End of the Immortal

By Cedric Banton

He is the Seeker of the Key. She is the Key. For his people to live, she must die.

 

Vallyn, a member of chosen immortals, walks the Earth forever to serve one purpose: to kill the closest living descendant of the Messiah in each generation. Their death means eternal life to his people and nothing can be allowed between him and his goal. Not the assassins known as the Broken Circle. Not guilt. Not sin.

Not even love.

 

Welcome to the debut novel by Cedric Banton, the fresh new voice for fans of urban fantasy and supernatural thrillers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brushed Steel Books
• Release date: Dec 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685340001

Book preview

1

THE PATH

Hinnom Valley, Jerusalem 33 A.D.

He always hated tying knots. Mastering the subtle intricacies of fastening rope was a frustrating task as a child. Now, as a man, it proved no easier. The knots were too loose, so they would slip out of place. Or, they were too tight, so they were hard to pry open. His father had showed him the method countless times. Common knots, cleats, cow hitches, slip knots. All of them provided the same aggravating futility. The only thing more bothersome than tying a knot was getting the rope around the cattle. The cows were dangerously difficult, but even worse were the asses. They were by far the noisiest and stubborn of the bunch. But his father told him that his own impatience caused their stubbornness.

His anger always got the better of him. He would use the rope to strike the cattle several times before attempting to tie their necks. The poorly tied rope would unravel against their beaten skin. He always hated tying knots. So, while perched on the tree branch, he smiled to himself, admiring how perfect a slip knot he tied.

Luck had nothing to do with it, he thought. The years of practice did not suddenly yield positive result. There was a reason he found that rope on the mule's rotten carcass. It became ever more apparent once he tied a slip on his first try. Everything that led up to this moment was by design, including his treachery.

The past three and a half years left him with more questions than answers. But with each bound of the rope around the branch, came a clarity of why the Savior chose him to be an apostle. The apostle realized that choice was a gift to the unworthy. Those chosen do not have the luxury of freedom. Their lives belonged to their calling. Every step that was assumed to be their own only brought them closer to their destiny. In the end, it was all a part of a grand design.

And with a single kiss to his savior's cheek, the apostle's purpose realized. The design, completed. And now he would have to embrace his end. This newfound philosophy would be short-lived, he thought, for while his savior's life bound to a cross, he would hang from a tree.

He straddled the branch, wiped the tears from his face, and released a deep exhale. He whispered a prayer as he pushed his crown through the noose. Then, in one swift motion, he tipped off the tree. His eyes widened, instantaneously becoming bloodshot while his legs danced in the air. He clawed at the rope, frantically digging his nails between the rope and his neck as the air left his lungs. The prickly, benumbing sensation overtook his fingertips.

What should have taken seconds now became tortuous minutes. He dangled from the tree, gasping for air. The pain increasing with each shallow breath. Then, as his body swayed in the wind and his consciousness faded, he could feel death. The apostle believed that death was an actual person. An entity like a man, with icy hands, whose touch removed the very soul from their body. He was sure the hands that enveloped his ankles were preparing to drag his soul down to hell. The echoing sound of a pop and rush of wind convinced him he was on his journey through its gates. A faint voice stirred him. He forced his eyes open, struggling to make out the dark figure that hovered over him.

Are you alive? the figure asked.

The apostle turned his head and saw the body of the mule from which he took the rope. A sharp pain shot through his neck as he tried to open his mouth. He sat up, exhaled, and noticed the pain was less severe. Within seconds, the pain dissipated. A surge of strength flowed through his body.

I am. I am alive.

The apostle laughed uncontrollably. Amazed at the fact that he could actually laugh. The air never felt so good. He looked at his dirty palms and dusty clothes and then at the young man standing before him. It was not death himself. It was just a man. And it was then, the apostle realized, he was still in the realm of the living.

The young man helped the apostle to his feet.

I was walking by when I saw you in the distance. It took some time to make it here. I honestly thought I was coming to see you dead.

I should be dead, he said before taking a deeper breath. But somehow I am not.

Then it seems that was not your time, the young man said. It could have been one of many miracles we have seen since-

It would seem so, the apostle interjected.

Why were you trying to kill yourself? the young man asked.

There is nothing left. I fulfilled my purpose.

The young man fell silent, but only for a moment. He then looked him in the eyes. If that is so, then that means my purpose was to be here, he smiled, in order to cut you from the tree.

The apostle nodded, realizing that the young man may have been right. Yes. Yes, you were. Come with me.

Why?

It is your purpose. Come with me, and I will make you a part of something great. Something that will change the world forever.

The young man stared at the apostle and raised his head, with his eyes squinted ever so slightly. He looked over at his five malnourished goats and then down at his tattered robe. He shook his head and shrugged. Fine. I'll walk with you, he said, I may not stay, but for now, I will follow.

