Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  Atargatis stands at the door of her temple. “Astarte,” she says in her usual condescending tone. “Let me in. Now.”

  In the past, to hear her name uttered with such contempt would have sent Astarte in a fit of rage. Such is the power her sister has over her.

  But Astarte is not angered by her sister’s curt tone. She is delighted. One of her acolytes arrived earlier this day to warn her of Atargatis’s approach, but he also informed her as to why Atargatis is visiting after nearly two centuries of silence—information that Astarte rewarded as she rewards everything that pleases her: with lust.

  “Atargatis,” Astarte says, suppressing her joy. She opens her temple doors wide and gestures for Atargatis to enter. The goddess of fertility instructs her children to stay outside. Then, pulling her arms in tight around her lest she accidentally touch a body in the throes of desire, she enters.

  “Your family needs you,” Atargatis says. No preamble, no pleasantries. No foreplay. Just straight to the point. But that is Atargatis’ way. She is a blunt instrument, a functional being. She knows not the subtleties that enrich life with so much delight.

  “Do they?”

  “Indeed,” Atargatis mutters. “It seems your little parties have caught the attention of The BisMark.”

  Astarte allows the corners of her lips to curl up ever so slightly. “Have they?” the succubus moans, and with her moan the temple trembles in anticipation, swelling with the impending climax to which so many are near. But not yet. Astarte wants to prolong her pleasure, and thus her acolytes must contend with being close … oh, so very close.

  “As you know, Chaos and Nature are at war. We worship Chaos, but the Greek gods with their Hellenistic ways gain power every day. And they have just allied with Nature.”

  “Bahh … Nature is a foolish principle that cannot hold power over the humans. It is too—”

  “Predictable?”

  “I was going to say boring, but predictable is a suitable word.”

  “Stupid little thing,” Atargatis snorts. “Do you honestly think that the humans don’t want boring and predictable? They do! How else can they grow their crops and tend to their needs?” She looks around the cornucopia of entwined bodies. “Their other needs. Their needs that actually help them survive. Maybe you would see that, if your mind wasn’t so clouded with … with—”

  “Orgasms? Many, multiple, continuous orgasms?”

  Atargatis cringes. “Have you not noticed that humans love predictability? Need it, even. They are slowly finding ways to control their environment and shape it to their will. They are learning and, in learning, weaning themselves off our teats.”

  “Yours, maybe. My tits are still very much in demand.”

  Again Atargatis cringes at her sister’s crudeness. “There is little doubt that eventually Nature will win.”

  Astarte growls, “Do not utter such blasphemy in my—”

  “Nature will win, and we will lose our reign …”

  This is not how the conversation is meant to go. Atargatis was coming to tell Astarte that her temple has garnered her so much worship, it has guaranteed her family’s reign. She is here to tell her that Astarte is to be the new head of the family, that …

  Damn it! Her acolyte lied. The bastard did not want to displease her and thus said what she wanted to hear. Why? Surely he knew he would be punished. But a moment of pleasure in this place is worth a lifetime of pain. Astarte knows this. She shouldn’t have been so stupid! She’ll deal with him later. For now she must concentrate on her sister, make sure she does not best her.

  “Sister … we are at war, and—”Atargatis stops speaking, distracted by a pixie that has just mounted a minotaur. Astarte follows her glance to the tiny face, the unsmiling expression of joy. “How—?” Atargatis starts.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Astarte says.

  Atargatis laughs, and so does Astarte. It has been a long, long time since the sisters shared anything, and even though both are too proud to admit it, there is a sense of warmth in their smiles.

  But it is short-lived. Atargatis shakes her head, and when it stops moving, her smile is gone. In a soft, nurturing voice, Atargatis says, “We are losing. Our time is coming to an end, and soon, too. You do not understand this because you are sheltered in your temple, surrounded by creatures that will not say or do anything to displease you. But I promise, before the end of this century, we will all lose our god status. Unless …” She lets the word linger.

