by R. E. Vance
And as for Paradise Lot? Well, the sky opened up and legions of angels fell onto my city like comets. One of those comets killed PopPop, making me an orphan. Another comet did the same to EightBall.
More fluorescent tears streamed down Penemue’s face as he spoke. “When I was ejected from Heaven, I fell—and not for the first time, mind you—onto this cursed city … and right onto the apartment building where young Human Newton’s parents resided. I didn’t mean to, but as anyone who has fallen can tell you, one does not always have control over one’s trajectory.” He spoke the last sentence with a pompous air, trying to hide his shame.
“For days, I stood out on the Palisade,” Penemue continued, “trying to work up the courage to speak to the young boy. When I saw him this evening, laughing with his friends, I thought to myself that today would be the day I apologized—but before I could say anything, the gang of boys just attacked, and … well, you know the rest.”
I didn’t know what to say. Penemue’s guilt for accidentally killing EightBall’s parents was consuming him. This was not the kind of guilt that went away with a confession or even self-destruction. Believe me, I know. This kind of guilt stalked you, nipping away at your heels little by little, until you were driven mad. And there was nothing I could say or do to console my friend.
Penemue looked up and said, “Did you know that young Human Newton was considered a child prodigy? At the age of eight he could play the entire Fifth Symphony with nary an error. His parents were so proud that they saved every penny they could to encourage his talent. Who knows what he could have accomplished had I not stolen his future from him?”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s theirs.” I jerked my head at the car roof, indicating the gods. “For leaving. For the way they left.”
“Perhaps …” he said, his voice drifting off. “But I do have wings, and had I been just a little bit faster or more aware, I might have fallen elsewhere.” And with that fell more fluorescent tears, until the twice-fallen angel fell once more into sleep.
Lust or Love
We drove home, a soft snore emanating from the back seat. After hearing Penemue’s confession, I knew the EightBall problem wasn’t going away. Beyond the little annoyance that the HuMans were a violent group of Otherphobes who would start targeting the One Spire Hotel, this was an issue of penance for the twice-fallen angel. How could he blame himself for their death? It wasn’t his fault that he’d been evicted from Hell without warning. And it wasn’t his fault that his entry to the mortal realm happened to be over Paradise Lot. But those were rational arguments for a much larger problem, and as one who has more blood on his hands than a thousand good deeds could wash off, when it came to seeking redemption, rationality was not the nail on which you hung your coat.
Redemption is reliant on being forgiven, and I seriously doubted that EightBall would ever forgive Penemue. Even if he did, Penemue would never forgive himself. Although I felt for my friend’s plight, I had a more practical issue to deal with—EightBall would come for him, and soon. Penemue was a fallen angel with a massive amount of power, both physical and magical; I knew he would suffer a thousand strikes and still not be tempted to lift a finger against a human. This was his way. This was the way of so many Others hated by my fear-mongering species. He might even welcome the attack, seeing it as a blood-for-blood kind of deal—like I said, redemption wasn’t rational. But Penemue was only one of the Others who lived at One Spire Hotel, and what he did put them in danger as well. His confession, although noble, was also selfish.
I nervously thumbed the industrial heavy-plastic twist tie I’d coiled around a plain silver chain I always wore. Other than being designed to hold together electric wires in all temperatures, there was nothing special about it except that once upon a time I had used it as an engagement ring when I proposed to Bella. At seventeen, I was in a hurry and didn’t have any money to buy a real ring. That night I knew it was now or never, so I raided the house until I found the twist tie. Then I got down on one knee on a beach near Paradise Lot and proposed. Lucky for me, Bella thought the twist tie was the most romantic thing ever. I don’t know why and don’t care. All I know is I was damn lucky to have found Bella. I had to hand it to the twist-tie makers, they knew how to build something to last. I touched the final tangible symbol I had for Bella as I thought about Penemue’s current dilemma. I had always found cruising a great way to clear my head. But even after taking the really long way home, I had nothing. I circled the block three times, then parked in front of my hotel and left the slumbering angel in the car—no point in attempting to carry his celestial ass. Besides, the thought of trying to get him inside made my already-sore head throb.
