Victory of Coins (The Judas Chronicles, #7) (25 page)

“Man, I don’t think you could be foolish with
any
proposed explanations or assumptions about
anything
that happened to us today,” said Cedric, sitting up in the back seat.

“You should rest for now,” Rachel advised, casting a motherly look his way. “You haven’t completely healed yet.”

“I’m healed enough,” he advised. “I’m ready to get back home, so I can try to process all of this shit. I bet it’s gonna take some time, man.”

True, it wouldn’t happen right away, although the healing of our mutual loss did begin a little that night, on the plane ride from Aleppo to Athens. Rummaging through Judas’ journals that he likes to keep with him, I came across this latest one. Over the years, I had watched him making entries that could last for several hours at a time. I used to chide him about doing it by hand when he would later input the same damned thing into his laptop to be formatted for publishing.

We shared tears and laughter while I read many of the passages aloud, and after I finished reading the rest of it to my companions as we set out for Washington the following morning, Rachel and Cedric asked me to finish this final journal of Judas’.

...So, here we are, near the end of this final chapter of what we have always fondly referred to as
The Judas Chronicles
. The three of us will be arriving at Dulles in less than two hours, and the mood has been light hearted today, as compared to the dreariness we all retired with last night in Athens. Rachel has just made a deal with Cedric, to reveal something that involves a tremendous opportunity to serve the world and save it from a new rise of international tyranny in exchange for a month’s unrestricted use of Alistair’s crystals given to him by me.

“I would’ve let you borrow them for free, you know,” said Cedric. “But what’s up?”

“Are you game, too, Rod?”

“Well, it depends... as always,” I said.

“Do you recall what I spoke of recently about the rise of the new Rosicrucian order among our numbers?” She eyed me intently, and I prepared myself for the hard sell that would soon follow.

“You mean among our immortal companions?” I asked. “I thought they were going to keep to themselves and not become involved in something ‘so mortal’, as Damien told you.”

“They’re not wanting to join with mortals just yet... but there are now more than one hundred strong from the immortal ranks who are increasingly alarmed about the rise of unified police states aligning themselves across Europe,” she said. “And,
when
—not
if
—the United States joins this movement, we will have no choice but to interfere.”

How interesting, that we might once again be taking a role in the formation of a rebellion for righteousness and freedom from tyranny. The last time I was drawn into something like this, I ended up taking an active role in the formation of the first American government that was independent of England, though the details of that dalliance shall remain secret... at least for now.

“Could be a foolhardy move—we don’t hold the same advantages we did in 1774, as you know,” I said, prepared to dismiss this discussion out of hand and wrap up Judas’ last journal. I will state here that I am including this little discussion, since it would be so like Judas to end a book with what is happening at the moment, and this does involve him in a way, since he was one of those who said ‘Aye!’ to the Rosicrucian’s last three proposals.

Rachel laughed smugly and gave me a seductive wink.

“Michael is on board,” she said.

“Michael Lavoie?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm, now that could be a game changer,” I said, admittedly impressed. “One of the most powerful men in the CIA is ready to turn rogue.... How exciting!”

“The world could soon be at war, and it might be up to our ‘league of ancients’ to bring back sanity and peace,” she said. “We can discuss it in Abingdon, and maybe invite the gang for one hell of a shindig!”

“I like that idea... a lot!” Cedric chimed in, raising a dry martini, tipping it in my direction.

I wasn’t ready to have company any time soon, since I prepared myself for the full grieving that was sure to come for the loss of my very best friend—the immortal I related to better than any of the others. But then another idea occurred to me, and it was based on the promise Judas and I shared about traveling the world together one last time....

“How about this instead,” I said, watching Rachel’s and Cedric’s joyful expressions that had been inspired by the chance for rare revelry with our ancient brethren suddenly plummet by my hesitation. “You and I have discussed seeing the world together someday, my dear, and I only stonewalled you for Judas’ sake, since it was his and my dream to take one last trip around the globe. And, Cedric, this would include you as well.”

