by R. E. Vance
“First of all, call me Jean … I only go by Jean-Luc when captaining my starship and right now ...” I let the last words linger as I gestured behind me, showing-off my non-existent Starship Enterprise. I shouldn’t be so mean, but I hated my name: Jean-Luc Matthias. Especially in the GoneGod World where my name screamed Christianity: as in John, Luke, Matthew … (and before you say it, I know, I know, I’m missing the Mark.)
She gave me a dry look that said my name wasn’t the issue. “You own this place? He lives here. Then it is your responsibility, Jean, to control him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her an exaggerated salute. Officer Conner suppressed a grin.
The lady rolled her eyes and said, “Come on, dear. You, of all people, must understand what it takes to help these creatures.” She turned to Penemue, who had folded his wings. “Do you hear me? Help! That’s what I want to do! Help!” She gave me a practiced smile. Up close she looked familiar, like we had met before … but then again, I knew her type well. She was one of those humans who were “trying to help” by forcing their beliefs, ways and traditions on Others—the “I know what’s best for you” type that cannot see anything but the narrow worldview they hold.
“And what do you want me to do, Miss … Miss …?”
She eyed me in confusion and said, “Sally,” like I should have known her name.
Penemue pointed at the lady. “Sally Webb, daughter of missionaries Paul and Emily Webb. No known siblings save …” Crap, Penemue was doing his thing. Once upon a time he knew everything that was written, including all that was on a person’s soul. Of course that all ended when the gods left, but he still knew things about anyone born pre-GrandExodus. And not just you—he knew all about your parents, grandparents, great-grandparents … all the way back to the Cro-Magnon that spawned your particular line.
“Oh hush,” Sally said. She swept back a strand of hair that fell over her face and gave me a disappointed look that would have made Judith—my poltergeist of a mother-in-law—proud. “And as for what I want you to do, well, I had hoped that us being the only two human-run businesses in Paradise Lot that we would be fast friends.
“As I was saying, I run the salon down the way, and it would be good if we found a way to work together.” She handed me a card that read, “Being Human Salon.”
Frig … Miss Webb ran the local branch of a chain of cosmetic surgery hack shops that mutilated Others so that they looked more human. It was the kind of place that sought to snuff out what made these wondrous creatures unique, pushing them through some sort of cookie-cutter process. File those talons, clip those feathers, paste back those ears. For a small fee, they’d do a little nip and tuck—you know, the small stuff like removing those troublesome wings or ditching those horns. In other words, they were Operation Smile’s sadistic cousin.
As far as I was concerned, Being Human Salon was the worst of humanity “trying to help.”
“So—it was your shop that had that monstrosity of construction going on for months.” I pointed down the hill towards where her salon was.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I do apologize for the inconvenience. There was much to be done to get the shop up and running.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Regardless, you and I should work together, seeing how we are the—”
“Only human-run businesses in the city.” I did my best not to hide my anger, which is to say, not at all. Through gritted teeth I growled, “Agreed, but as the only human business owner in Paradise Lot, I’m not sure how I can be of service to you. I do offer a special Homo sapiens rate that you’re welcome to partake in—that is if you can prove that you are human.”
“Burn,” EightBall said.
“Be quiet,” Officer Conner and I said in unison.
The corner of Sally’s lips curled. “Fine, I can see I will get no help from either of you. And I guess I’ll just have to file an official complaint with the city. Good day, gentlemen.” She shoved the pile of flyers at me before getting in her car and driving off.
Several of the advertisements flew about, littering my backyard. I looked at the top sheet and saw what all the fuss was about. Top and center was the Christian fish symbol. Except the fish had legs and the outline was made from a DNA helix. Beneath it read, “Keep Evolving.”
Hellelujah!
↔
As soon as Sally was out of view, Officer Steve reverted back to four legs. “That dame rubs me the wrong way, see …”
I nodded. “Yeah, me too … Say, did you get those CSI DVDs I sent you?”
“I did, see, but I can’t stomach that show. Too dramatic.” He pulled out his toothpick and gestured to the human cop that it was time to leave.
Officer Steve sauntered to the horse trailer as Officer Conner looked at me. “You know, this isn’t going away. People like her will put up a stink. I won’t be surprised if I’m back soon to make sure everything’s on the up and up.” He looked over at Officer Steve, said, “Sorry, but he’s rubbing off on me. Officer Conner. John Conner.” He offered me his hand.
“As in humanity’s last hope against the rise of the machines?”
He didn’t even crack a smile. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
“I guess you haven’t.” I took his hand. His grip was firm, and for the first time I really looked at him. Typical beat cop uniform, piercing blue-gray eyes, and the kind of chiseled jaw that makes it on the cover of Harlequin Romance novels. “Jean,” I said.
“I know. Heard all about you from Captain Michael. And if half of what he says is true, then I’m sure we’ll be meeting again. And real soon, too.” He nodded at Penemue. “You all have a good night.”
