Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  “I see,” I said. So that was Joseph’s plan. And that was why Grinner needed it. And considering what it was, now I suspected it would take a lot more than a little Hermes fire to destroy it, meaning Grinner was still in the game. Now all he had left to do was fill the box, which was exactly where Bella and I came into play.

  So I told the twice-fallen angel about Grinner, Hermes and the fight in Paradise Lot. About Michael and Miral. And about Bella. My dreams and how my wife existed in another realm. And about the kiss, and how it creeped me out.

  “Bella’s soul is not lost,” Penemue said to himself. “A bit of joy can be found in every terrible situation.”

  “Yes … yes, it can.”

  “Human Jean. The only way the Avatar of Gravity will be able to make the connection between Heaven and Earth tangible is by extracting it from you.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Our magic works by making abstract concepts real. Gravity is a Law, so the gods created an avatar with whom they could negotiate. Turning the abstract into the real. Your connection with Bella—your dreams—that is an abstract bridge built by your love. Grinner wishes to make that real. He wants to rip your connection to her out of you and turn it into a bridge that Others can use.”

  “And if he does, what will happen to my connection to her? To my dreams?”

  “They will no longer be a part of you.”

  “You mean, I’ll stop loving her?”

  “No, that is beyond our magic. What I mean is that your love will no longer be enough for you both to find each other, to speak across worlds.” Penemue drew heavily on the Drambuie. “Without it, she will truly be lost to you.”

  I looked at the angel, who stared back at me with heavy, swollen eyes that glistened with the light of trapped tears. This twice-fallen angel had lived in the One Spire Hotel for six years and in that time he had been a colossal pain in the butt, but he was always my friend. What I had to do next would be the hardest thing I’d ever done.

  “Do you know why I fell the first time?” he asked.

  I had heard the story before, but before I could answer, Penemue said, “Enoch, the judge of the Fallen, wrote that my sin was that I taught humans how to read and write …” His eyes went distant as he recalled the judgment against him. “You see, by his estimation, humans weren’t supposed to have that knowledge because … well, because you guys weren’t smart enough. The fear was that you’d write down a false idea and, like the Golden Calf, worship it. An idea is far more dangerous than a statue, no matter how big or golden it is.

  “But I didn’t think so little of humans. I thought that if they could only have a chance to record their thoughts and learn from their ancestors, in time their ideas would evolve into something worthy. That’s why I taught you how to read and write, how to make paper and brew ink.” The angel sighed, drawing heavily on his bottle before continuing. “I knew I would be punished, but I did not believe I would be cast from Heaven. I thought my sin was great enough that He would grant me death—true death. And despite believing that, I did it anyway, because I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “Penemue, you’re punishing yourself when there is no need,” I started.

  The Fallen lifted a hand, asking me to let him finish. “I was willing to die for what I believed. I was willing to face the abyss for the knowledge I granted you. But when I was asked to lay my life down for what really matters, for my friend, my resolve faded away into nothing and I told him all. I am a coward, Human Jean. A worthless, pathetic coward.”

  “Enough,” I said. “You got scared. You chose to live over dying. I will never, ever hold that against you.”

  Penemue’s eye cracked open and he looked at me confused. “Dear Human Jean, I tell you this not because I am seeking your forgiveness, but because I want you to understand who it is you fight for. I was once willing to die for my cause, but for a friend, I betrayed you the first chance I got. I do not deserve your protection or your care. None of us do. You need to understand that in the days to come. We are not worth it. None of us are. So, should the Avatar of Gravity extract the connection from you and make the bridge real, then let him win. This world and its paltry occupants are not worth you losing Bella again.” From behind a stack of books, he pulled out another bottle of Drambuie and opened it with a twist of his pointy fingers.

  “Maybe, but then again maybe your second chance isn’t up yet. None of ours is. And maybe if I give this world a bit more time, then they will be worth saving,” I said.

  “Jean the optimist. When did this happen?” Penemue said, handing me the bottle.