“What are you saying?” she asked, the look of impending joy creeping back into her countenance.

“Why don’t we visit everyone, and by doing so, we can knock off two birds with one stone,” I said. “I might never have the courage to revisit the haunts that Judas and I explored alone.... But having my two remaining dear friends along could be the very best way to handle such a journey. And, we could visit everyone—Rosicrucian persuaded or not—and get their opinion on this. What do you say?”

“There will be some hostility, you know,” said Rachel.

“Conquered easily by your charms,” I countered.

“The last data base check I did in Washington says there are nearly twelve hundred of your types out there in the world—and some have never left the remote corners of the planet in hundreds of years,” said Cedric. “That might be one tall order to try and pull off.”

“And you don’t think it would be one grand adventure to try and make it happen?” Now I was the one with the smug smile and intent look.

They both looked at each other and then nodded with increasing enthusiasm as they pictured my offer coming to fruition.

“So, it’s settled,” I said, taking a deep breath and exhaling it slowly as I considered the gravity and potential good to the whole of mankind by getting involved in this potential treason. The faces of old friends, such as Thomas Paine and John Adams came to mind. “Let me finish this up, and then we’ll begin making the arrangements.”

Amid joy and excitement that often comes with a new initiative, I turn my thoughts back to Judas Iscariot. My friend in life, and my brother in spirit forevermore. I will miss him, as certainly some of you will miss him, too. And although I conclude his final journal with heaviness upon my heart, I feel somewhere he smiles upon us all. May his celebration with Beatrice, Alistair, Amy, Jeremy, and his family be sweet... and may someday he and I share that same joyous reunion.

Peace to you all,

Roderick Cooley

The End

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––––––––

T
he day we left Chicago was the day I became homeless.

Might as well have been sentenced as a vagabond.

Chicago had been my home during my entire life up until this past spring. But, as the school year ended, my family decided it was time to move on. So, we left our home in Wheaton, a quiet suburb of Chicago, to find someplace new. Someplace even less exciting than Wheaton, believe it or not. Someplace... down south?

Are you frigging kidding me?!

Maybe if it had been Nashville or Atlanta, or even Louisville, I could’ve coped with the move in terms of some comparability to what I’d lost. But Dad and Mom insisted on moving to some place far off the beaten path. Deep in the sticks. A place where they could chill out, lay low, and where my sister and I could experience a “different pace of life.”

Seriously, they said that.

Such a load of crap would be more apropos for my grandparents, who would soon join us in this insane venture below the Mason-Dixon line....

It was a move founded in desperation. To get away from the past.
Our
unfortunate, and deeply regrettable, past.

But you know what they say about trying to run away from one’s problems, right?

Yeah, well, there will be more about that in the coming pages of whatever this thing should be called. A diary or a journal? A book, perhaps? I like the sound of ‘journal’ best, since I can write as much or as little as I please, and be as detailed as I want or don’t want to be.... So, that’s what I’ll call it. My journal about the good, the bad, and the absolutely absurd shit that has visited me and my family in a place called Denmark, Tennessee. You should picture the twang to go with that, Chicago deep-dish style.

My name is Sebastian. Sebastian Radu, and my family and close friends call me ‘Bas’. I come from a proud Romanian family that has resided in the United States since 1801. We were New Yorkers in those days, or immigrants who pretended to be New Yorkers, doing their best to fit in with every other European embracing what was, at that time, a land of incredible opportunity. Maybe it’s a little corny. It certainly was easier to make a life and name for oneself back then.

But if you want a history lesson, my parents and grandparents are the ones to ask about that. As for Alisia, my younger sister, and me, we’ve always preferred to focus more on the present. We have our reasons, as you will soon learn.

We left the day after my graduation. May 22
^nd
. My parents wanted to make this sort of a farewell/family vacation/graduation road trip. But all I wanted to do was get to wherever we were going, so I could begin my internment without the fanfare.

