by R. E. Vance
Michael’s lips curled in what I believed was admiration. Or suspicion. It was always unclear with the archangel. “You know about that?” he said.
“I just know what I’ve been told.”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe the goal is to bring Chaos back. Or maybe it’s something else.”
“Like what?”
“Chaos and Nature are not diametrical opposites—they’re two points on a continuum. There’s much that a knowledgeable Other could do to gain power, become a god …”
“Or bring the gods back?”
“Perhaps. Whatever the end game is … this player doesn’t mind causing destruction. Quite the opposite. The question is—what do we do now?”
“That’s easy,” I said, walking away. “You figure out this Other’s plan.”
“And how, Human Jean, do I do that?”
“Think about it. This creature has immense knowledge. He understands how everything works. How many creatures in existence today have that knowledge?”
“Not many,” Michael conceded.
I paused at the door to the main area of the police station. “Exactly. Not many. You’re one of them—just ask yourself what you’d do.” And with that I left the archangel police chief to ponder how exactly he’d ascend to godhood, should he so desire.
↔↔
I walked into the main office area of the police station, determined to get out of there as fast as I could, when I saw yet another person in the parade of “Let’s ruin Jean’s day.”
Sally.
The once-upon-a-time baker sat at the desk of a valkyrie detective, probably giving a statement about how I ruined her shop. Or maybe she still held a grudge about the flyers.
“Jean,” she called when she saw me. It had been a hell of a week, and the last thing I wanted to do was get into another debate with someone else who didn’t like me, so I decided to just walk on without saying anything to her. But then she said the only six words that could have stopped me. “Chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies.”
“What?” I said, turning to face her.
“Chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies … those were Bella’s favorite, weren’t they?”
I nodded.
Sally wasn’t wearing her business suit or her overly conservative pajamas. She wore a pastel-blue Sunday dress with a yellow cardigan. She looked soft, almost pleasant. “You two were so in love,” she said. “I could see it every time you came up to order those damn chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies. You’d be at the till, stealing looks at her while waiting for me to bring you your cookies. It was so endearing that sometimes I took extra-long just to watch you grow impatient. You know, to make that return to her all the sweeter.” Sally’s gaze went distant, as if she were inside the memory instead of recalling it.
“I remember,” I said.
“When I heard about Bella’s death and what you were doing, I decided that I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. I wanted to help my own way.”
I could see that she did, and even though she was Mama from Hot Mama’s Cookies, I couldn’t get past her methods. “By cutting Others up to look more human? There are better ways to help.”
She shook her head. “Perhaps, but like I said, ‘My own way.’ ” She held my gaze, secure in the belief that what she was doing was right. “I dropped my case against you. I will, however, file an insurance claim and use the money to rebuild my salon. This time with more security, too.”
I shrugged. “Do what you have to do.” I turned to walk out of the station.
“You know, they’ll be the death of you.”
I stopped at the door, where police portraits hung on the wall. Valkyries, minotaurs, the Gruff Brothers … all serving in blue. In the middle of them was a photo of Medusa wearing her olive-tanned grin, dimples in her cheeks. I kissed my middle and forefinger and touched them to her lips. “They already have,” I said, and walked out the door.
↔
I got back to the hotel, where I found Astarte, Penemue, EightBall and Atargatis waiting for me in the foyer. I pretended not to see them. It was my I-Don’t-Care Day, and if any of them had a problem with that … well, I just didn’t care.
I was walking past them when a sultry voice that did not have a hint of a Parisian accent said, “Medusa. The Army returned her body. The funeral is at dusk.” Astarte trembled as she spoke.
Hearing Medusa’s name was akin to getting slammed in the head with a baseball bat. Believe me, I know. Before I had time to think, my childish anger took over. “So?” I spouted.
I expected Astarte to say something in response. Her head just dropped, an expression of pain on her face. That was like getting hit with a second swing.
I tried to ignore her hurt and walk to my room. It was all I could do not to lose myself.
As soon as my back was to her, Astarte whispered, “Jean … Where are you going? We need you.”
“Not now,” I said.
“But we’ll be late.”
I turned around and saw genuine concern. No, not concern … confusion. Astarte was hurting, and that hurt confused her.
Not that I cared. “Late?” I growled. “For what? To say goodbye?”
A tear escaped when Astarte shook her head. “She hated being late.”
“She doesn’t hate anything now,” I said.