  “Unless?” Astarte asks, narrowing her eyes. Unless what? Obviously, her sister needs her to do something. But what? Seduce a great power? Throw an orgy as a lure to kill rival gods? What?

  Astarte may have a troubled relationship with her sister, but she will not allow the family to fade into obscurity. Her sororal bond is too great to let petty rivalry stop her from doing her duty.

  “Unless,” Atargatis starts again, “you marry one of the Greek gods.”

  “What?!” Astarte growls. “Marry? I am … I am THIS!” She gestures to the throne of bodies that lie all around her. “I am lust! I am pleasure!”

  “And that is exactly why he wants to have you.”

  “Who?”

  “Poseidon.”

  “Poseidon?” The name rolls off her tongue. “Poseidon!” This time she spits out his name like venom. “That whore?”

  “Careful,” Atargatis warns.

  “No, I will not be careful.” Astarte can feel her anger rising. “You slept with him. You made the beasts under the sea with him. You marry him.”

  “You are speaking about the father of your nephews and nieces,” Atargatis says.

  “Exactly,” Astarte says, throwing her arms in the air. “He bedded you, and from that union came all those … those fish!”

  “My children.”

  “Fish, sister. Good for eating—”

  “Shut up.”

  “A little bit of lemon, maybe some cumin. Perhaps I should send some acolytes to fetch me some dinner.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Atargatis knows that Astarte would never do what she has threatened. The fish are sacred and, therefore, protected. For an AlmostGod to eat one would mean the end of the mortal world. Even Astarte is not petty enough to kill all life on Earth just to hurt her sister.

  Astarte knows she has gone too far. She bows her head in contrition.

  “You are right … My children are fish. Sacred fish,” Atargatis mutters, “but fish nonetheless.” She forces a smile.

  Astarte is grateful that her sister has chosen not to escalate the fight. But still, there is the matter of Poseidon. In a soft voice, the succubus says, “He has slept with every being in this world and every other world … and now he wants to marry me? Have him come here and I’ll give him the greatest night—no, century—of his life.”

  “I already offered that. He wants to marry you,” Atargatis repeats.

  “He wants to possess me.”

  Atargatis nods. There is no point in pretending that this is anything other than what it is.

  “I don’t want to be possessed. I cannot be possessed! You marry him!” Astarte cries out again.

  “I cannot. I already told you that he wants you.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then Chaos loses, and the world will belong to Nature. We will lose our god status, and the Greeks will rule the world until the next age.”

  Astarte doesn’t know what to say, and for the first time in a long, long while she is stunned silent by knowledge that is not carnal in nature.

  Atargatis sees this and, before her sister can answer, says, “Astarte—we are dying.”

  “There must be something else we can do.”

  Atargatis nods. “We have consulted the oracles—you are our best hope.”

  “But not our only hope?”

  Atargatis’ lips purse, and Astarte knows that they have other plans, plans her sister doesn’t trust her with. Fine—let the bitch of fertility have her secrets. Astarte has her
temple, her followers, and her lust—what more does she need?

  As if reading her mind, Atargatis says, “We will lose everything we have, unless we do something.”

  “We? We! You mean me! Am I to bend over for the fish-smelling bastard? And for what? To keep you in power?”

  Atargatis doesn’t say anything, simply averting her gaze downward. It is a subtle movement, but Astarte knows her sister well enough to know she feels guilt. Astarte understands guilt, not because she has ever felt it herself, but because so many of her lovers are overcome by the emotion the second after they find the release they came for. Astarte knows guilt can cut deeper than any sword.

  But Astarte also knows that Atargatis would never ask anything of her unless it was absolutely necessary. She knows her sister does not lie. Do nothing and never become a god, or marry Poseidon and ascend. Over all of them. Isn’t becoming a god what she has worked for all this time?

  “Fine,” Astarte says. “I … I will do it.”

  Atargatis does something that she has not done in over two hundred years. She reaches out and touches her sister. It is a simple gesture, but sometimes the simplest of gestures can have the most profound effect. Now it is Astarte who feels guilty.