“Hey, at least you don’t have to go to school anymore,” Alisia told me, as we finished loading up the Escalade with the last of our stuff deemed too sacred to transport in the moving van that had already departed for Tennessee. “I’ve still got, like, forever before I graduate.”

I almost felt sorry for her. But schooling for a Radu had never been an easy, or traditional, thing.

“Let’s go kids!”

Dad and Mom stood by the SUV. They gazed at our old cape cod longingly, maybe enduring a moment of nostalgia while looking back on the deserted house. Our home, now abandoned and left to die. But despite my sister and I remaining glum after piling into the back seat, once we merged onto Highway 41 and headed south to Dixie, our parents seemed relieved. Running from a death threat can even bring a level of euphoria, I’m told. But we had never run from our troubles before.

In the meantime, while they seemed to exhale all their fears and worries from decades of uncertainty, I felt like heavy iron bonds and chains had been applied to my wrists and ankles. Even around my neck. Like a free man returned to the old south as a fugitive runaway. It didn’t seem to be as bad for Alisia, though she was far from experiencing the falling confetti and balloons going on in the front seat.

Dad said the trip would take less than nine hours to reach our destination—and less than eight if we drove straight through without stopping for lunch and/or dinner. But the drive seemed longer.
Much
longer. I ignored most of the scenery my mother pointed out, which honestly didn’t get interesting until we neared the Kentucky border. The hills got bigger and were covered with trees for miles on end. It inspired a nasal rendition of “Dueling Banjos” from the movie
Deliverance
, bringing an abrupt end to Mom’s efforts as our tour guide. But, hell, at least I got a giggle from my sis.

“Quit acting like an insolent ass.” My father pulled me aside, after we stopped for a bite in Murray, Kentucky. “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be, son.”

He regarded me wearily, and annoyance fueled his hazel irises to a brighter shade. Maybe the exodus south wasn’t easy on him either. Maybe he saw a younger version of himself, when he and Mom were forced to leave New York with my grandparents long ago. His face was the same one passed down for generations, or so I’ve been told, with only slight alterations. Nearly all of the Radu males in our clan have sleek pilgrim noses, thick dark hair, and some variation of green eyes—hazel or emerald.

My mother’s blue eyes and blonde hair have tainted that pattern slightly; giving Alisia blonde hair and both of us blue eyes. My sister’s features are softer than what Mom calls the ‘rugged Romanian comeliness of the Radu’. But everyone else, aside from Mom and Grandma, carries our traditional family traits.

I see myself as sort of a Kerouac beatnik figure, taller than most of my clan at six-foot four with a lanky build, shoulder length hair and often hiding my eyes behind a pair of dark Ray-Bans. Since my father sees it as supremely disrespectful to wear sunglasses when being chastised by him, I pulled them down until he finished.

“I’m not happy about the move, Dad,” I said. “Not at all.”

He regarded me a moment longer and sighed.

“If not for me, can you tone it down for your mother?” He grasped my shoulder, and though it was done affectionately, the strength of his grip prevailed most. An effort to coerce a truce? “It will make the transition easier.”

“I’ll try.”

“See that you do.”

So I tried. It was easy enough during dinner, since my raging hunger being satisfied brought a moment of contentment. I fought to hold on to that feeling as we resumed our trip south. After Murray, we soon reached a very small town called Hazel, Kentucky, where my mother and sister remarked favorably about the prospects of antiquing. Both sides of the road were lined with stores specializing in the merchandise of yesteryear. In fact, the stores seemed to be all that existed of Hazel, other than a restaurant or two, and a filling station.

Dad seemed pretty intrigued about returning to the little antique-hoarding town, too. As for me, I had never cared much for trinkets from bygone eras. Only the bigger items, like the stately and ostentatious furniture of the Victorian age. Something I grew up with.

“Can we come here again, like, maybe tomorrow?” Alisia asked, causing me to whip my head in her direction. She whispered, “Sorry!” when I eyed her accusingly. This wasn’t the agreed upon plan between us, and she was making things too easy on our parents.