↔
As soon as the cruiser was out of sight, I looked over at EightBall. The boy, who may or may not have had his seventeenth birthday, wore the same black, collarless jacket as me, which, given that he worked for the hotel, made it look like the hotel had a dress code. We did not. Seeing it on someone else made me realize that I looked like a hipster priest, high-end chauffeur, Shaolin monk, Kato from The Green Hornet … take your pick, that style was stereotypical to them all. Had to admit—I liked it.
What I didn’t like was that I had no idea where EightBall had got his jacket. He certainly didn’t buy it with the salary of free room and board and the very occasional smile that I paid him with. Hey—don’t judge me, it was all I could afford. Given his colorful past, I didn’t want to know. I suspected some starkly naked mannequin somewhere.
Petty theft aside, the kid worked pretty hard, atoning in his own small way for all the brutal beating he subjected Others to in his angry days. At least that was the case. For the last couple months, he’d been acting out—coming to work late, doing a shoddy job and generally acting how I’d expect someone who was underpaid by a hundred percent to act.
And it all stemmed from his budding friendship with Penemue, the fallen angel who lived in the attic of the Millennium Hotel.
I snarled at the kid, “I leave you in charge for a few hours, and this is what happens.” I gave him my best “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed” look. Given what people have told me about the look, I’m pretty sure I just looked angry.
“But, but …” he stammered, helplessly pointing at Penemue, who had pulled out a bottle of Drambuie from only the GoneGods knew where. Popping the cap, he took a long, hard swig before offering it to EightBall.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, glaring at Penemue. The angel rolled his eyes and took another sip from his bottle. I turned to EightBall. “No excuses. He’s an angel from Hell. He’s meant to tempt you. And you’re meant to resist him. Haven’t you read the Bible?”
EightBall shook his head to my rhetorical question.
“To be fair, the young human did deny me three times.” The angel’s eyes widened in an exaggerated expression. “Just like Jesus did the Devil.”
“After which the Devil took the hint and didn’t try to tempt Jesus a fourth time. Besid
es, that’s not the point,” I growled. “The point is that this is the biggest event this place has ever had—”
“An event to which the lad and I are not invited.”
It was true—the criteria you had to meet to get invited evidently did not include living in the hotel. Guests had a plus one, but no one I knew was interested in taking a drunk angel or a former Other-hater to the party. As for the succubus Astarte who lived in my hotel, she could have gotten a date in the three heartbeats it took to direct blood south, but had little interest in attending.
“Not the point,” I glared at the angel.
“You were invited. Your mother-in-law was invited—”
“An invitation she declined,” I said.
“Indeed. Where is Judith anyway?” He was referring to Bella’s mother, who helped run the hotel. She ran the reception and … oh, yeah … she’s a poltergeist. Apparently, her disdain for me was so great that when it was time to shuffle off this good green Earth, she chose to stick around and haunt me. When the gods left a year later, taking their magic with them, she manifested as a bona fide, legless, floating ghost who still wore the same Sunday dress she was buried in. Whatever problems you may have with your mother-in-law, thank the GoneGods that she’s not an apparition. Hellelujah!
“Out,” I said.
“Out?” Penemue said. “But she never leaves.”
It was true. Judith was one of those prim and proper ladies that wouldn’t be caught dead wearing white after Labor Day, knows that Port must always be served to the person on your left and that milk must be poured into a teacup before the actual tea (or is it the other way around?). So when the gods left and she returned as a ghost, her pride and sensibilities went into overload. It just wasn’t ladylike to float around everywhere. She rarely left the hotel, let alone the city. But a few days ago she left to the mainland.
I pursed my lips. “We have a lot of work to do, and I don’t have time for this. Now, go get a broom and sweep up these flyers.”
EightBall stood up and saluted me sarcastically before running inside to get the broom.
“I’m glad you two are getting along now,” I said.
“Swimmingly. He’s teaching me how to be hardcore and for-real,” Penemue offered me a fist bump, to which I dutifully obliged. “Apparently, being tangible does not make one real, and one cannot be hardcore without first being for-real. Next he’s going to teach me something called the Harlem Shake.”
“You know he’s making fun of you.”
Penemue looked down at me. “Of course he is. But, my dear Human Jean, I have been alive since nearly the dawn of time. I can no more be offended by his actions than you could challenge a toddler for candy. Besides, the boy is teaching me things about—”
“You still haven’t told him.”
Penemue put a hand on my shoulder. The weight of his massive talon rested heavy on me. “I try, but the boy is so happy, asking me question after question about his mother and father … the timing has never been right.”
“So don’t.”
“Don’t what?” The angel took another swig from his Drambuie.
“Don’t tell him.”
“But Human Jean …”
“Look,” I said, interrupting him, “I know that you think that you owe him something, and you do. But you’re paying him by telling him about his family. That’s a lot more than most of us get.”
“Jean … I could always tell you about—”
“That’s not what I want. You know that. But the kid—he wants it. He wants to know where he came from, and you’re giving him that. That’s payment enough.”
“Stories do not undo what I’ve done.”