  “Tell me,” Astarte asks. “What would you have done had I refused?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  The goddess of fertility nods. “You are my sister,” she says, as if that explains all. “I will make sure everything is prepared for your union.” And with that Atargatis leaves Astarte’s temple.

  Astarte can hardly believe what has happened. Her emotions go from disbelief to sadness, until they finally settle on rage. In a low-toned growl Astarte calls for the damned acolyte who lied to her.

  Tormenting him will go a long way to making her feel better.

  ↔

  It has been decided that Astarte’s wedding will take place in Atlantis on the summer solstice, eighty-six years from now. There is much to prepare and little time to do it—not that Astarte will have anything to do with the preparations. As her sister said, all she has to do is show up.

  Fine, Astarte thinks. Eighty-six years are all that is left before she is betrothed to … to him. She knows the time will pass in the blink of an eye. That is why she must make the most of it. For the first forty years, Astarte spends her time possessing others. Not with marriage, but with the type of desire that is often confused for love.

  She pretends to need them, to make them feel more special than the thousands of beings who have known her bed. In feeling special, they feel worthy; and in feeling worthy, they somehow feel as though what they share with Astarte is more than lust.

  It is companionship. Respect. Perhaps even love.

  That is when Astarte breaks them with indifference. Oh, how they pine, wail and plead. They try to storm the gates, demand an audience with the succubus. She denies them until their lamentations grow tiresome.

  Then she meets them in the courtyard and says, “How pathetic you have become,” before turning away. For some, this blow is so severe that they die—either by a broken heart or by their own hand.

  Others shrivel away into obscurity, living out the rest of their days broken and miserable, dreaming of the past that, if they could see it clearly, offered nothing more than pleasure. They, too, are meaningless.

  The strong among them find a way to move on, and in moving on do great things; for they are free of the need for Love and, being free, their minds are no longer distracted.

  One such man is a young king named Gilgamesh. From the moment Astarte takes him to her bed, she knows he is strong. A bull, not only between the sheets but also in mind. A fortitude unlike any other human she has ever known.

  For a time, Astarte and Gilgamesh bed nightly, and after every moan-inducing, knee-wobbling encounter, Gilgamesh sips from his wine before he stands to leave. Most beg to stay the night, hoping that the succubus will grant them access once more to her garden of pleasures. But not the young king.

  “Where do you always go?” Astarte asks one night, dismissing the three sirens she had called to join in the night’s festivities. She knows that she should not ask. Breaking him requires disinterest. But Astarte needs to know how it is that this man—no, this king—can leave her so readily.

  “To work,” he says.

  “Work?” she scoffs. “You are king. Is it not your privilege to have others do the work for you? Besides, what work does a king have? Does he till the soil? Does he knead the bread? Tell me, young Gilgamesh, what is your work?”

  Gilgamesh ties his robe before allowing himself another moment in her bed. “I must study.”

  “Study?” Astarte runs her finger along his chest as desire flares in her. Once more into the breach, she thinks. “Tell me, what does a king study? Philosophy? History? Or perhaps it is the pleasure of religion that interests the young king?” Her hand has found its way under his robe and she feels his engorged member in her palm.

  Gilgamesh pulls her hand away. “No … those disciplines, although important, are not practical to the everyman. My interests lie in the sciences, agriculture and the trades.”

  Astarte should be offended that he rejects her advances. But she is not. This … this man-king is different. Interesting. “The trades—does the king want to be a blacksmith, or perhaps a carpenter?”

  “No,” Gilgamesh says without hesitation. “But I need to understand these things if my schools are to be a success.”

  “Schools?”

  “Yes—think about it.” There is a glint in his eyes that shows a zest for life. It also betrays his naïveté. “How do farmers learn to cultivate soil, masons to chisel stone, apothecaries to prepare medicines? Apprenticeship. But this system is old. Archaic. It means that tradesmen are only as good as their masters. And whereas many masters are worthy, their knowledge is incomplete. But if a tradesman were to learn from many masters, from a school, he would truly conquer his discipline. This would advance my kingdom to unimaginable heights. And that is why I must study.”

