Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  I saw bits of gray start to creep up his face. The BisMark was using magic—lots of it. “Not enough time,” he said, turning his head to the crowd. “I need more time. Will you help me, my gods’ rejects, my fatherless children? My friends of the old world and the new?”

  The crowd went silent. Then a centaur stepped forward, put his hand on the crystal and said, “A year for you.”

  The BisMark grunted in approval and thrust up the trident with renewed vigor. A minotaur offered six months, an ogre two years. Time flowed through Poseidon’s pointed trident, out toward Tiamat. The beast slowed, and with that, Others stepped forward, each offering a bit of their lifespan. Life exchanged to protect their new, mortal home.

  ↔

  With over a thousand years offered, The BisMark continued to hold Tiamat in place until—miraculously—the crown on the beast’s head turned a stony gray. Just like the rancor, she slowly turned to stone.

  The BisMark fell to his knees. “There—that should hold her.”

  The crowd cheered, the Army boys cheered, and I could almost hear the world breathe a collective sigh of relief. The threat was over.

  The BisMark turned to the TV cameras manned by human beings either too brave or too stupid to run, and—pointing the trident’s tines at Tiamat—cried out, “Behind me is the symbol that will remind us that together,” he pointed at the Army, many of whom still trained their weapons at the monstrous statue, “we can overcome any calamity, any problem … any threat that faces this world. Together!” And in true showmanship fashion, he grabbed the arms of the platoon’s commanding officer and the archangel Michael and raised them both in triumph.

  As people cheered, I sat back and thought that this must have been the plan all along … to bring the world down to its knees and then save the day. Prove that Others are worth something, while solidifying his own hero status. And what’s more, he froze Tiamat into some sort of twisted Statue of Liberty that would stand as a constant reminder of what he did.

  I had to hand it to him. His plan was brilliant—even for a master strategist.

  The stakes were high, but I had to admit—if he played the rest of his hand well, Others could get a fair shake in this human-run world. Hell, the commander was already pulling him aside to discuss what to do next. Bad guy or not, maybe sometimes evil is worth doing.

  I was on the verge of letting it go, throwing myself at Michael’s mercy and hoping that whatever punishment the Paradise Lot Police Chief saw fit wouldn’t be too severe when I heard a crack!

  And slabs of stone flew off one of Tiamat’s tentacles.

  Hellelujah!

  Calamari, Anyone?

  The tentacle whipped down onto the beach, crushing two military vehicles under its weight. Michael reacted with preternatural speed, managing to get several of the soldiers standing nearby to safety, but even the archangel wasn’t fast enough to save the drivers. If we survived this, there would be a human memorial for those fallen soldiers, and there would be hell to pay.

  A second tentacle began to shake off its stony encasement as Others on the shoreline started running. Soldiers opened fire, but all they managed to do was help Tiamat shed her stony skin. Michael and the Gruffs were busy saving as many lives as they could, while The BisMark looked up at Tiamat in shock and fear. He put his hand on the crystal and raised the trident once more. A bolt of energy shot out at the creature, and the two tentacles shuddered before freezing once more. But unlike the first time when he froze the creature, this time Tiamat shook, her solidification uncertain.

  The BisMark wasn’t showing off this time—he actually breathed hard as he exerted his energy, time taking its toll on him. Luckily, he had over a thousand years of donated time from the Others to spare.

  Yet I knew it wouldn’t hold.

  The BisMark put a hand on Greg’s shoulder, his human Padawan clearly just as shocked as everyone else, and murmured, “Get to the helicopter.” He pointed at the metal bird that had brought in the oil rig workers.

  “I don’t know how to fly the damn thing,” Greg said.

  The BisMark shut his eyes. A flash of illumination coursed from behind the closed lids. “You do now,” he said.

  “I don’t— Whoa. I can fly,” Greg said, and he scampered off.

  Stewart picked up the crystal vat, and the two of them headed to their escape. Hell, no! They were cutting and running. Not like this!

  “Conner!” I yelled. “Let me go!”

  Conner looked back at me, his gun out, completely unsure what to do next. “No,” he said.

  “Come on—look over there. The BisMark is making a run for it. Let me go. Let me help!”

  Conner got down next to me. I could see the debate running through his head as his blue, crystalline eyes contracted. With a groan, he uncuffed me.

  Free, I put my forefinger and thumb in my mouth and whistled. The popobawa, who was parked on the road off the beach, opened his back door and pulled the gem off the rancor’s head before he ran like a bat out of hell.

  The rancor shook off flakes of stone and turned to flesh. Then it looked right at me, snarled and leapt out of the van. I ran to The BisMark, tumbling past him so that he would be between the rancor and me. Reacting swiftly, The BisMark backhanded the creature, causing it to fly fifty feet before it crashed to the sand, unconscious. Hell—The BisMark was strong. It took three of us to take that creature down, and we barely managed to do it.

  Still, the rancor did what I wanted it to do: distract the great strategist long enough for me to get to my feet and charge.

  The BisMark turned to grab me. I dodged him and rolled toward my intended target. The BisMark must have realized what I was going for, because he screamed—for the first time in real panic—as I threw my body against the statue of Poseidon.

