nostrils, a fragrance so elusive that only a being with heightened senses could have detected it.

He knew then what he was being alerted to, and the awareness was exciting, sensual, powerful. The sensations he felt signaled that the virus was raging in another being nearby—maybe human, maybe not.

Lisette’s words couldn’t divert his attention as he began scanning the crowd. O, you seem to be someplace else.

Throughout Kalman’s life, friends and family had shortened his ancient Roman first name to a simple O. He particularly liked how Lisette enunciated it, elongating its guttural tone.

I’m here. It’s just that this Cirque extravaganza doesn’t grab me tonight. His voice was flat, emotionless as they walked through the tent store through an open area and into the main performance tent.

It hasn’t started yet, love. Don’t be so quick to judge.

The smile he directed toward her softened his indifference. The atmosphere here has become so predictable. I’m just concerned that the performances will be the same. If it weren’t for how lovely you look, I’d have left already.

O, you’re so sweet. Lisette squeezed his forearm and laid her head on his shoulder as they settled into their seats.

He kissed her head and breathed in the scent of her hair, as if to cleanse his palate. But the fresh aroma of her shampoo didn’t block the smell of lily of the valley, which continued to overpower him.

Lisette, I meant every word, he said. You look like a piece of art. And how often in this life do we get to savor a beautiful piece of art?

She smiled and lowered her head.

The performance started, and his expectations realized. An unstructured melody with the clings and clangs of chimes, a manufactured playfulness distinctly Cirque blared from strategically placed speakers.

At the strike of a precise chord, a creature in a pale-yellow unitard popped up, seemingly from nowhere. It bobbed its head around, mimicking some species of bird. Kalman’s mind tried to attend to the activity on stage, yet, as if following its own rhythm, his body continued to be aroused by that distinct aroma.

The first creature predictably met another creature and then another, until the stage was filled with creatures, each copying the birdlike movements of its predecessor. Pastel legs moved into the second, third, fourth, and fifth ballet positions, between and around the legs of the other performers, giving the illusion that each creature had multiple appendages.

Then the first acrobats pranced onto the stage, costumed in monochromatic unitards of various pastel colors. Their performance consisted of twisting themselves around the body of the largest of the performers, who stood erect. Hands, arms, and legs completely outstretched—carrying the full weight of the other performers without the flinch of a muscle. The spectacle was admirable but not stunning.

Kalman could have sworn he’d seen them do this before.

Then with a musical fanfare of off-key notes and pings, a silver trapeze burst from the ceiling to swing freely in the air, sparkling as though electricity were crackling against it.

From out of nowhere, a performer in a stunning crimson unitard flew through the air toward the swinging trapeze and grabbed hold of it at the last possible moment before the trajectory of her fall would have propelled her onto the floor of the circus ring.

As soon as he saw her, Kalman felt his heart fill with even more frigid cold, if that were possible, and he knew in an instant that she was the one who hosted the virus.

O, you have chills, Lisette said, running a hand down his arm. You’re ice-cold. Are you well?

I do feel suddenly ill. I may have to get up. Kalman seized the opportunity Lisette had introduced with her question. He wanted to leave to get closer to this trapeze artist who shared his affliction. First, though, he would take in her performance.

Could I glance at your program? He took the program from Lisette’s lap and searched for a bio on the performer. Her name was Mira, and she was from Hungary. There was no last name listed and, true to the minimalist style of the program, no other identifying information.

Kalman was stunned by her name. Can this be? How can this be? This woman is in her early thirties, at most. His brain went numb. He stared at her as she twisted and flew through the air with precise timing, but her performance was just visual white noise. His mind was absorbed with images of the past.

The Mira in his mind’s eye had curly auburn hair that always looked wild and waved across her shoulders. Her eyes were a light matte gray, the most unusual eyes he had ever seen. Her facial features were small and her face angular. Her long, lean body made that beautiful face appear like the pinnacle of a statuette.