As I walked into the lobby, I briefly considered hanging the bell I got from the boogieman above my front door, but decided against it. I was exhausted and as curious as I was as to what the bell did, I was more curious about my bed. With a whoop, I sat behind the second-hand IKEA desk that served as my reception. I’d make it upstairs in a minute. After a rest. And as for whatever was to happen next, I would deal with it—not only to protect my friend, but also the other Others living in my hotel. After all, I had once made a promise to this girl I love very much.
I surveyed my desk. Bills, bills, bills and more bills. Electricity, water, gas, unpaid taxes—hell, one of them was a garbage-collection bill for unnatural biowaste left in a dumpster by the demigod CaCa who lived in my basement. There was a particularly vile letter from the landlord stating, in no uncertain terms, that he’d “rain holy hell” on my ass if I missed another rent payment. Well, screw him … He was a racist, or rather an Otherist, and I was the only human stubborn or stupid enough to take on this place. Given his limited options, I knew he would always choose to rent to a late-paying human over a prompt, responsible Other. Before Hell was shut down, there was a special kind of place for assholes like him.
Speaking of Hell and assholes, what happened to all the human souls that didn’t return after the GrandExodus? Not a single human had returned. Ghosts and ghouls came in legions, but the actual Heaven and Hell occupants—not one came back. Why? No one knows. There are two theories as to what happened to them: either they were taken with the gods or they were extinguished. But whenever you start to think about why the gods did what they did, questions only lead to more questions. Screw it—I didn’t have time to engage in a solo philosophical debate. With my growing debt, there was a real chance I couldn’t keep this place open for another month, let alone the rest of the year. Unless I found a way to pay off some of these bills and create a steady flow of income, I was sunk. Bella—damn it—how did you manage to keep this place above water?
“Ahem,” a voice said behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was Judith, my once human, but now poltergeist, mother-in-law. I had once joked with Bella that if anyone hated me enough to come back from the dead to haunt me, it would have been her mom. Seems the joke was on me, because that’s exactly what she did. After the GrandExodus happened and the magic ceased, Judith rematerialized. Suddenly all those moments when I’d go cold for no reason or socks went missing from the wash made sense.
“Judith, I’m sorry if I woke you,” I said, “but it’s five in the morning, so if this can wait …”
The ghost gave me a disapproving look. “It’s doing it again,” she interrupted, her voice dripping with disdain.
I didn’t need clarification—she was referring to Astarte, the succubus who lived in room 5. For the uninitiated, a succubus is a creature that feeds off of sex, literally sucking your life’s energy out of you. Like a vampire, but with orgasms. Lots of orgasms. Of course, these days she no longer fed directly from sexual energy—but that didn’t mean she still didn’t get what she needed from sex. She used her talents to earn money, which she used in turn to purchase what she needed to survive—food, water, shelter. Lingerie. As far as Astarte was concerned, very little had changed in this new GoneGod World.
Judith sucked air t
hrough her ectoplasmic teeth. “All that groaning, it is simply unnatural.” Bold words from a woman who floated.
“Fine, fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Please see that you do,” Judith said, turning to drift upstairs.
↔
Judith watched from her door as I knocked on the door to room 5. From inside I could hear moaning and groaning as several voices continued their nightly pleasure, undisturbed by my knock. I banged on the door again, louder this time. The voices stopped for a moment; there was a rustling pause, then the moaning quickly reached its previous crescendo.
“Astarte!” I yelled.
Before I could knock again, the Other opened the door. When she saw me, she leaned against its frame as if presenting herself to me. She was wearing a nightgown that accentuated lean, small hips that subtly suggested that if you were horizontal and near them, all would be right with the world. Lush brunette tresses rested perfectly on her shoulders. She wore an elegant, lacy tank top just transparent enough that a hint of her dark nipples peeked through from atop her small, perfect, perky breasts.