  “It was always there, just buried deep. Really deep.” I sighed, taking the bottle. “Look, I have to go, but before I do there’s one last favor I need from you.”

  “Of course,” he roared with a sudden excitement. “I owe you for my betrayal and am eager to work off the debt.”

  “For all the years I helped you stand when you fell—yes, you owe me. For all the times I saved you from that mouth of yours—yes, you owe me. But for saving yourself from Grinner—for that, you owe me nothing. Understand? I free you of that debt.”

  The angel nodded. “Very well, then. A favor for a friend.”

  “Yes, a favor for a friend,” I said, a lump catching in my throat. I handed him two envelopes.

  Penemue sat up, his massive shoulders hunched over in defeat as he took the paper from my hand. “What are these?” he asked.

  “One is instructions to you, the other is for someone else.”

  Penemue read the notes and looked up at me. His voice trembled as he spoke. “But … but this is suicide.”

  “Maybe, but we’re all going to die one day. Might as well die for something worthwhile.” I raised the bottle of Drambuie and said, “This is it, old friend. Time to say goodbye. What do you say—one more for the road?”

  ↔

  Penemue and I downed a shot of Drambuie, and I left the big guy alone in his sorrow and headed to my room. It always amazed me how the world might be ending and yet your room would look exactly as you’d left it. You’d think it would have faced the same whirlwind that you did, but my things all just sat there, unmoved and untouched. I hung up my collarless black jacket on the coat rack.

  My junktiques sat on their shelves and Castle Grayskull sat empty on my chest of drawers.

  Damn.

  I had hoped that Tink would have made it back by now. I was sure she had escaped; I saw her light flutter down the tunnel. Where was she? My only hope was that she was too scared to come home, afraid that Grinner would be here. But there was a big difference between knowing and hoping.

  The part of me that lived with and cared for Tink for the last six years had to believe that she was alive and well, hiding somewhere safe. That she hadn’t been crushed by some random rock or become lost in tunnels filled with Others that would like nothing more than to own a true myth. To believe anything else would be too much for me to bear after a day of so much loss.

  And it was hope that led me to leave behind a bit of the candle that Hermes gave me. I figured a creature as old and unique as Tink would know what to do with it, and if I couldn’t keep her safe, well, at least I could give her something to help.

  I also left a recording on my old Dictaphone, telling her that I probably wasn’t coming back and if she needed sanctuary, it was Miral whom I trusted above everyone else. It was up to Tink if she was going to entrust herself to another guardian or not. I couldn’t make that decision for her.

  “I’m sorry, Tink,” I said, “but I can’t keep you safe. Not anymore.” As I spoke those last words, warm tears fell down my cheeks.

  I closed the little drawbridge on Castle Grayskull and headed out the door.

  ↔

  The clock on the dashboard flashed 2:00 a.m. Good, that meant three hours and change before dawn, just enough time for me to get on the road.

  Convincing Michael to let me go had been quite the feat. He wanted t
o get on the run right away. I had to swear on every GoneGod and living soul I knew, vow up and down, and absolutely promise to come back at least three hours before dawn, and even then he let me go with great protest. The thing about oaths and Others is that they are always making these grand gestures, spoken in archaic chant, that are absolutely binding. Before the GrandExodus, to break an oath meant death. “Cross my heart and hope to die” was quite literal. Magic, karma, chutzpah—call it what you will—but the Universe always got even with them, and as a result, making and keeping a promise was very serious business, indeed. I get that. Really I do.

  Unfortunately for Michael, my promise was made with my fingers crossed behind my back. I don’t know how that cosmically works and I doubted that, pre-GrandExodus, you could get out of it that easily, but still, that’s what I did. Didn’t make me feel any better, but I couldn’t keep my promise to him when it went against another, higher promise I had made earlier. To Bella.

  You see, Michael was right. Miral was right. Hell, even Tink was right. There was no hope in fighting an enemy like Grinner. I had to run.