Beauty was not the only captivating attribute of this Mira from long ago. Kalman recalled her intelligence, her worldliness, and how she carried herself with a grace that put her above other women he had known.

He allowed his mind to drift back to those memories as, with abnormally acute vision (the handiwork of the virus), he peered at the Mira on the trapeze with a bit of wonder. She must be a direct descendant. The similarities are unbelievable. Or could it be possible …

Her body was long and lean, like that of the woman he’d known so long ago, but of course, her occupation would lend to that result. And she was moving too quickly for him to distinguish her face. But from the few glimpses he caught when she froze in a position on the bar, her face was remarkably like his Mira’s.

Then again, he thought, close relatives could share similar facial features. His studies of his disease had taught him that gene pools can replicate over generations, resulting in an apparent duplicate of an ancestor from some earlier generation. His analytical brain circuited through all the possibilities, as if in cadence with Mira’s rhythmic performance on the trapeze. This couldn’t be my Mira?

Whoever this was, she had the virus inside her his physiological reaction to her had made that clear. If she, too, had the virus, it was possible that, like him, she would not age, and that, like him, she would be unusually strong, capable of feats that would defy normal human ability.

Balance, agility, coordination, perception, indeed, each physical function would be heightened to the degree that the virus had regenerated in her cells. This was just what Kalman had experienced and learned from his own condition. But, if this was Mira and the virus had somehow saved her from death, why hadn’t she tried to contact him for all these years?

Kalman’s thoughts drifted away from the performance, back to a time many, many years ago. He envisioned his homeland with its green and brown mountains blanketed in mist. The lens of his memory focused on a village nestled in those mountains.

Mira, his Mira, had been born into the culture of the Magyars in that village. The Magyars were a small, sophisticated society cloistered from other groups in the region. Their isolation was so complete that the surrounding peoples were convinced that they must have inbred. Otherwise, it was postulated, the Magyars’ small population would have died off within a few generations. There were many such popular legends about the Magyars. Among them was that they lived well into their hundreds with health and vigor.

Kalman’s stared upward as the quirky Cirque music serenaded Mira’s frenetic performance. As he pictured his home in his mind, what his eyes saw created an avatar of this new Mira; as she performed, she moved within his mental image of that village and its Magyar culture.

The people who lived in that region of Hungary believed the legends about the Magyars were facts. They based their beliefs on eyewitness accounts that had been passed from town to town. Those stories described the Magyars as highly intelligent, physically strong, and capable of remarkable feats.

Tales abounded of the Magyars’ amazing display of skills, and each tale was based on a feat someone had witnessed. Magyars lifting huge boulders to clear fields for tilling. Magyars leaping over small rivers. Magyars falling from great heights and surviving unscathed. Magyars counting with incomprehensible speed as they traded with other villages; Magyars reading minds.

Those were the most common of the legends the outlying cultures shared regarding the Magyars’ abilities. Reality fueled these legends. The Magyars were physically beautiful people, as all the historic paintings and other depictions of them always showed.

The most dramatic of the tales told about the Magyars suggested that the secret to their great human gifts was the drinking of blood. Validating that theory in the minds of the people were not only supposed eyewitness accounts of the practice, but also a strong regional belief in the existence of vampires.

The stories of the Magyars distinguished them from the vampire legends but also made their shocking need for blood believable. The Magyars did not prey upon people for their blood, did not have fangs with which to suck blood, and did not transform into other creatures such as the bats or wolves of vampire legends. They did not sleep in the day or share a kinship with the devil.

Unlike vampires, Magyars cast a reflection in the mirror and were not repelled by garlic or a crucifix. In fact, the Magyars were highly religious people who held sacred ritual in high esteem.

The facts that came out of Kalman’s research were that a genetic defect required the Magyars to ingest large quantities of red blood cells. This genetic disorder, maintained by inbreeding, may also have been the reason for their isolation. Thus, their need for blood was both the explanation why they didn’t propagate outside their culture and why their genetic disorder spread unchecked among their people for generations.