“What you did was an accident. You had no more control over where you fell to Earth than EightBall’s parents did over being home at that moment. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t his parents’ fault. It was theirs.” I pointed to the dimming sky.
“I know, I know. But the boy hungers for his family’s history, and that history will be incomplete without the knowledge of their demise.”
“And if he tries to kill you because he’s an angry kid? If you remember, just a year ago he was the leader of the HuMans. And if you also remember, that gang doesn’t exactly like—”
“Pigeons?” he said, pointing at himself.
“I was going to say ‘Others.’ My point is, the kid is finally on the right path. Because of you. You could ruin that, and for what? ’Fessing up to something you had no control over?”
“Indeed,” Penemue said. “Very well, Human Jean, I shall take your counsel under advisement. As always, I thank you.” Which was Penemue-speak for, “I’ll do what I want.”
“But—”
At that moment EightBall came out with a broom and a garbage bin. He was followed by Stewart, the head servant and leader of the quarry of gargoyles who were presently running my hotel. “Mr. Matthias, my master requests your presence,” the gargoyle said.
Hellelujah!
Which is Heavier—a Ton of Stone or a Ton of Peacock Feathers?
The gargoyle led me through my hotel and toward the servant’s elevator where he pushed the penthouse suite button. As we rode up, I stared at the massive, imposing figure and wondered what type of gargoyle he was and as curious as I was, I didn’t feel it would be politically correct to ask him.
The thing about gargoyles, they’re not all stone dragons or demons, and few of them spent their time perched on steeples. In North America, tribes carved these grotesque creatures from wood. Mayan cultures slip cast theirs from gold. Ehecatl, the Aztec god of wind, formed his gargoyles from clouds.
Usually the material and the design hinted at the type of tradition the gargoyle was from, but the gargoyle in the elevator didn’t look familiar. He did not possess the elongated noses and dragonesque faces found in Eastern Europe, nor the wide mouth and doglike features of Chinese and Japanese carvings. And none of his engravings were reminiscent of North American tribal totems.
He was unlike anything I had ever seen before. For one, he looked like he was constructed from diamonds, his skin reflecting light that projected glittering rainbows. For another, he looked like a man—a normal, well-proportioned, athletically built, nine-foot-tall man. He wore no clothing, carved or otherwise, and his—ahem—male parts did not exactly hang out but rather stuck to him like he was wearing invisible tighty-whities.
And as far as I knew, gargoyles were always created with one purpose in mind: to serve the He, She or It that gave them life. Of all the creatures most scarred by the gods’ leaving, gargoyles topped the list. How would you feel if you were created for a single purpose and then abandoned by that very same creator without a word of explanation?
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse of the Millennium Hotel, where he gestured for me to enter first.
I wondered why I didn’t take the suite for myself, instead of the smallest room in the hotel. My room was on the first floor, which meant that I was closer to the reception. I had once told Miral that the first floor meant I could survive jumping out the window. She’d thought I was joking. I wasn’t. After the last fourteen years, being able to jump out of your window and live wasn’t just a plus, it was damn near a necessity.
Besides, I lacked the imagination, time and money to fill the massive rooms of the penthouse with much. All my Earthly possessions could fit into three suitcases, and two of them would be filled with 1980s classic toys.
Austere living, I could hear Penemue say. Like a monk. I think of it more like a goldfish. Except that instead of growing to fit my bowl, I got a bowl that fit my size.
I walked into the penthouse and saw that The BisMark had decorated the flat to his tastes. Whereas once it was luxuriously furnished with the best that IKEA had to offer, it was now filled with items that were far more expensive than anything I could ever hope to afford.
The walls were covered with paintings that no mortal hand created, while the shelves bore urns that no human p
otter spun. In the middle of the room sat a grand, gold desk that looked as though it was carved with a thousand tiny carpenter tools. Statues littered the room: two komainu—those ancient Japanese lion-dogs—guarded the elevator door, a stone giant in knight’s armor kept vigil by the window and a silver half-man, half-goat satyr with a gold crown stood behind the desk.
“Mr. Matthias, I presume.”
“Yes,” I said, my attention was drawn to the back of a large leather chair. “Thank you, Stewart,” the voice continued.
The diamond gargoyle bowed and left.
“The BisMark, I presume?” I said, fully aware that “The” was not a title, but rather this creature’s first name. Hey, when you’re singular in nature and older than sin, you get to have a few indulgences.
“Indeed,” the voice said. Even though it was The BisMark’s event, I had yet to meet the legendary creature. All bookings and negotiations had been done through Stewart and his gargoyle servants. “So good of you to join me,” the voice purred. I swear, all that was missing from this image was him petting a white blue-eyed Persian cat. “I wanted to thank you for allowing us to use your premises.”
“Oh, please. It’s not every day that a guest rents a place from you and brings his own staff.”
“Indeed. But my gargoyles are better suited to my needs than your staff of … what? A drunken angel, a human boy and a rather judgmental ghost.”
I couldn’t argue with him—he had my staff pegged. “True,” I said.
“Besides, it works out better this way, does it not?”