Immortal Enough

By A.R. Moler

Not being able to die is a mixed blessing.

My current name is Sophie Makara. When I died back in the early 1900’s, I lost the love of my life and thought I’d never fall in love again. But living more than a century, my past has circled back in a totally unexpected way. The enchanted box that made me immortal isn’t lost forever. Love has resurfaced in a familiar form. And the Cabal and all their evil friends... are making my life complicated all over again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Moler
• Release date: Mar 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215242193

A.R. Moler

A.R. Moler is a chemistry professor at a community college, a homeschooling mom and an avid science fiction fan. She is a devotee of first hand research for her writing whenever possible and to this end has - learned to fire a handgun, been rappelling, ridden with both EMS and the police, flown a helicopter, bought a motorcycle and learned to ride it. She has traveled to nearly all the places where her stories are set and taken hundreds of photos for documentation. She has been writing since her high school years, but only recently has become published. Her website can be found at http://armoler.com

Book preview

Immortal

Enough

By

A.R. Moler

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2022 by AR Moler

Cover Titles and Graphic Design P.E. Ash & T.B. Bond

Chapter 1

Sophie

I wasn’t stalking him, I swear. Sometimes the universe wants to rub your nose in what you’ve lost.

I ride the DC metro five days a week. I do medical billing. It’s a job. It’s a low level, don’t make any waves, don’t attract attention, park your butt in front of a computer job. That’s my goal ninety-eight percent of the time, stay under the radar.

When you have the same schedule most of the time, you eventually cross paths with people who have a routine similar to yours. Apparently, he and I worked at roughly the same time and in the same general area.

The first time I saw him, it was just a glimpse, and I thought a superficial resemblance had stirred up a memory. It’d been quite a while since I had seen Fitz. Quite a while translated to damn close to a century. The second time I got a better look. He was seated on the train, a laptop open and balanced on his legs. He was typing, a solemn and studious expression on his face. It wasn’t a chance resemblance. My recall might have faded but the photo carefully stored in a bank safety deposit box was still in very good shape. I had looked at it a few months ago when I went to stow my illegally created birth certificate there. Fake name, fake date, fake parents… all done by an exquisitely good forger. I planned ahead these days. When I needed my next new identity, it was helpful to have one that had been in existence for a few years.

Of course that photo was of a dead man. Liam Walker Fitzgerald had died in 1943. Every now and then I had a moment of heart-broken reflection. Seeing this guy? Whoever the hell he was, was just a little bit of a gut punch.

Over the past three months, I saw Mr.- Looks just like-Fitz about once a week. I guess he eventually noticed me too, because I got a couple of slight nods from him, although he was usually absorbed in whatever he was working on, on the laptop. He was probably in his late twenties, tall, muscular, dark wavy hair and with those angular cheekbones and sharp jaw that attracted me to the original. I watched women try to flirt with him. Either he was gay or had zero interest in a casual hook-up, because beyond a polite half smile, he didn’t flirt back. Of course, I didn’t see any evidence of him flirting with guys either.

When you’re female, and you ride the metro frequently, odds are favorable that you’ll eventually get harassed by some sexist pig asshole who either gropes you, gets in your face or both. It had been a while, but today was apparently my lucky day. Some guy I’d never seen before, sidled up close. I was standing, one hand wrapped around a pole. The train was moderately full.

Hey, you look like you could warm up my night? he said. He was dressed in an average way, jeans, T-shirt, and jacket. He wasn’t hideous, but neither did I think he was good looking. More specifically, I had no interest in him.

Buzz off dude.

He made an attempt to fondle my left breast. I pushed his hand away.

Baby we would be good together. He leaned closer.

Fuck off and leave me alone.

He crowded me against the wall of the metro car. You’re being a bitch.

Movement behind him caught my attention, and a male hand gripped his shoulder. I suddenly realized it was Not-Fitz.

She’s not interested. Leave her alone, Not-Fitz said.

Obnoxious guy looked over his shoulder and saw that Not-Fitz was taller, heavier built and looking annoyed. He pulled away and moved to the other side of the metro car.

You okay? Not-Fitz asked.

I probably had a serious deer in headlights expression because I’d never heard Not-Fitz speak before. Yeah.

Not-Fitz nodded, and turned to face the opposite direction, staring at his phone. In another few stops he left the train.