As products of such a closed society, Magyars tended to look alike. So, the performer, Mira, could simply have been the great-great-granddaughter of the love of Kalman’s life. On the other hand, his mind wrestled with the possibility that this performer was actually his lover from lifetimes ago.

Why not? he thought. Hadn’t he survived for centuries, host to a virus that continually regenerated his body, making it stronger and more gifted with each iteration? This could be my Mira, he mused. But entertaining that thought brought forth questions and pain. All Kalman knew was that he had to meet her.

CHAPTER THREE

Mira’s performance, a featured act, lasted nineteen minutes. At its conclusion, Kalman’s thoughts fled from the Carpathian mountainside and the Magyars. He turned to Lisette. I need to step out for a moment, he said. I’m afraid this feeling is not going away.

Are you sure you’re all right, O?

I think I’ll be fine. You enjoy the performance. I’ll be right back. Let me get some air. His voice was genuinely weak, the result of the thoughts and emotions clashing inside his mind and the constant chill of his blood.

Kalman made his way out of the performance tent. As he exited, he could hear the blare of new music announcing the next act. He remembered from years past having seen a performers’ tent and a small outdoor area nearby where the performers lounged.

He moved with an efficient gait around the grounds, walking quickly but quietly, so as not to call attention to his sense of urgency. He had to put it all together in short order. Reaching Mira before she might leave the compound, returning to Lisette before she became curious, and doing both without arousing the suspicion of Cirque security.

His head pivoted as he walked, scanning the different stations set up for the performances. Soon he saw the lounge area he remembered. A secluded, open area between tents, with wood picnic tables painted a bright, glossy red. Dozens of performers, still in costume, sat with stagehands in black satin jackets and black slacks.

Kalman scanned the area but did not spot Mira. Deciding that there had to be trailers or some other accommodations for the performers, and that the lounge area was probably the gateway to such a set-up, he quickly jumped over the fence and strolled into the area with the confidence of someone who belonged there.

His instincts were right: no one paid him any notice as he moved through the tables and stepped into a tent marked for performers. Inside the tent, he passed through staging areas, a series of balance beams where the performers warmed up, and other seating areas with televisions or gaming systems where the staff could relax. Still there was no sign of Mira, and still no one questioned him about being there.

Frustrated by his expenditure of time, Kalman assessed the situation and instinctively approached a diminutive acrobat, flashing a broad, friendly smile. Hey, I just missed Mira … He faked a chuckle. That scatterbrain. She left her ring on the talc stand; she’ll be frantic once she notices. Have you seen her? Kalman grinned and shook his head.

A smile grew visible through the tight, yellow microfiber mask that covered the acrobat’s face. Dude, she just flew by here toward her can. She pointed to a nearby dressing trailer. Thanks, I’ll catch here there, Kalman said, and he rushed off.

As he approached the can, he saw two men in gray suits standing outside the corrugated steel dwelling. Across the door was a strip of masking tape with names handwritten in thick block letters— Jolene/Mira/Anna.

The men saw him at the same instant he saw them, and Kalman heard one of them talk into a hidden microphone: Okay, we have a situation here … we got a suspicious guy in distress moving quickly toward the trailer … get a bead on him … take him down if he gets nuclear.

Who are these guards, Kalman thought, and why only by this trailer?

He continued his approach toward the trailer. Immediately a half-dozen guards surrounded him. One stepped in front of him.

Excuse me, sir, you have business here?

Yes, I have a permission to see a Mira, the performer. Kalman adopted a thick Russian accent. The guards flanking him drew their guns at the mention of Mira’s name. They kept the guns at their sides and pointed toward the ground, in a ready position.

What do you mean, ‘a permission’? the guard asked, his face now inches from Kalman’s.

I am Octavius Kalman, from the Kirkov Circus, Moscow. I am here to speak to Ms. Mira about to become a star in our circus. The correct authorities have let me in here to see her. I come from all the right ways to be here.

In perfect