2

SOUND ASLEEP

Present Day

There was a term that he often heard. A two -word phrase of little significance to most. It was usually said in light conversation. Tavares heard it whenever he asked the women he bedded if they enjoyed a night in his company. Highly satisfied, they claimed they reached the heights of pleasure and then showered him with compliments. Nourished by his touch, spirit filled, but physically drained, each of the ladies found themselves sound asleep.

And upon hearing those words or anything similar, a laugh would follow.

Some of his conquests assumed he laughed in ridicule of their vulnerability. But in actuality, it was simply in envy. As he watched the women snuggled next to one another, lost in the plain of slumber, he huffed, loud enough for one of them to stir ever so slightly. Tavares just shook his head and slowly waved his customized diamond fiber woven pistols above both of their foreheads. He nudged one of them on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun. Her eyes barely opened, nodding before turning away. Their comfort was no fault of their own. It was the atmosphere he provided while they were indulging in their fun. Joyous chortles faded, replaced by deep exhales of slumber.

All of Tavares' guests were sound asleep. His mansion was dormant, blending with the calmness of the night. Unfortunately for him, the still of night was when his thoughts grew loudest. The shine from the gun that he placed on his desk glimmered with the reflection of his monitors, which captured every angle of his landscape. He tapped a few keys on the board, accessing a series of numbers on the screen; the heat signatures of every person in each room, along with the overall temperature. He cracked his knuckles while scanning the numbers, noticing a subtle variant, pulled up a seat and took a big sip of his coffee. Normally, coffee had no effect, but it had been days since he slept. It took its toll. The heaviness of his eyelids, though, was a feeling he grown accustomed to; however, the heavier they became, the harder his brain forced his eyes to focus. He had already made his rounds, drifting eerily through the house like a phantom. Now it was time to watch who he paid to provide the illusion of security.

There were seven guards. Two of the seven patrolled the outer area of the three-story mansion. They positioned the five remaining in the home. Two guards a piece on the first and second floor, the last guard on the third floor. The first floor was fairly modern, peppered with accents on the of Khalid ibn al-Walid's ivory dagger, a sword from Tamerlane, saddle once mounted by Suleiman, and a Tokugawa banner. On the second floor was his fitness center. The master bedroom was more like a small apartment, with the time he spent locked in it. If he were not in combat training, he remained inside, watching, waiting. Waiting for the day when the unknown nemesis would come.

Paranoia was the environment, living in such a way, enlivened him. Everyone under suspicion, everything seen. He knew which guards were late to shift change, the ones that left themselves open to attack from intruders. It drove him mad most nights, but deep down, he knew not to expect much from mortals. It would be difficult for anyone to stay sharp while on watch at a home that was never breached. No matter how much they he paid them. He knew a blade that had never tasted blood would eventually grow dull. If he were young, he would be like them. But he was not young, he was in fact ancient, and with that age came the awareness of knowing that any subtle change in temperature in his home meant a breach of entry.

That is why he was not surprised when he witnessed each of his guards get cut one by one. Monitors flooded with activity. Sniper fire on the outside patrol provided easy access for the intruders. They made it their business to get close to the security inside. Each guard stabbed numerous times with their throats opened. From his bedroom, the ordeal carefully observed. If any of his men showed some level of fight, he would have assisted. But to his dismay, they lacked the skill, the heart to fight for their own lives. He let out a mad chuckle at their fatal calamity.

The anticipated night finally upon him. The who was of little concern. The why, totally irrelevant. When; the only question that required an answer.

The enemy was exceptionally skilled. Impressed at how they dispatched all the armed guards, without a single alarm bring triggered. The drifting phantom of his home was no longer him; it was them. He marveled at how they quickly and quietly maneuvered thru the place. They unlocked each of his room doors, sifting through with tactical precision. Finally, arriving at his bedroom and slowly creeping inside. No words among them, not even the sound of breath. Only the gleam of exotic shaped steel blades in their hands. The aim was to end the host in silence.

Yes, they were skilled.

Their black attire blended in flawlessly with the shadows cast from the moonlight that peered through drapes. They surround the bed. In stillness, poised to make their move. If he were sound asleep, like his guests were, he would be dead. But that was a term never applied to him.

Paranoid was a more fitting description. Paranoia gave him the genius to plant a dummy figure in his bed, triggering a massive explosion on his attackers once they touched it. The ladies that were in the bed prior found cover in the closet next to the bed. As cold as Tavares was, the collateral damage would never be from those he entertained. He sprang from the secret passage in his room, into the smoke and debris, past the mangled bodies. His custom standard Bushmaster ACR rifle clutched. He casually tossed an object on the floor that began spinning like a top. It suddenly stopped and three concentrated red beams sliced through the room. The attackers screamed as the beam cut through their appendages, setting off a barrage of gunfire while as he exited his room. They peppered the room with a few more rounds as he left.

