by R. E. Vance
“You’re already doing it. I’ve called the OIF. They said that all you need to do is throw one seminar a week. That will be enough to gain access to the funding.” She pointed at the flyer. “We got a full house.”
“Resistance is futile,” I said in my best Borg voice.
“Resistance is pointless,” she said, evidently not a Star Trek fan. “I’ve taken care of everything. All you have to do is set up and—”
“Don’t say it,” I said.
“Bake cookies.”
“I hate baking,” I protested.
“Think of it as penance. Now, tell me—what did you want to see me about?”
Blessed Be He
I told Miral about Michael and finding the flyer. I also found myself telling her about Penemue and the HuMans, about Judith and Astarte and the damn headache I’d had since waking up that morning. Hell, there must be something about women with wings—they can always get me talking. Once I started, I opened up to the angel, telling her about every pain, problem and pathetic thought that rattled around in that empty canister I called my skull. It felt good to get it all off my chest, and with every word I spoke, I felt my burdens lifting.
I told her everything except about my dreams of Bella. Some things were private, damn it, and angel of mercy or not, she did not have full reign over all that occupied my mind.
After I finished unburdening myself, I went silent, expecting, hoping, praying for some kind of ancient divine wisdom that would cure all. But she didn’t say a word. She just stared at me for a long, long time before finally standing up, walking over to her cupboard and offering me a Tylenol.
“This is for your headache,” she said.
I took the pill and said, “The murders? Any thoughts on that?”
“Either it is a Fanatic, or her killer returns. Only time will reveal which it is.”
“Time. You’re the once-captain of God’s army and a being older than solid objects, and all you can tell me is ‘Be patient’?”
“Indeed. And it gets better than that. For the rest of your problems I recommend faith,” Miral said as she ushered me out her door.
“Faith in what?” I said. “They’re gone, remember.”
“Even when they were here, faith was never about them. It was always about having faith in yourself,” Miral said, giving me a knowing smile.
“So that’s it? Faith and patience?”
“Yes.” Then, as if as an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and let the cookie dough sit for at least half an hour. That way the cookies will come out all the more fluffy.”
↔
I left Miral’s office, annoyed at having no more answers to any of my problems, and headed into the reception area, where I was greeted by a low, reverent murmuring.
“It is he—the Form Filler.”
“Do you think he will come to our aid?”
“Approach with caution.”
“Do not make eye contact.”
“Beware his mighty pen.”
“Be humble. And remember to SIT!”
Several Others approached, heads hanging low, eyes averted, clipboards outstretched.
A blue-tinged jinni at the head of the line rushed over. He knelt before me and said in a reverent voice, “O wise and wondrous Form Filler, if you should bless us this early summer morning, we would ever be in your debt. I shall whisper your name in seashells and cast them in the ocean so that all the creatures of the beneath will know your name.”
A garden gnome no taller than six inches scurried up the wall, his tiny climbing spikes dotting its surface. When he was eye level he said, “And I shall enter the beehive in the central park and slay the pollen lovers’ queen in thy name.”
And with that, all the Others offered me various honors. It wasn’t until an ahuizotl barked, “And I shall offer a human sacrifice!” that I intervened.
“No, no, no! There’ll be no seashell throwing, no bee slaying and certainly no human sacrifices.” I pointed at the Aztec demon dog to emphasize how serious I was about not killing people. The dog lowered his head in embarrassment and frustration, partly because I refused his gift, but mostly because he didn’t have an excuse to rip apart a human.
I looked at my watch—7:00 a.m. I was exhausted, overworked and in desperate need of baking four dozen chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies. I simply didn’t have time for this. “Hellelujah,” I muttered, grabbing the jinni’s clipboard.
↔
I must have gotten through eight more clipboards when the lights flickered. Just outside the sliding glass doors of the reception, I saw an Other standing there, staring at me with an uncomfortable intensity. His arms were longer than normal, as were his neck, fingers and teeth. Hell, everything was just a bit too big, too long, too prominent for what could have passed as an otherwise normal human frame.
Our eyes met. He smiled, the edges of his lips almost literally touching his eyes. Massive, blocky teeth reflected the hospital’s fluorescent lights, and I got an eerie the-better-to-eat-you-with sense from this Other.
A popobawa hung upside down from the ceiling, and I noticed it was writing its own name in the correct place on a form. “You,” I said, looking into the horizontal slits it called eyes. The thing focused on me, and the slits rotated until they were vertical. I shuddered. “Can you write?” I asked.
“Yes,” it clicked.
“English, I mean.”
“Yes.” It blinked. Well, not blinked so much as rotated the slits that were its eyes another three hundred and sixty degrees.
“Good, you are the new … Master Form Filler.” I handed over the clipboard in an exaggerated, ceremonial passing-of-the-mantle that resembled a half-hearted signing of the cross followed by what probably looked like me chasing away an invisible bee. The creature beamed. I don’t mean “smiled,” “danced with joy” or “clicked in glorious triumph.” I mean it actually emanated light like a firefly.