  “I see …” Astarte says. Gilgamesh is satisfied that his lover understands, but what he does not know is that Astarte understands far more than he. This is what Atargatis warned her of—humans who innovate, learn and grow and, in doing so, break their dependence on the gods. Gilgamesh is a king with an entire empire under his control. The success of his lofty ideals would mean the loss of so much for Astarte and her kin.

  Astarte knows that she should kill this human. That would certainly slow human progress. Maybe even stop it. Then the gods allied to Chaos would be less threatened.

  Perhaps they would reign supreme—at least for a little while longer.

  Perhaps they would reign long enough that she wouldn’t have to marry Poseidon.

  But Gilgamesh … he is different. Intelligent and strong, bright-eyed and beautiful. And what a lover. Astarte cannot bring herself to take the life of a man who has brought her higher than most gods.

  That is not who she is.

  She could tell her siblings about his plans. But again, that is not who she is. Besides, it will only be a matter of time until they find out about him.

  Astarte neither kills nor tattles. She is a succubus. A godling of lust. A tamer of men. A conqueror of spirits. What she can do is crush his spirit. Perhaps then he will abandon his plans and just live. That is in her nature. That is who she is.

  Astarte laughs. It is a cruel laugh filled with mockery and ire. Gilgamesh’s smile fades and his eyes narrow. “What?” he asks.

  “Foolish, petty man,” Astarte says. “You honestly think that you can train your fellow humans to be more than they are? That is no more possible than teaching an ant how to count or a dog how to drive a cart. Ridiculous.”

  “But …” Gilgamesh stands up. “My studies show—”

  “ ‘Studies’? That is not life nor is it experience. Study. Teach. Build your school. And fail.” Astarte feels the young man’s heart cry out in pain. Bu
t it does not break.

  Nor does the king within him break. Instead, the king stands up and says, “Over the years I’ve seen you crush your lovers, and I always knew it would be only a matter of time until it was my turn. I admit, I had hoped I would be special. I would be the one to escape your cruelty. But I guess that in the end no man can escape his fate …” He stands. “Thank you, Mistress Astarte. You have taught me much.” And with that, he leaves.

  Astarte knows there will be no lamenting at the gate, no begging to return. Gilgamesh is gone … and for the first time in Astarte’s long, long life, she wishes she had not been who she is.

  The Earth Shook, the Stars Fell

  As soon as Atargatis pierced the carp with her trident-shaped fork and took that first ceremonious bite, the world started to tremble.

  At first, I thought it was just another one of The BisMark’s tricks. Burn a bit of time and make the ground shake—you know, to give his party a little oomph. After all, it was being televised. But from the way The BisMark’s eyes widened, he was just as surprised as everyone else. Even Stewart—the ever-still gargoyle—looked around in confusion.

  Everything went quiet, and I figured that the Others were either thinking what I was thinking or they were waiting for it all to be over. After all—how long does an earthquake last? A few seconds. Half a minute at most. But when it didn’t show any signs of slowing down, I knew panic would set in.

  Human panic is easy to identify: we scream, we run, we cry and, sometimes when the threat is big enough, we stand perfectly still wearing a useless expression of fear. That’s how humans react. Others, on the other hand, do not have the same tell-tale signs, and soon the Others started to engage in their own brand of panic. The ballroom was filled with shrieks, barks, roars and groans, as well as stomping, violent head-shaking, chest pounding and a variety of other gestures that added to the general mayhem in the room.

  My heart thudded with anxiety as my senses became overrun by their fear.

  Medusa put a hand on my shoulder. “Does this happen often?” She wore a brave smile, but I could tell from her snakes’ hissing that they were just as freaked out as everyone else. Which meant that Medusa was freaked out—except unlike her serpentine appendages, she managed to hold herself together.