The effect of the beam grenade proved useful, as he was able to land a few rounds on one of the four attackers in the hallway. The force of the impact lifted them off their feet, sending them crashing to the floor. An attacker took point and raced wildly toward Tavares, but was violently disposed with an uppercut from the butt of the rifle. The adrenaline that coursed through his veins provided a rush not felt in decades. He sprayed his magazine clip along the wall and floor as he put the third enemy down. Silence once again glossed the air as he strolled down the smoky hall. One man staggered toward him, dazed and defeated, but was still met with a blade to the torso and pinned against the wall. Tavares rested his faced against the man's shoulders as he slid down. He used the last of his magazine on the fourth man who attempted to flee once he saw his dead cohorts. It was almost too easy for him to accept the victory. Eight armed and trained assassins should have been more prepared to end his life. He was insulted by how easily they were dispatched.

Hovering over the last attacker, he spotted a blinking red light on the vest of the body. His eyes grew wide, and he bolted toward a nearby window. The blast from the explosive device attached to his enemy launched him through the window, crashing onto his lawn.

Broken right arm, left leg, burns, concussion. All of his minor injuries from the fall faded within seconds. He laid calmly on the ground. He sat up, gazing at the fire which raged from the third story. At that moment, he sensed souls surrounding. He slowly stood and turned around to face the sixteen heavily armed men dressed in the same black attire as the other assailants. Their faces masked, glowing green lights from the worn goggle lenses. They stood there quietly, patiently waited for him to gather himself.

Then, from the back of the group, a man appeared, hands buried in the pockets of his black flight jacket. His pale skin and slicked back hair painted with the golden light of the flames. The reflection of the mansion gave life to his dark, sunken eyes. Tavares knew him, not well enough to know of his treachery. It came as a surprise. After all, the man was no soldier and not someone he even considered an enemy. The man gave him a friendly nod and smiled, as though acknowledging a friend from across the room. A flurry of questions invaded his mind, but as quickly as they arrived, they left. Given the situation, inquiries were futile, and frankly, he did not care enough to know. Tavares already knew what he needed to.

They stood ready to kill him. He rolled over, hobbled to his feet, limping on the good leg, gingerly planting on the broken one. Blood mixed with saliva curled into the soil after it left his mouth. A pain filled smile formed. He stood up, then straightened his posture, defiant as blood filled his lungs. He stuck his chest out and held his head high, knowing that whoever this enemy was, sent twenty-four men to his door. It was a show of respect. They were skilled as well as prepared. It proved that all the years of paranoia were not in vain; they were justified. He just hoped that whoever or whatever they were truly after was just as prepared.

3

VALLYN & THE PRIEST

Why do you even come here?

Vallyn's head tilted slightly with his eyebrow raised, indicating that Sasha's whisper was heard, but also ignored until his prayer was complete.

You know how foolish we should feel by even setting foot in this building, she scoffed. We're practically the reason they could build this place. They should make a statue of me. I'm the Saint.

Sasha glanced over at Vallyn to see if her lighthearted jabs moved him. Trying desperately to contain his grin, he continued his inaudible prayer. She jabbed her elbow into his side as he said amen. His eyes shot open, looking at her in comical disbelief.

Sasha, without a doubt, you are the most inconsiderate person who I've ever met.

I'm not inconsiderate. I'm just rude, Sasha replied.

What's the difference?

Inconsiderate people don't consider the feelings of others. Rude people consider your feelings, they just decide that your feelings are not important.

So, you couldn't let me get through my prayer uninterrupted? fired Vallyn.

I could've, Sasha shrugged, but what fun would that be? Come on let's get out of here.

I am waiting to speak to Trevor.

Uh no. I'm leaving, I have better things to do with my time.

Ok, I'll catch up with you later.

Sasha nodded, grabbed her black wool coat and strolled out of the church. Vallyn could not help but to smile as he watched her deliberate movements. Her overly sassy walk toward the door was purely for show. Sasha's curves were seductively hypnotic. The excessive noise caused by her heels drew all the eyes of the church patrons. She bent over slowly, next to an elderly man, who had an uncomfortably lustful look in his eye. While blowing out a few candles, she also blew the man a kiss. The elderly man quickly looked away with his face flushed. Sasha waved two fingers at Vallyn and exited the cathedral. He turned his attention to Trevor, who shook hands with the congregants as they parted.