  The statue wobbled back and forth. Its stone crown teetered and fell off Poseidon’s head, onto the ground, red ruby—Eye of the Gorgon—glittering in the crimson moonlight.

  The way I figured it, the statue of Poseidon wasn’t a memorial, but actually Poseidon himself. A crazy theory, I know. After all, the gods were gone. Except, a few months back, I met a god. Dionysus, the god of revelry, had remained on Earth, throwing out the theory that all the gods left. If he stayed behind, perhaps other gods did too.

  And maybe, just maybe, one of the gods stayed behind against his will. Captured and held prisoner until just the right moment. From all the legends I’d heard about The BisMark, if anyone had the power to capture a god, it was him.

  The once-upon-a-time statue of Poseidon shook, bits of stone raining off him in whirls of dust as he turned to flesh. But whoever emerged from the statue was not the god of the oceans and the seas—but rather a man-looking Other who was covered from head to toe in peacock feathers.

  A creature that looked exactly like The BisMark.

  The two BisMarks looked at each other in mutual shock until the original BisMark broke the tension with a devilish smile. “Oh darn,” he said in a cool, casual tone. “You caught me.”

  END OF PART THREE

  Part VIII

  Prologue

  Gilgamesh’s Last Days—

  Once-upon-a-time, were you to ask Astarte if she could love anyone, let alone a mortal, she would have laughed.

  Yet Astarte has loved not one but two mortals—Gilgamesh and Enkidu. The three of them have formed a bond that could not be severed by sword, guile or magic.

  Of course, Atargatis sent other assassins to kill Gilgamesh—Enkidu was not the last. But between the three of them, no warrior’s blade pierced Gilgamesh’s heart, no thief’s poison passed his lips.

  Nothing could hurt him. And nothing could hurt them. Astarte, Gilgamesh and Enkidu—the inseparable rulers of Uruk. Together they pursued knowledge, worshipping the gentler, more humane principle of Nature.

  The Assyrian valley experienced a rare peace that thrived for many years until Atargatis, still angry from being dethroned, sent her most powerful Champion to dispose of t
he wayward king. The creature has many names: the Beast, the Four Horsemen, the Bull of Heaven. Astarte knows this monster by another name, the name given to her by her mother—Tiamat.

  Tiamat was birthed to punish mortals who offended the gods of Chaos. It was the being to consume all, and it would have if not for Enkidu’s sacrifice. His death sacrifice saved both Gilgamesh and his city from ruin. But sacrifice comes with a steep price: death.

  Astarte hates death for its cruel indifference. Over time, she and Gilgamesh have learned to find happiness without their beloved friend.

  One evening, forty-seven years after Astarte first met Gilgamesh and eleven years after Enkidu died, the Queen of Lust feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. She knows who is coming.

  The balcony window is open, and despite it being midsummer there is chill in the air.

  “You missed your wedding,” a voice says in the shadows.

  Astarte says nothing, does nothing. She just waits for the voice to speak again.

  “You’ve changed. I must admit, had circumstances been different, I would’ve loved this new you. But as we stand here—in his bedroom—the sight of you … new or old … disgusts me.”

  “Are you here to try and kill my husband again, my dear sister Atargatis?”

  “No … the Bull of Heaven was our last failure. Chaos will not send another Champion. Not after that foolish Enkidu sacrificed himself. We are fallen gods now,” Atargatis grits her teeth, “and forever.”

  “What of Poseidon and that union?” Astarte asks, and she knows the answer from the way her sister’s shoulders slump.

  “You didn’t come, so I stood in your place. Not that doing so has changed what we are to become.”

  Astarte touches the pendant that Gilgamesh gave her once-upon-a-time. “We lost long before any of this started, sister.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “And what of Gilgamesh? Will you try to kill him again?”

  Atargatis brims with hate. “Let time have him,” she says, “and let uncertainty have you. That’s my curse upon you. That’s how I shall punish you.”

  Astarte does not understand what Atargatis means by “uncertainty.” It will be years until she does. And with the dawning of her sister’s curse, Astarte will hate her sister more than ever.

  ↔

  Many years pass. Gilgamesh is old now. His body is frail yet his spirit is as strong as ever. Oh, how Astarte loves him. Gilgamesh invites her to join him by the fire. He sips from his wine.

  “Have I lived a meaningful life?” he asks.

  Astarte nods. “More so than most humans.”

  “Have I made a difference?”

  “More so than most humans.”

  “Have I been loved?”

  Again Astarte nods. “Your people love their king.”

  “They do not know me any more than I know the gods.” A dribble of wine stains his white beard deep crimson. “Have I been loved?” he asks again.

  “Yes,” Astarte says. “I have loved you. And Enkidu—he, too, loved you.”

  “Good,” Gilgamesh says, putting his glass on the table.

  There is a long silence before Astarte works up the courage to ask what is in her heart. She looks into the fire and says quietly, “Have I been loved?”

  Gilgamesh does not answer. His silence cuts her deeply. Still, she is Astarte, the demigoddess of lust, the queen of succubi and the wife to the greatest king the world has ever known. She is not one to give up easily. With a more determined tone she asks, “Do you love me?”