  But they were wrong about one thing—it wasn’t Bella’s dream to reopen the Void and send the Others packing. She wanted us all to live together. Here on Earth and in Heaven. That’s why she had helped the Ambassador. She believed he was the key to peace in this life and the next.

  I knew that Michael and Miral meant well and that they wanted to help. But after a while, even they would be tempted. There would be some shaman or prophet or Other that had a key or chalice or talisman that would find Bella and Heaven. And then what? Another experiment, another grand scheme, another maniacal wannabe god. If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, what’s the road to Heaven paved with?

  And even if they did find a way back to their Heaven, I don’t think it would solve anything. I’d gotten to know their kind and, well, they don’t play well with Others. Reopening the Void would lead to a war between Others, which meant more rainbow blood painting the roads.

  No, I couldn’t let that happen. That wasn’t what Bella wanted.

  Besides, I had other plans in mind. I might not be able to beat Grinner in a fight, but there was more than one way to skin that proverbial cat. I had an ace up my sleeve—a long shot, but far more tempting than spending a life on the run with Michael and Miral. As much as I hated not keeping my word, this was something I needed to do on my own. They were adults a couple of thousand times over—they’d get over it.

  As for the other detail … well, like I’d said to Penemue, this was it—one last favor.

  I turned the ignition in my PopPop’s old 1969 Plymouth Road Runner and took to the road. It felt good to be in the driver’s seat. Soon the city was out of view and highway lights were exchanged for stars. I looked at the clock—just an hour to go before dawn. Right about now, Penemue was delivering a map to Grinner with a big X and the words Come and get me scrawled in red.

  Part IV

  Prologue

  There is this girl whom I love very much. She is killed, and I go on a rampage of hate and destruction, accepting every mission they hand me. As long as I get to kill Others, I don’t care where I am, who I kill. My grief chases me, but as long as I am slaying Others, I am able to outrun it. For a while, at least. But I am in a losing race and I will soon learn that there is no one in this world—or any other—who is fast enough to outrun grief.

  Mine will catch me while doing an extermination mission on a remote island in northern Scotland. Recon says there are Fanatics planning a suicide mission. Doesn’t matter to me. We get to the island and I glance at my watch. The minute hand is spinning, the second hand is moving so fast it’s invisible. Magic. On a hillside there’s a cave, and an Other is burning time to hide. I point and we get into position. We don’t know what we’re up against. We should investigate. Plan. Prepare.

  Instead I throw in a grenade.

  What comes out isn’t a terrorist cell or a group of Fanatics, but a single golden dragon. It always amazes me that no matter what kind of face an Other has—humanoid, elongated, animalistic—you can always tell when they’re scared. This dragon is terrified.

  It charges from the mouth of the cave, a breath of flame climbing ahead as claws strike out. It manages to take out half of my team before it takes to the sky. It’s trying to get away.

  Without hesitation I aim my rifle at the scale right over its heart—a dragon’s weak spot—and from this distance I have a one-in-a-thousand chance to hit. Today must be my birthday, because a moment after my rifle thunders, the dragon drops. What’s left of my team rushes at it, and I note that the titanium-reinforced bullet has ripped through its hardened scales at exactly the right place. Or wrong place, depending on where you stand.

  My bullet broke through its golden scales, but didn’t reach its heart. The hurt dragon is far from dead. Its eyes glow as it attacks with a blazing speed that is amplified by burned time. It swipes down, sending me and two other soldiers flying, as it bites down on a fourth. A thistle bush breaks my fall, my armor saving me from an evening of pulling out needles. As for my two comrades, they aren’t as lucky, both of their bodies splattering against unforgiving rock. The dragon turns to run away.

  My team is dead. I am alone on the island with a pissed-off, injured dragon. I know I should call for backup. For evac. But it can’t fly, which means I can track it down. Find it. Kill it. I put down my rifle and leave behind some bulky high-powered equipment, taking only my hunting sword with me. Today will be a good day to die.