Trevor met eyes with Vallyn and nodded. Vallyn then proceeded to the back of the church, through a back door down the hallway into a small, dusky office. He stood in the corner, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a Cohiba cigar. He placed the cigar firmly in his mouth, struck the match, and took his fill. The door cracked open as he exhaled. Trevor passed through smoke with his nostrils flared. Through the mirror, Vallyn watched Trevor plod across the room to his closet, discarded his robe and combed through his gray hair with bony fingers. His reflection revealed a hint of shame hiding within his eyes. That hint appeared whenever he came to visit his longtime friend. Vallyn walked past the desk, tapping the old priest's shoulder before entering the makeshift kitchen. He threw a pot on the stove after filling it with water and activating the high flame. Both men lived in silence, waiting for the water to boil. The two used this moment to decompress as they exchanged the energy between them. Vallyn looked over and saw the steam rise from the pot. He rose from his chair as well. Trevor attempted to do the same, but his joints failed him.

I've got this, he said, gesturing for Trevor to remain seated. I'm no guest, and you have done enough serving for the day. It's the least.

Vallyn threw a spoon of brown sugar, ginger, and lemon in his cup, and in Trevor's, he threw the same ingredients. However, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial with brown liquid and poured it into his friend's wooden cup, giving it a couple of stirs.

Well, Vallyn, how have you been? Trevor asked as he took the cup from Vallyn.

Trevor shifted the chair and sat behind his desk. His palms massaged the armrest of the brown leather chair.

I've been well, Vallyn replied. And yourself?

I'm alive, so I guess I should be grateful.

It saddened Vallyn to look upon Trevor's wrinkly face. The vibrancy of his youth sucked away by nature's decree that all men must bow to time. Well, not all men. Vallyn often thought of how instrumental Trevor would have been if he were an immortal, like Vallyn himself. He imagined Trevor sitting at the helm of the Eternal Council along with the rest of the lawyers, religious scholars, and merchants who drafted the clandestine protocols. It would appall his friend at how loose the selection process for immortality had been during the first secret census. Vallyn chuckled at the thought of Trevor rejecting the cases of his peers that made claims for the conversions of their wives, concubines and trusted servants.

What's so funny?

Nothing, Vallyn answered. I am well.

So, to what do I owe this visit?

Apart from missing your company? he smiled.

Yes, apart from missing my company, Trevor chuckled. You haven't seen me in over a year. You rarely visit for just idle conversation, so let's get to it.

Are you rushing me, Trevor? Vallyn squinted, partly from the smoke, but mostly from Trevor's tone. Your day is over. We have all the time in the world.

No, no. You are mistaken, my friend. You have all the time in the world. I do not.

And with those words, Vallyn's mood shifted. He understood Trevor's attempt to be short with him. Who would want to be around an immortal as their own body withered from age and sickness? Vallyn knew the past sixty years were far kinder to him than they were to his mortal friend. The last five years especially.

Have you run out of the healing herbs and concoctions that I sent? asked Vallyn.

Yes. They were helpful, but only temporarily. It's not like your Immortality Elixir. And besides, I am not too fond of taking anything made by pagan means. It's only because you are my friend and I trust you would not give me anything infused with any sort of incantation or blood.

If you had, you might be in a better state than the one you are currently. You leave my hands tied, forcing me to only give you basic remedies.

Your hands are tied only because I am tied to my faith, Trevor replied. I can't consume anything that is not of Christ. How would I look, telling others to place their faith in Jesus, and yet partake from what some would consider unholy, in order to live a richer life? I would be a hypocrite.

Yeah, I know. We've had tainted medicine that heals the sick, but you are forever the puritan. God made those pagans, too. What you call paganism, we call alchemy. Science, albeit unconventional.

Or sinful.

How could it be a sin to help?

I guess it depends on who benefits. It appears your means only suit to benefit those of your choosing.

Sort of like, Trevor pointed, your man up top.

Vallyn took a pull from his cigar and released the smoke from his nostrils. He is actually why I am here. It is time.

Trevor perked up. It's time for the rebirth? You received the dreams? The Star Vision?

You call them dreams, Vallyn nodded. They feel more like vivid nightmares. Corpses. I don't see their faces, but I know I know them. And before me stood a faceless man, who chanted in Hebrew.

What did he say?

Three years, Vallyn replied. Those were his words. That's the allotted time for me to find the Key.

Trevor raised his brow. Your nightmare was vivid indeed. But it is a start to a monumental journey, so why the long face?

Because it is never easy to take someone's life, Trevor.

Really? he hissed. You've been alive nearly two thousand years.

Vallyn leaned forward. And this means what?

You have lived many lifetimes. Nothing should be a surprise to you, especially death. From what you've shared with me, the amount of bloodshed you have seen should have made you numb to tragedy. You are by definition a killer, but you have an eternity to get over something that you've done repeatedly.

The hint of shame Vallyn