by R. E. Vance
I grabbed Medusa’s hand to get her attention. “Those kids—how tough are they?”
“They’re Tiamat spawn.”
I gestured in confusion.
“Tough. Very, very tough.”
There was a growl, and I turned to see Maggie skipping like a schoolgirl across the stage. “You’ve been very naughty, Mommy,” she taunted. “Our big sister is coming. She feels your betrayal. She’s going to eat us all.”
Medusa and Miral both sucked in hard at the mention of the big sister—whoever she was. I, on the other hand, had no idea who or what they were talking about. And I didn’t care. Whatever offense was occurred here, whatever Other drama was going on, we needed to discuss it. Like adults. Adults with serrated teeth and razor-sharp claws, but adults nonetheless.
Atargatis cried out, “It wasn’t me. It must have been Astarte. She’s the one who did this. She’s the one who killed your brother.” But little Maggie didn’t listen. Without a running start, she somersaulted three times—I swear she was showing off—before leaping into the air. She was going for a roundhouse kick, and by the air she got, she’d connect with Atargatis’ face.
Luckily for Atargatis, I’d figured the little girl was going to try something like that, so while they were having their little family tiff, I was busy chiseling one of those oversized, crystallized bubbles off the centerpiece. I took aim, but Medusa grabbed my arm.
“Don’t!” she said.
“I can’t just let that thing eat one of my guests,” I answered, and turned back to the stage. As soon as Maggie was off the ground, I lobbed the bowling-ball-sized bubble at her head. It struck true, knocking her to the ground, her body spasming twice before she passed out.
“Strike! Oh, yeah!” I cried out triumphantly. Medusa caught my eye and shook her head. “Sorry,” I said, and I leapt on the stage.
Again.
↔
Of course, knocking out one of them only meant that there were six more to deal with, and since I just took out their little demon sister it meant that some of their attention would be on me. Scratch that—a lot of their attention would be on me. Immediately Edgar and Lily attacked, Edgar lifting his leg unnaturally high and roundhouse kicking me in the face with far more force than a six-year-old should have. To make matters worse, Lily slid under me and knocked the backs of my knees. As a result, I folded in on myself and dropped.
“Oww!” I screamed out. I was fighting little ninjas. The thing was, I was pretty good in a fight. My training kicked in, and I grabbed Lily’s ankle and pulled, throwing her off stage. Because I had gracefully fallen on my stomach, I couldn’t use my legs against Edgar, but I had another weapon that was harder than the sole of my shoe—my head. I got up, connecting my forehead with Edgar’s chin. There was a deafening crunch, and the boy staggered back.
He looked at me with dead, hollow eyes and pulled out a loosened shark tooth. Tossing it to the ground, he lifted his arms in a fighting stance, and extended one hand out, palm up. With a gesture that would have given Bruce Lee chills, he beckoned me to attack.
I lifted up a finger. “One second.” I looked over at Atargatis, who was fending off a couple of her children, and I yelled, “I don’t suppose you can give your kids a time-out?”
Atargatis gave me an exasperated look as she peeled off Judy and kicked her in the stomach.
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Fine, let’s do this.”
I’m fast. I mean, really fast. Back in my Army days, I’d dismantle and reassemble a rifle faster than you could say “Boo.” We’d play these games where I’d have to get a coin out of the CO’s hand, the nimble man who claimed to have trained in the Shaolin Temple in the Shaoshi Mountain region. I always got his coin. He never got mine. I’m not showing off here. I’m just saying—I’m fast.
Edgar was faster. The boy was a blur, and it took all of my concentration just to counter his attack. As hard as I tried I could not get a shot in, and after blocking kick after kick, punch after punch, I was getting tired. I felt like one of those old Street Fighter arcade games. Sure, you could just spend the game blocking, but every hit knocked off just that little bit of energy until—KAPOW—you were out. K.O.! Game Over! Insert Quarter to Try Again.