“I shall not fail thee, O Great Master of Master Form Filler.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, handing him my pen. “May the ink flow ever freely.”
↔
I approached the sliding doors. Up close I noticed it wasn’t just this new Other’s physical features that made him odd—it was his smell, too. Over the years, I’ve learned that humans as a species have a distinct smell. The same is true of Others. Each species has its unique scent; to describe a human smell over an Other without experiencing it is like explaining color to the blind. Humans, with our pheromones and sweat glands, our stomach acids and diets, smell human. Which is to say, mortal. Others, although thirteen years’ mortal, had yet to have those biological processes permeate them on a cellular level. There was no mistaking an angel’s smell. Or any other Other, for that matter.
But this Other—this “Grinner”—he didn’t just smell human. He smelled very human. As if he over-sweated, over-ate, over-shat. His pheromones were double-timing to get maximum effect. More didn’t mean better or worse. He just smelled wrong.
The automatic doors didn’t slide open, which could mean only one thing. This grinning Other was burning time. The thing about magic is that it doesn’t play nicely with modern technology. Burn time in front of a computer and it will shut down. Lights will flicker and TVs will go on the fritz. And automatic doors won’t open. You know how the old pacemakers couldn’t be near microwaves? Same concept here. And the stronger the magic, the more time burned, the bigger the problem for the electronics. I’ve seen airplane navigation systems fail, hospital main and backup generators cease and radios shut off.
I gripped at the sliding doors and tried to force them apart. They wouldn’t budge.
“Human,” this Grinner guy hissed, his voice holding a serpentlike quality.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, pulling at the door.
He sniffed through the glass and grinned so wide that his eyes actually moved inward to make room for the edges of his smile. “Yes … indeed,” he said, backing away from the door. When he go
t about ten feet away, the automatic doors finally budged, opening at a maddeningly slow pace.
I pulled at them, squeezing through, and said, “Hey, you … I want to ask you something.” But in the moment I took my eyes off him to squeeze through the door, he vanished. As in, into thin air. And in the early morning light I could have sworn I saw the half-moon crescent of a Cheshire cat smile fade away.
Being Human Is Easy … If You Have the Cash
I didn’t like what happened in the parking lot with that strange Other so willing to burn time, but what was I going to do? Using magic wasn’t a crime. Yet. I guess I could call Michael and tell him I saw someone suspicious, but even then, what would I say? “That Cheshire cat gave me the heebie-jeebies”? I had no idea if this guy was related to the homicides or not, but something in my guts said he was. As I walked home, I imagined what that conversation with Michael would go like:
“Human Jean, what did you see?”
“An Other.”
“An Other?”
“Yes, an Other …”
Awkward silence.
“And?”
“And, ahhh, he looked menacing.”
“How so?”
“Well, he smiled.”
“Smiled?”
“Yeah, but it was a really, really creepy smile.”
“Oh, a creepy smile, you say. Well then, that does it! Guilty! Thank you, Human Jean. Once again you have saved the day. Oh, by the way, here is the Key to the City.”
No way was I going through that. And what’s more, it was racial profiling—rather, Other profiling—assuming that this guy was guilty of some crime simply because of the way he looked. It was like arresting a guy because he had a beard. There was enough of that going around with everyone assuming vampires were evil, ogres stupid and angels good, and I wasn’t going to be a part of it.
Luckily, I had two Others older than most mountains living in my hotel. If one of them told me an Other like that was not to be trusted, well then …
My thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks by the sight of an old man who stood right next to my 1969 Plymouth Road Runner. He was eying Penemue’s taloned feet with unnatural concern. He looked as if he were trying to glean something about the essence of the being to whom the feet belonged, before nodding in approval and then touching their soles, causing the slumbering angel to stir and withdraw his feet into the back seat of the car. Either the old man possessed an unhealthy foot fetish or he was one of the gutsiest pranksters in the world to dare tickle the feet of a sleeping fallen angel.
Either way, I couldn’t just stand there. “Hey,” I said walking up to him. “Leave him alone.”
The old man caught my gaze with his hazel eyes, and what hit me next was something that I struggled to understand. Warmth. Comfort. Peace. But even that was an oversimplification of what happened, because warmth implies temperature—it was so much more than that. I read somewhere the best sleep of our entire lives happens when we are in the womb. Growing in the belly of our mothers was where we experienced the deepest, most all-encompassing sleep we will ever have. Think about it—we’re in a perfectly dark room that is at the ideal temperature for our developing body. We are constantly being fed while we rest, in blissful ignorance of all the troubles of the world. The soft heartbeat of the person who loves us more than life itself is constantly beating in the background, reassuring us that all is well. All is safe.
And that was what I felt standing before the old man. Or rather, I should say, the old Other.
My military training kicked in as I reminded myself that this creature was manipulating my emotions with some serious kind of mojo. Hell, if this Other kept it up—given how old he already was—he’d turn to dust before my very eyes. If, that was, I still stood to witness it. Summoning all my will, I did what I was trained to do in such situations—counter whatever was happening with the opposite. In the once-upon-a-time world of magic, opposites negated one another, and it was a matter of whoever had the stronger will that won. I flooded my mind with images of PopPop’s funeral, the horrors I’d seen while being a soldier in the war and Bella’s body being ripped apart.
