Page 17 of Immortal Bastard

“Christian’s not here.”

Dane frowned. It wasn’t like her son to miss a meeting. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure. The most peculiar thing happened this morning. I stopped by his house to deliver eggs and every room was empty. The stove was cold and the windows were all shut.”

“Did he go into town?”

“Why close the windows in this heat if he was only taking a trip to town?” She pressed her lips tight. “He went somewhere, but no one seems to know where.”

“The bishop?”

“Eleazar assumed he was on the farm.” She stopped stitching and dropped her needlepoint into her lap, cocking her head curiously. “He built an indoor washroom.”

When the Hartzlers rebuilt their home after the fire they had also built one. It was rather sophisticated compared to the outhouses others used, but still archaic compared to the modern amenities Dane had grown up with. The Hartzlers had a copper-lined, self-heating bathtub connected to its own wood stove and a pull-chain latrine that drained down to the old privy.

“Maybe he got tired of walking outside.” Dane’s house didn’t have modern plumbing and shitting in the winter on a cold seat was a literal pain in the ass.

“He’s suddenly going to change his habits after three-hundred years? No, I know my son. He likes consistency and loathes modern technology. Something’s going on.”

He chuckled. “Installing an indoor toilet isn’t exactly what I’d call modern technology, Adriel.”

“It is for Christian. He’s up to something. He never misses a meeting.”

Many of the elders despised modernization and vilified any whiff of progressive thinking because they feared future headstrong generations being overrun by the lure of contemporary amenities and loose morals. Not to say the Amish weren’t innovative. They were incredibly clever and had mastered many conveniences without the use of electricity. Ice houses, root cellars, and cold streams for example, all helped preserve the food needed for survival throughout every changing season.

Morality was not a condition of immortality, but immortality was a condition of this specific Amish order. Very few exceptions were made outside of the mortals brought here by their called mates. Those people were always transitioned—converted into immortals—but that trick only worked on humans pre-ordained by God or some other such paranormal magic.

He never would have believed vampires existed, until he saw one murder his mother in the woods. The Order wasn’t vampire, but they could become so if they ignored the calling of their god. Some immortals lived five hundred years before receiving a call. Some died before ever making it that far.

The farm kept them safe. Although immortality implied eternal life, accidents happened. Dane was trying to figure out what kind of accident could kill an immortal because the one locked in the cell below needed to die. Not his sister, of course, but the one who killed his mother.

“We now move to the discussion of Isaiah Hartzler.” Speak of the devil.

Dane sat up and listened through the wall as another male delivered a report. “It’s been seven hundred seventy-two days since Brother Isaiah entered captivity. He shows faint signs of aging, but his astonishing strength remains unchanged. Since reinforcing the cell bars and fashioning chains, he shows fewer signs of aggression but he’s still gravely dangerous.”

Voices mumbled as conversation broke out. Dane didn’t need the recap the way others might. He knew exactly when that bastard came to the farm. It had been two years, one month, twelve days, and—he pulled out his windable pocket watch—eleven hours. In his opinion, the fucker had stayed long enough.

David, the bishop’s right hand, took the brunt of Isaiah’s last attack, but even that didn’t convince the elders to end him. Dane had been visiting Cybil at the time. The horrific sight had tortured him for weeks, triggering old nightmares of his mother’s limp, gutted body and his sister’s last screams. He then decided that he wouldn’t kill Isaiah until he had a sure-proof plan.

The vicious prick was ancient, his already impressive strength reinforced by decades of adrenaline-laced human blood. Dane knew his first attempt would be his last. He’d either avenge his mother and kill the vile beast or die trying.

“Get that foolish plan out of your head,” Adriel hissed. “Bands of elders have tried and failed what you're considering. It took decades just to capture him. Be content with knowing no other women will be harmed.”

“That’s not enough.” He hissed back, adamantly married to his plan.

They all mourned the lives lost at the hands of Isaiah, but no one really saw those women as anything more than statistics. Humans were less valuable to them. And even among their species, females were little more than property. The human women Isiah killed died because they were lower on the food chain, and, therefore, prey. To immortals, it was just nature doing what nature does.

Just as a lion has the natural right to take down a gazelle, immortals had the right to devour mortals. Only The Order forbade such practices, but they were not the norm. According to Cain, immortals roamed the entire earth, and very few ever stopped to consider morality when hunger struck.

Social order was only loosely maintained by their Christian faith here on the farm. It amazed Dane how much the immortals on the farm abided such constraints. Cain seemed the only male brave enough to disregard The Order’s threats, but he always claimed to be a bit of a black sheep.

Isaiah was considered a full-fledged vampire, a term saved for those intoxicated by human blood and driven by bloodlust. According to The Order, vampire was a derogatory, offensive word, but Dane knew they all had it in them. Even sweet, beautiful Gracie possessed a darkness that could kill, which she had done when the witches attacked her father.

The moment his thoughts turned to Gracie his pulse quickened. What was she doing right now? He missed the days he could wander into her kitchen, and she’d happily offer him a piece of pie. Gracie was an incredible cook, but he never visited for the pie.

Adriel scoffed, her head turning from her work so she could eye him with an incredulous stare. “With Abigail’s bread in your pocket and the scent of Magdalene still on your breath, one might say you have enough females in your life.”

He grimaced, wishing Adriel would stay out of his head. “She’s different.”

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