I looked past her and saw several writhing bodies, all intertwined in the ecstasy embrace she was hosting. She closed the door just enough so that I could no longer see the bodies, but wide enough that I could hear all the bliss going on inside. From within, a distant voice said, “Astarte, where are …?” The voice drew in a breath before slowly exhaling with a flesh-filled “Oh …”
Astarte gave me a knowing smile as I tried to focus on her. She pulled out a cigarette from only the GoneGods knew where and placed it between ruby lips—lips that could do a lot more than hold a cigarette. Lips that most men would sell their left foot to have on theirs. Fire from her lighter illuminated rosy cheeks that bracketed her sensual nature with a false sense of innocence.
There was nothing innocent about Astarte.
“No smoking inside, Astarte. You know that,” I said, doing my best to not look at the A-cup angel’s breasts. I reminded myself that there was no evidence that she was actually a she. And without the telltale signs of gender, this Other skirted the edges of male-female perfectly. Breasts that may or may not exist underneath a loosely fitting nightshirt. A long sensual neck with enough bulge to it that it might be an Adam’s apple—but, then again, might not. Arms that were muscular but tender, hair that was lush but somehow masculine. Not that being androgynous did anything to diminish this Other, who was wildly tantalizing. I had no doubt there were many who saw Astarte as male, female and Other, and reminded myself that I only saw Astarte as a she because, well … I like boobs. There, I said it.
“Yes?” Astarte said, taking a long drag on her cigarette.
“Come on,” I said, “you know the rules. Put it out.”
“Oh my, Jean—always with the rules.” She let out a sensuous puff of white smoke that just made you wish you were in her cloud of heaven. I shot her a look that said it wasn’t working. I was lying. She opened the door just wide enough for me to see four other bodies all writhing and reeling, and dropped her cigarette into a lipstick-stained wineglass. “Happy?” she asked as she blocked my view again.
I nodded and said, “There’s been a complaint about the …” But before I could say “noise,” a loud groan bellowed out of the room, making my point for me.
Astarte chuckled. “I told her she could join,” she said, looking at Judith behind me. “One without legs could be an interesting … asset.”
Judith snorted with disgust and floated through the door.
Astarte chuckled and then, looking me up and down, gave me a disapproving stare. “You look like hell.”
“Headache and Penemue,” I said. I didn’t need to say more.
“What has that devil done now?” Astarte chuckled, her posture too perfect. When she stood, her back arched just enough to push out her breasts, accentuating them so that any sane human wondered exactly what they must look like underneath that delicate sheath of lace. But it was more than that. The way she held herself made every article of scanty clothing hang on her in a way that pronounced every curve, every dimple, every bump, driving her admirers to a maddening frenzy of lust. She did not light a cigarette, she ignited it. She did not brush back her hair, she sculpted it. She did not smile at you, she inflamed you.
Everything about her screamed desire, and, by the GoneGods, I was not immune. I looked at her and wanted nothing more than to embrace her for a few perfect moments of unbridled ecstasy. But that was just it. It was not love, it was lust. It was not passion she inspired, but desire. And if you could see her in that light, you could see that the way she held herself—the way she gestured, walked, spoke—was an unnatural lie designed to capture her quarry. She was a predator, and your desire was her prey.
Still—she was beautiful.
“Picked a fight with the HuMans,” I said in answer to Astarte’s question, figuring it was best to warn my guests of what might come.
“Oh, darling,” she sighed. “Is it serious?” The words slipped off her tongue with a hint of a Parisian accent coloring her voice. I doubted she had ever spent any time in France and I was pretty sure her accent was the side effect of me once confessing a particular love for the way French women spoke. The introduction of the accent had been subtle, and if it weren’t for my experience with Others, I might have never noticed. Still, despite noticing, I found the accent a nice touch to her seductive dance. Hearing her speak aroused me in ways that made me doubt my loyalty to the dream of my wife.