  I track it to some rocks by the sea, where it is cleaning its wound, trying to remove the bullet so that it can burn some time and heal itself. When I walk onto the beach, it looks at me, surprised, clearly not expecting me to have pursued it. It eyes me, then scans the empty hillside, glances back at me and my sword, shakes its head and turns back to the sea to continue cleaning its wound.

  I charge and it looks at me with more genuine surprise. I slash down on its reinforced scales, but my sword bounces off them without effect. That’s fine. That’s what I want. It turns too late to swipe, and I roll, swinging again. The dragon snorts, assuming I cannot hurt it and, no longer on high alert, swipes again, leaving an opening for me to tumble past its front claws and thrust my hunting sword into the hole left by my bullet. I know my blade is long enough to pierce its heart. I push and, in the second I have before it turns to crush me, I manage to nick the chamber wall of its heart.

  It rears up with a roar, throwing me nearly ten yards away, where this time there are no bushes to break my fall. I must have hit my head because, for the first time since she died, I see her.

  Bella. Standing there on the beach, hand outstretched.

  “Silly Jean,” she says, as if I have simply fallen and scraped my knee. “You should be helping, not hunting.”

  Behind her I can see the dragon getting up. Sure, it’s dying, but dying isn’t dead. All it needs to do is stomp on me or bite my head off.

  Kill your killer—not a bad end for a warrior.

  “Bella,” I say, reaching my hand out to her. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Jean, why are you doing this?” she asks.

  “Because they hurt you,” I say.

  “The dragon did not hurt me,” she scolds.

  “No, but other Others—”

  “Other Others are not that Other,” she says, pointing at the dragon. “Stop punishing them for something they did not do. And stop punishing yourself.”

  The dragon is stumbling over to me, determined to enact its revenge by dining on my guts.

  Bella looks over her shoulder. “Jean, I need something from you.”

  “Anything,” I find myself saying. Anything.

  “Promise me that if you live, you’ll help them. Promise.”

  “But …” I start to say, but Bella holds up a hand.

  “Promise me,” she repeats, tears streaming from her eyes.

  And I know that, dream or not, real or not, I cannot de
ny her anything. I nod.

  “Say it,” she says.

  The dragon is on me, its massive skull eclipsing Bella’s body—this is it.

  “Say it!”

  “I … I promise,” I say.

  What does it matter? I am about to die. Here and now.

  A light shines off the dragon’s eyes and it opens its mouth, ready to breathe out its last bit of hate on me, when Bella turns around so suddenly that the dragon takes a step back.

  It sees her, I think. How?

  I can’t hear what she says; all I know is that they are discussing my fate. Eventually the dragon nods and walks away, making it about fifty yards before it collapses from its wounds.

  What happens next is darkness.

  ↔

  It is the dark of night when I regain consciousness. A soft flicker of light catches my eye and, in the distance, I see the body of the dragon illuminated by the star-filled night. It is dead.

  The dragon never came over, never spoke with Bella. It must have been a dream, I think.

  A soft glow of gold sits on the creature’s neck. Walking over, I see, for the first time, Tinkerbelle, sitting there, crying. When I approach, Tink does not run or hide, she just sits in that spot, hugging the dragon with an abandoned grief.

  Seeing Tink there, her grief, the dream of Bella … it all just washes over me. Tink will later tell me the dragon’s fury and fear was not for itself, but for the little fairy it once protected. But now, all I see is a crying little golden myth. I am stunned and shamed by her misery—it is so pure, so perfect, so complete.

  I think back to all my time with Bella, all her hopes and dreams. I have not honored Bella with who I have become, and for the first time since she died, I let myself feel her loss. At first only gentle tears come, but soon they give way to a pain far more powerful, until my grief pours out of me in such a violent torrent that I think it will actually suffocate me. I don’t just cry. I scream. I bellow. I wrench off my armor.