I needed to do something against Edgar—I needed leverage. In the hail of his kicks and punches, I looked around me trying to find something or someone to help me deal with Karate Kid here. That’s when I noticed that none of the Others in the audience moved. They just watched as Atargatis and I fought her maniac children, not one of them lifting a finger. OK, I get the average fairy or harpy: Don’t get involved, watch from a distance with a morbid curiosity, silently thanking the GoneGods that it’s not you. But Miral? She was the Captain of the Lord’s army, and one hell of a fighter. And Medusa guarded the Golden Fleece, so she had to be tough. She had a crush on me and, according to those magazines she read, modern chivalry was a two-way street. But she—like everyone else—didn’t move.
GoneGodDamn it! Fine.
And then there was The BisMark—wasn’t this ruining his party? He watched with that creepy, beautiful smile of his like someone surveying an orgy and deciding which group they were going to join. Stewart, for what it was worth, wore an unusual amount of concern on his face given that he was a statue.
Edgar’s attacks pushed me farther onto the stage until I was right next to that ridiculous statue of Poseidon. Once my back was against it, I put my hands down. Edgar must have thought that I was drained. It took him a second to wind up his next attack. He kicked high, and I ducked. His foot connected with the statue’s thigh and it teetered. I did a roundhouse kick of my own to wobble the statue on its feet, hoping that if I angled my blow just right it would fall over on Edgar.
That’s when Stewart reanimated, moving towards the statue to stabilize it. As soon as he got involved, Edgar launched at him. He jumped up and kicked Stewart’s face, but the gargoyle didn’t flinch—he just took his free hand, grabbed Edgar by the wrist and lifted him clean off the ground. The kid flailed about, like in one of those cartoons where the cat holds the mouse by the tail.
Two down, five to go.
That gave me an idea. I kicked the statue of Poseidon again. Stewart, who was busy holding Edgar, did his best to stabilize the statue, but without two hands, he couldn’t. He twitched, and one of his gargoyle minions came to life. It went to keep the statue steady, and once it entered the fray, the third eldest boy—Simon, I believe—attacked it. It reacted exactly as Stewart did, grabbing the kid and encasing him in a stone bear-hug.
I kicked Poseidon three more times, and one by one the gargoyles held the attackers down while protecting the statue. They were all down except for … I felt the rush of wind as Lily came up behind me, fist raised in the air. Just as she was about to punch my face, a whirl of white cloth came down as Conner wrapped her up in a tablecloth and held her tight.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I had it under control.”
“Sure you did,” Conner said, straining to hold her.
↔
Six of the seven kids were accounted for—only Bob was missing. I scanned the room but couldn’t find him. Either he saw what happened to his siblings and cut his losses, or he was hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike. Given how the other six behaved, I was pretty sure it was the latter.
But worrying about Bob would have to wait.
I scanned the crowd of Others. They were staring up at the stage, their faces shocked or surprised or wearing the type of casual, devilish grin you get when you see someone accidentally get groined with a baseball. That look that said, “Funny” and “Glad it wasn’t me.” Some show of unity, if you ask me. Not that I could read their faces—after all, what does morbid curiosity look like on a banshee’s face?
“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” I screamed at the crowd of Others. I helped Atargatis to her feet. “Did you enjoy the show?” I know I shouldn’t be yelling at them—especially with the cameras rolling—
but I couldn’t help it. Doing nothing is always worse than doing the wrong thing, and their apathy boiled my blood. “She could’ve been killed.” I glared at them. Given the force behind my words, I expected that at least a few of them would have been ashamed. Downcast eyes, shaking heads. Some sign that my words were reaching them.
What I did not expect was the open look of shock everyone gave me. And by everyone, I mean everyone. Every single Other looked at me like I had just strangled a puppy. Even Miral and Medusa stared at me in abject horror.
“What?” I asked, but my question was only met with eerie, uncomfortable silence. The only noise in the room was the crinkling of Atargatis’ dress as she stood, and the occasional protest from one of her children who were still being firmly held by Stewart and his gargoyles.