Popping out of his spell, I growled through gritted teeth, “You stop that right now.”
I reached out to throttle him, but a giant clawed hand restrained my arm. “He can’t help it.”
I swung around to see Penemue awake and holding me back. The previous night he had been all banged up—bloody nose, black eye, torn vest. And although his tweed vest was still torn, the rest of him was healed. He looked as good as new. Better than new, because somehow the years of self-abuse were washed away and he looked more like his former self.
“He can’t help it,” Penemue repeated, eying the old man. I noticed that Penemue’s blue iris glistened behind an unescaped tear. “It is his nature. His innate ability.” The angel let me go and, putting a fist over his heart, bowed. “I thought you left with … them.”
“No,” the old man said. “I am no god. I am, however, a traveler seeking shelter.” Turning to me, the old man lowered his head slightly and said, “I understand your establishment is friendly to me and my kind.”
I nodded and from the corner of my eye I saw Penemue wipe away a milky-white tear. Speaking in a language I did not understand, he said something in a low tone. The old man turned to face Penemue, who immediately dropped to his knees, bowing his head in a gesture of contrition. The old man gave him a knowing smile and touched his head.
Penemue stood and, putting a fist over his heart, turned to me and did something he never even came close to doing in the four years we’d known each other. He apologized. “My dear human friend, for all the trouble I have caused you, I am sorry. It seems that we have a very special guest staying with us tonight. Please afford him all the hospitalities you have shown me.” With that, he unfurled his wings and said, “I shall be up in the attic contemplating my sins should either of you require anything of me.” Penemue took to the sky, leaving me alone with the old man.
Hellelujah!
↔
“Sorry about that,” I said, not really sure what I was sorry for. The drunk angel? Yelling at him outside? I suspect I was apologizing for a lot more. I took him over to the mess that passed as the hotel’s welcome desk. “We’ve got some issues here in Paradise Lot to work out, and …” I clicked a ballpoint pen open and handed him a check-in form.
“You’ve been hurt.” Something about his tone told me he wasn’t talking about bruises or broken bones. And, equally, there was something soothing about his words. Like he understood my pain and was sure that all would work out in the end.
“Stop it,” I said, looking at him. Out from the corners of his eyes crawled deep, wise wrinkles that must have been forged by a lifetime of laughter and tears. He had heavy-set hazel eyes that rested under a silver brow, and he gave off an air of confidence that simultaneously conveyed strength and compassion. He wore a subtle smile that said he’d had more good times than bad ones, and his callused hands told me he knew what a hard day’s work felt like. Everything about this man was comforting and strong. Even his smell made me feel safe and secure. He smelled like … like … Old Spice and cigars?
Holy crap, this man smelled like my grandfather, PopPop. Hell, everything about him screamed PopPop, from the way he waved his hands, to his hunched shoulders that, for PopPop at least, were a result of gravity and arthritis slowly pushing down his spine.
PopPop had always been my inspiration, someone who I desperately wanted to be when I was growing up. When he died, I cried for seven days straight, ready to die myself from misery—probably would have had Bella not been there to feed me. And now, this man—this Other—stood before me, reminding me of PopPop in the most visceral of ways.
Except he wasn’t PopPop. He just looked like him, smelled like him. Felt like him.
“Stop making me feel better,” I said. “It is not real. Innate ability or not, I don’t like feeling manipulated.”
�
��As you wish,” he said, and his eyes began to glow.
“What are you doing?” I said as my irritability returned.
“Preventing myself from making you feel better.”
“How?” I said.
It wasn’t just his eyes that glowed—his whole body became bioluminescent. “How else? Magic.”
“What?” I said. “Are you burning time?”
He nodded. “A bit. It is the only way to stop making you feel better. As the angel mentioned, I cannot help who I am. My presence has always had a calming effect on those near me. I can no more change that part of me than you could change the color of your eyes.”
“Well, stop that!”
“What?”
“Stop burning time,” I ordered.
“But earlier …”
“It’s fine,” I sighed, still not happy with being made to feel happy. “I’ll deal with it. Just don’t burn any more time.”
“As you wish,” the old man said, and his skin stopped glowing.
“Thank you.”
Immediately the feeling of my PopPop came back, and I felt … better. Safe. Almost content. I had heard of Others like this one before—Others who were the equivalent of emotional chameleons, camouflaging themselves in your feelings and desires to help or protect them. This innate ability was something they had little control over, which meant I had to be careful around him. After all, you never see the knife in your back coming from the ones you love. But still, judging from Penemue’s reaction and considering who the angel was, I suspected this Other’s intentions were less than nefarious, if not outright good. I reminded myself of something Bella used to say: one can survive without trust. But living means having faith in others and Others. Damn you, Bella.
“OK—fine,” I said, fighting back a smile. “Mister …?” I said, tapping the form.