  Still there is silence, and what was once hurt is now anger. She turns to face him, seeking to ask the question again, but is stopped by what she sees.

  Her king, her lover, her husband—is dead.

  Such is the way of mortals, she thinks. A single tear runs down her cheek.

  ↔

  The death of Gilgamesh is felt everywhere in the world. Kings and princes, creatures of magic and gods offer their respect and their condolences. But respect and condolence do not bring one back from the dead, nor do they soothe the grief of those left behind.

  With pity in their eyes and sincerity in their hearts, each and every one of them tells Astarte what a great man he is … was. They touch her shoulder and tell her all the right things a grieving widow needs to hear. None of it makes her feel any better. With every praise, every kindness, an ache stabs her heart that was once impervious to pain.

  The priests perform their rites: incense is burned, prayers are chanted, the body is wrapped in a shroud and placed within the stone coffin sitting in the center of a grand catacomb. Here Gilgamesh shall lay, until his body turns to dust.

  He will not be alone. Astarte shall sit by his side. Forever, if need be. After all, her body does not need food or water, sleep or shelter.

  And so, with the fortitude of a god and the constitution of one deeply in love, she sits.

  ↔

  Astarte kneels by Gilgamesh’s grave, mourning. She knows that she is not waiting for anything. There is nothing to wait for.

  A long time has passed since he died. Her lover, her husband. Her friend. Now that he is dead, he will never come back. She knows that. The First Laws will not allow it.

  She sits and curses the memories that crowd her mind. She wishes that they were not so strong, so vivid. It’s no use. It’s the way of her kind—to remember every detail, every smell, every touch, every taste, every sound. That is what tortures her. She relives the tightening of her throat and the racing of her heart she felt when they embraced. She recalls, again and again, the joy she knew when seeing him wake in the morning—a waking that will never happen again.

  Every memory comes exactly as before, with no possibility to mend a mistake, no hope to right a wrong. No chance to forget her husband whom she loved so much. All she can do is sit by his grave and mourn—alone forever.

  Years and years go by. Still, the humans come to offer their respect to Gilgamesh. They burn incense he cannot smell, bestow gifts he cannot use, leave gold he cannot spend.

  None of them speak to her, mistaking the demigoddess for a statue.

  ↔

  One night, Astarte hears the thud of falling bodies—the tomb’s guards dropping unconscious. Magic, she thinks. Then she sees the creature that walks into the tomb and knows she is wrong. It was not magic that felled them. It was poison.

  Astarte does not look up from her eternal vigil. She does not move, her hand resting on cold stone—worn and warm from her touch.

  The figure approaches and hisses, “Astarte.”

  Medusa, Astarte knows, although she does nothing to acknowledge the gorgon’s presence.

  “Astarte, I’ve come to …” Medusa’s voice trails off.

  There is movement in the tomb as the gorgon slithers about, touching things. Gilgamesh’s things. Astarte considers reprimanding Medusa, considers telling her to keep her scaly hands off her lover’s possessions. But what is the point? Her lover is dead. What does he need his things for anyway? Let the gorgon fiddle with them. Let her touch things that are not hers. Let her steal the whole damn tomb! It does not matter!

  Not anymore.

  The gorgon does not take anything. Instead, she lights a candle and puts it on Gilgamesh’s tomb. Then she gets on her knees and folds her hands in the way humans do when praying.

  Kneeling beside her, Astarte can see that Medusa is crying. Still, she does not move, does not speak. She does nothing but rest her hand on her lover’s stone casket.

  After a moment, Medusa wipes away her tears and stands. “He’s dead,” she says. Astarte knows she is not talking about her Gilgamesh. She is talking about someone else.

  “He’s dead,” the gorgon repeats. “Just like Athena said. ‘Live as a human. Die as a human.’ And now, my little boy … my Chrysaor is dead.”

  Medusa turns to leave the tomb and, as if unsure that she wants to go on, stops at the threshold that separates the world of the living from the wo
rld of the dead. Then, taking a single step, she stands with one foot on the side of life and the other on the side of death, and says, “I’ve always believed that we had nothing in common. But death has proven me a fool.”

  With that, she steps outside.

  ↔

  Astarte continues to kneel by the grave of the man she loved. It has been years since the gorgon visited. She has been still for so long, she does not know if she is alive. Those who visit her lover’s tomb think her a lifeless totem built to honor their dead king. In a way they are right.

  Her finger constantly caresses the cold stone. Not that the mortals see this. They are so distracted by the ostentatious tributes in this room that they do not see the only tribute that matters: her devotion to Gilgamesh.

  His acolytes bring him gifts to honor their once great king. Even after many years, they still cry with genuine misery as they approach the tomb with their paltry offerings.

  There is no doubt—they love him as Astarte loves him. Or rather, loved him. For how can one love a corpse? They cannot. She knows this. Just like her, they love the memory of him. But unlike her, they will die—and with their death, their memories of him will die, too. Soon all who once knew him will be gone. And with their passing, her beloved Gilgamesh will be forgotten.