Atargatis wiped away a tear and straightened her dress. Somewhat composed, she turned to the audience and in a solemn, sorrowful voice said, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know. Please believe me. I didn’t know.” As the words left her lips, she got down on her knees and prostrated herself before them. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Her words were muffled between her sobs.
The audience didn’t move. Not a single Other showed any sign of forgiveness or compassion to the former goddess of fertility.
“What am I missing here?” I asked, reaching down to her side.
Her eyes widened as if she were recalling something temporarily displaced, an ancient memory or some long-forgotten fact. Whatever it was, it terrified her. “I didn’t mean to offend her. I didn’t.” She grabbed my wrist. “You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to.”
I took her hand in mine and did my best to reassure her. I had no idea what she was talking about, but whoever she didn’t mean to offend clearly scared the hell out of her. “Who?” I asked. “Who are you talking about?”
“I have summoned Tiamat.”
With the last word, the entire audience gasped. Well, they did whatever qualified as a gasp. Dwarves stomped a foot, fairies released little puffs of glitter, valkyries made a noise similar to that of a crow’s craw. Miral, the Angel of Light and the former Captain in the Lord’s army, prayed. And Medusa sucked in a deep breath while Marty hissed, glaring up at me with a serpentine expression that said, “You’re screwed now.”
Coming Straight from the Underground
The BisMark walked over to us with his usual princely demeanor. He approached Stewart and ran his hand along the gargoyle’s diamond chest. Then he put his hand on the leg of Poseidon’s statue and in a forlorn tone said, “So many sacrifices. So many hurt.” He shook his head as if chasing away a depressing thought and turned to the audience. “This isn’t the first time this has happened. We have sent Tiamat back to the depths before. And I promise you this … We will do so again.”
“Sent what back to where?” I asked. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but if someone doesn’t start talking soon, I’m going to release my own Tiamat.”
“Jean.” Miral looked at me with the same angelic pity that you’d give a puppy about to be put down. Medusa, on the other hand, was doing something a bit more practical. She was on the phone. Since I was gargoyle-encumbered on the stage, I was eye level with the seven-foot-tall angel, who still stood on the main floor. Miral started up, “Please be serious. We must figure this out, and it—”
I pointed at the angel. “If you say this doesn’t concern me, I swear to the GoneGods, I’ll scream.”
“Oh no, Human Jean. This very much concerns you,” The BisMark said, and without a warning, one of Stewart’s gargoyles jumped on my back. You know that expression “monkey on your back”? I never understood it until that moment. I tried to move, but the gargoyle was heavy and cumbersome. All I managed was to hobble around—there was no way I could run, throw a punch or do anything useful. Hell, pouring myself a cup of coffee would’ve been a challenge. I tried to shake him off, but his grip was solid. It was like thrashing about with a backpack full of rocks. Every swing rattled my spine, and if I continued doing it, I would throw out my back.
“Get off me, you garden gnome!” I screamed.
“Hey,” cried out an actual gnome in the audience.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to pry off the gargoyle. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Tickle him? Do gargoyles even have a ticklish spot? “Get this thing off of me, BisMark. Now.”
Conner stepped forward. As soon as he did, another gargoyle jumped on him, this time wrapping its arms around his legs. “What the—” he said. “Unhand me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” The BisMark said. “You see, you’ve stepped in the middle of a … family dispute. Until I’m positive you have nothing to do with this, I can’t let you go.”
“Family dispute?” I said. “I don’t know what you think we’ve done, but—” The BisMark raised a hand to silence me, a very stately gesture that in the days of old brought most Others to their knees lest they offended the great consultant—but I wasn’t an Other, and I wouldn’t have known this guy from Adam (well, maybe from Adam, but you get my meaning), and I wasn’t about to shut up because some guy in a peacock-feathered suit told me to. I shuffled over to him, groaning with each painstaking, gargoyle-heavy step, and put my finger right in his face. “If you shush me one more time, I’ll—” But before I could finish, a small, cold granite hand covered my mouth, muffling my protests.