My stop was the next one. I got off and exited the station, wandering slowly in the direction of my apartment, trying to analyze what had just happened. Not the asshole who harassed me part, the rest of it. Not-Fitz actually intervened. In today’s society, that’s kind of amazing. Believe me, I’ve lived through more than a century and the whole concept of good guys doing the right thing has drifted down to a low ebb. I might have guessed he was a cop, if I hadn’t spent weeks observing him hammering away at some work-related thing on his computer. And once he had token confirmation I was okay, he didn’t start a conversation. My apparent age wasn’t much different than his. I look like I’m about thirty. Considering the number of men who flirt with me on a regular basis, I’m at least average to look at.

Was getting harassed by the moron on the train an insidious variant on my luck blessing or curse or however the universe wanted to spin it? I had no answer.

~

It was three days before I saw Not-Fitz again. He gave me that slight nod and immediately was buried in his project on the laptop again. I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. The concept of walking up to him and saying hey, you look just like a guy I used to be love with wasn’t really an option. Could I offer him a second thank you for convincing the moron who’d groped me to go away? Even that seemed contrived. Was contrived bad? After all, people concocted all sorts of lame reasons to get to know someone a little better? Did I want to know him better? Beyond the weirdly intriguing resemblance, I had no idea if he was even remotely interesting. The computer thing he was obsessed with was probably some accounting spreadsheet and he was likely some junior flunkie in an insurance company. I smiled. Like my job was any better.

Most of that ride I cast surreptitious glances at him. The curly brown hair, long enough to brush his collar, the broad shoulders, the strong square angle of his jaw and that gorgeous mouth.

I lost sight of him and presumed he’d gotten off at his usual stop. I exited at my stop. November nights in the suburbs of D.C. were hit or miss on temperature. It had been fairly warm when I left for work this morning. Here in the evenings near darkness, the temperature was dropping. I pulled my thin sweater a little closer around me as I walked away from the station. My apartment was less than half a mile away.

As I walked, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. Ah, it was a woman I worked with. She was probably the closest friend I had at the moment, but even she wasn’t privy to my actual secrets. Hi Carolyn.

I think we should go clubbing tonight, Carolyn said.

Mmm, maybe.

It’s been kind of a blah week, Sophie. It needs to end with a little zip. I want to go to Siracha.

I waffled. I don’t know if I’m in the mood. It’s usually pretty crowded on a Friday night.

When the last time you went on a date?

Months ago…

Exactly. So what you need is a drink and someone to flirt with. She was obviously trying to convince me.

I can drink by myself.

That’s sad. And lame. You planning on drinking in an alley out of a paper bag? She teased.

I have some very nice crystal wine glasses thank you very much.

Wuss. Put on your big girl panties and come out with me.

One drink.

~

Big girl panties on, the black lace ones… just because. Make-up, boots, shirt with some cleavage showing, and some black jeans.

Carolyn and I went into Siracha. It was crowded. We decided to wait a little bit before fighting our way to bar, so we squirmed our way in the direction of the dance floor and danced to a handful of tunes before I decided I really could use that drink. I made it about halfway back to the bar when I experienced a gravity check. i.e. I slipped on a wet spot on the floor, likely a spilled drink and nearly did the full-on face plant. A pair of male arms caught me and pulled me back upright.

I looked up and met the gaze of…Not-Fitz. Oh hell. I stood there like an idiot, mouth open, before managing to re-activate my brain cells… just a little bit anyway. It’s you.

His mouth quirked in a half-smile, arms still wrapped around me. I could probably say the same thing.

I slowly realized he was wearing a tight black t-shirt with a logo for the bar emblazoned on it. You work here?

Security. A couple nights a week. It helps pay the bills. He let go of me and crossed his arms.

Oh. Um, I’m Sophie. I held out my hand. Maybe I could stop labeling him Not-Fitz in my head.

He shook my hand. Fitz.

I’m pretty sure I revisited my deer in headlights look.

You okay? he asked.

Um, uh, yeah. My brain scrambled for something that sounded plausible. I, um, shared a house with a guy named Fitz a while back. Always shoot for something close to the truth so you don’t get caught in an elaborate lie.

Interesting coincidence, he said.

We were both basically shouting at each other to be heard over the music.

I think I owe you a drink for what you did on the metro the other day, I said.

I can’t drink when I’m working.

I should have guessed that and stood there trying to think of an alternate offer.

I have a break in an hour. There’s a coffee shop across the street, he said.

I gave him a thumbs up and continued in the direction of the bar. I could really use a shot of tequila.

Carolyn was near the left end of the bar, waiting for me. "Do you know