I nodded.
“What are you going to do about it?” she said, her tone demanding. Once upon a time, Astarte had been a demigoddess, worshiped by thousands, lusted after by more. She was used to getting her way, commanding people to do her will. Some habits die hard.
I thought about telling her to shove it and deal with her own battles. That I was done fighting her battles for her. But I could see that her forcefulness came from fear. After living thousands of years immune to hurt, your fear that some kids with a baseball bat would come knocking on your door took on a completely different nuance. It wasn’t her fault that Penemue got drunk and did what he did. And it wasn’t her fault that she was a lover, not a fighter.
“You could offer them a freebie?” I joked.
Astarte laughed at the suggestion. I mean, really laughed, clutching her stomach, her cheeks turning rosy red. Her laughter seemed to turn off the sultry sex goddess and leave a vulnerable, beautiful, real woman in its place. I don’t think she’d ever looked as lovely as she did at that moment.
“Oh, Human Jean,” she said, “you are a delight. An evening with me would change them forever, but I fear that I am not what they want.”
“What? Do you think they’d turn you down?”
She gave me a look that a thousand cold showers couldn’t reverse. “No one turns me down,” she said. “But after … Well, that’s another story.”
Astarte was right. She wasn’t what they wanted, and once the blood was rerouted back to their big heads, they would resume their path of carnage.
I nodded. “Well, I’ll figure something out. Until then, will you keep it down?”
“Cross my heart,” she said, crossing something far too low to be a heart. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really must say goodnight, unless of course you want to join …” She pushed the door open, revealing a tangle of bodies that would have required an autopsy to figure out where one stopped and another began.
“Thanks,” I said, summoning all the willpower I had, “but lust isn’t what I need right now.”
Astarte glared at me before opening the door wider, revealing the full glory of the orgy inside. “Why not?” the succubus said in a harsh tone. “You say it like there is something wrong with Lust. What would you prefer? Love?” She laughed at the word. “I could never be so cruel. Love is not the doe-eyed virgin you believe her to be. Love is always hungry. Love is always wanting. Love is not rational. Love does not compromise. And Love is not happy simply possess
ing you. She wants to own you. Control you. Be you. The first murder was committed because of Love. And I promise you that the last of your kind will die for her.
“Love is the single-minded hunter who consumes its prey, sucking it of all its worth, and then seeks another. Love is only happy when you are on your knees, begging her to stay. And Love will walk away, leaving you to your self-pity just to feel your ‘need.’
“Love is addiction, leaving you always wanting more.
“Love is a disease for which there is no cure.
“But Lust … Lust is the tender paramour that wants nothing more of you than what you are now. Lust does not seek some idealized fictional version of yourself, nor does she try to mold you into that false creation.
“Lust is present, Lust is attentive and Lust is now.
“And when now is over, Lust moves on, harming you no more than a pleasant memory harms a child.
“But most importantly,” Astarte said, pulling out an envelope of money from only the GoneGods knew where, “Lust pays your bills. Now, tell me, Human Jean, what’s so wrong about Lust?”
“Well,” I said, feeling myself blush, “when you put it that way …”
The Head of the Pin Is Crowded
Given the fun, fun, fun of the last four hours, I decided that a couple hours of sleep would be a good idea. I lay down under my duvet—extra-fluffy—and closed my eyes, thinking that being bone-tired was all I needed to fall asleep. Stupid. Like sleep would come to me now. Sure, the woman of my dreams, both literally and figuratively, was waiting for me once I drew back the curtain of night, but come on! After an evening of dealing with Penemue and the imminent threat of the HuMans, appeasing my tyrannical ghost of a mother-in-law and summoning every ounce of self-restraint to not join an orgy with a succubus I knew would have rocked my world with fifty shades of rainbow. Every fluid, hormone and muscle was revving at maximum, and nothing short of a baseball bat to the head would put me under. And I doubted even that would work.