The BisMark looked at me and sighed. “For a human who doesn’t relish the spotlight, the gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.”
“Mmmm, mmmm,” I said in retort. No one could understand what I was saying, but I swear by the GoneGods that it was the sweetest comeback in history.
Conner dragged the gargoyle two steps closer to The BisMark and poked a finger at the Other’s peacock-feathered chest. “I’m an officer with the Paradise Lot Police. Assaulting me is a criminal offense. Now, tell your minion to unhand me. As for Jean, you can keep him until we get this whole thing sorted out …” Conner looked over at me and shrugged in way of apology. I nodded in understanding.
“I know who you are,” The BisMark said, “but I’m afraid there are higher laws being obeyed here. I’m sure the police chief will understand.” Then, turning his back on Conner, he addressed the audience. “As I said, this is not the first time we have returned her to the depths. We must prepare, and I ask each one of you to do your individual rites. We have one chance at this, my fellow Others, and it will be a logistical nightmare. Lucky for you, logistics is just my thing.”
Atargatis backed away. “This isn’t my fault.” As soon as she spoke, another gargoyle bear-hugged her. Seeing it on someone else showed me how ridiculous this whole thing was. She was being embraced by stone. “I was tricked,” she said.
“By whom?” The BisMark asked.
Atargatis’ eyes were wild with fear and anger, then they narrowed in thought. With spiteful hatred, she spat out, “My sister. She’s always hated me. It must’ve been her.”
“Then we must make sure that your sister joins us.” With a nod, BisMark signaled the remaining three gargoyles, who took to the air and left the room. “Tiamat will only return to the depths if all of the offending parties are present, will it not?” Atargatis looked away. “Will it not?” The BisMark repeated, more sternly.
Atargatis nodded.
“Very well.” The BisMark strode over to Stewart, who still held on to the children, and with a gentle hand on his servant’s shoulder said, “Everyone … prepare yourselves for what’s coming. You’ll find everything you need here.” He pointed at the centerpieces. They were made of crystals, gold, herbs, incense, objects of various shapes and sizes that were obviously religious symbols. The centerpieces weren’t gaudy decorations, but rather celestial care-packages filled with all your altar needs.
Then, in a stage whisper that everyone could hear, The BisMark said, “And you … if it’s determined that your negligence contributed to her summoning, will you do what yo
u must?”
Stewart nodded, and his diamond face twisted into an expression of deep contemplation. “Yes, I think so. My gargoyles and I will climb the sacrificial altar with pride.”
The audience gasped in admiration.
“And with honor, my friend. Pride and honor,” The BisMark said, stepping off the stage.
It was a touching scene between two entities that clearly respected and admired one another. I would have been quite moved by this had it not been for two words that Stewart said.
“Altar” … and “sacrificial.”
But there was another part to this equation—the part that only comes up when those who die do so unwillingly. Offering: the act of giving another’s life—against their will—so that others may live. In the early days when the gods had just left, many Others made offerings, hoping that if they did enough of it, the gods would come back. Beheadings, stakings, burnings—all done in the name of some absent god who wasn’t listening.
Offerings weren’t as good as sacrifices. But under the right conditions, they worked. And the more blood, the more screaming, the more terror, the better. Also, the Other performing the offering had to spend a lot of time to get it right. It cost life—on both sides of the aisle.
Marty was right … I was screwed.
Hellelujah!
Do You Even Realize the Sacrifices I’ve Made for You?
The word “sacrifice” means different things to different people. Before the gods left, humans usually meant it in the context of time. The ambitious sacrificed leisure for their careers, lovers sacrificed hours of precious time indulging their partner’s opera obsessions and parents sacrificed sleep for their hungry infants.
Sometimes a human makes the ultimate sacrifice—a firefighter willingly steps into the flames that could consume him, a police officer takes a bullet in the line of duty, a soldier fights until she cannot. But none of those brave souls wake up thinking that today would be the day they died. None of them walk into danger knowing that they would never walk out … For hope is always there, whispering that, although death is near, it wouldn’t take them. Not this day.