“I don’t understand, and no one is telling me anything.” Astarte was crying now. “You all look at me like all I care for is sex. I am what I am, but sex is not all I care for … I cared for Medusa. She was my friend. I’ve known her longer than I’ve known most beings, certainly longer than I’ve known mortality. And now she’s gone and she’s never coming back. Ever. I’ll never see her smile again. I’ll never hear her laugh. I’ll—”
“Oh, stop with the pity party,” I shot back. “Or should I say, pity orgy. You’ll never see her smile, you’ll never hear her laugh? You act like you’re the one who died.”
“I did!” the succubus cried out. “I did,” she whispered. “I’m the one who suffers, not her. She goes to sleep. She doesn’t care what happens to us. She doesn’t know where she is … what happened to her. No thinking, no worrying. No fear. No sadness—”
“No joy. No smiling, no laughing. Dying doesn’t make you the lucky one,” I snapped.
Atargatis walked over to Astarte and put an arm around her shoulder. “That’s quite enough, Jean,” she scolded. “Now get ready. And don’t dilly-dally. We’ll be waiting for you down here.” Atargatis pulled her younger sister away, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief.
↔
I walked into my room and slammed the door behind me. As soon as it closed, I punched the wall over and over again until there was a hole in the drywall and blood on the off-white paint. “GoneGodDamn it!” I cried out. “Damn it!”
I slumped to the floor and started rubbing my temples. “Just a few more hours,” I said. “A few more, and I would’ve been gone.” I closed my eyes, the pressure of the lids forcing more tears down my cheeks. “I would’ve been gone.”
I sat there for a long time, trying to summon the strength to open my eyes. Opening them would mean standing up. And standing up would mean leaving my room and going to the saddest place I could imagine … Medusa’s funeral.
I couldn’t go there. Not now. Not ever.
Not again.
Those two little words ran through me with such force that my heart skipped a beat.
So that’s what this was all about. Not again. I couldn’t say goodbye to the only person I’d loved since Bella died.
Not again.
My heart squeezed hard in my chest, compressing as if it was trying to push out every drop of blood it held.
Not again.
I stood, an eerie calm coming over me.
Not again.
I grabbed my suitcase and threw in my clothes. I didn’t have that many—they hardly took any space—so I dumped in as many of my toys as would fit, not caring if I scuffed them. Then I
flipped the lid closed and zipped it shut.
I was leaving. I was going to duck out the back, get in my car and take off. That was my plan, a plan interrupted by a very distinct and menacing hiss. “What the …?” I said, turning. On the floor sat a very large green viper. “Marty … what are you doing here?” I pushed the snake away.
Marty hissed again and slithered up a lamp so he could be eye-level with me again. Have you ever seen a snake frown? Its face doesn’t change expression—it looks as scaly and as menacing as ever—but you can feel its sadness. Marty’s pain was like heat blowing from a furnace. He was miserable. He was hurting just as bad as I was, probably more. He had lost someone he was part of, and being without Medusa must’ve felt like a part of his being was missing.
I knew the feeling. I’d had a part of me ripped away more than once.
He hissed and looked at me, then at my packed suitcase.
“I’m going away,” I said.
He flicked his tongue.
“I’m not going the funeral. I can’t. I can’t say goodbye. Not today. Not ever.”
Marty coiled around the lamp base and shook his head at the door.
“No,” I said. “I’m not abandoning them.”
Marty hissed again and looked up at the ceiling, just as Pan had at the police station.
“This is different. The gods left without warning … I’m—”
Then I got it. I was just as bad as they were. I was walking away without saying goodbye. And what’s more, I was leaving without paying my respects to Medusa. This was to be her very last party, her final farewell. Marty’s harsh, lipless expression drove it home. She would’ve wanted me there. After all, I owed her one more date.
So I decided to go, to say goodbye to her—and with that, say goodbye to Paradise Lot.
“OK,” I said. Playing Charades with Marty was harder than with TinkerBelle. “I’ll go. I owe her that much. But after the funeral, I’m leaving. Nothing short of a disaster is going to change that.”
Marty’s forked tongue licked his dry, lipless mouth.
“What about you?” I asked.
He turned to Castle Grayskull.
“Sure,” I said. “The castle’s yours. But if a three-inch-tall golden fairy wants it back, you’ll have to move out.”
↔↔
The Army had returned Medusa’s statue to the beach.
Later I learned that Michael and The BisMark had engaged in some serious negotiations with the human authorities to make sure they returned her to where she belonged. They argued that her presence would cool Others’ tempers. And judging by the hubbub of activity that surrounded her stone body, they were right.
Medusa was seen as the gorgon who sacrificed her life to save Paradise Lot. Her statue would become a Mecca for Others … a symbol of bravery, sacrifice and the new GoneGod world in which we all now lived. More—she was a comfort to all who saw her, just like she always wanted to be. Careful what you wish for, I thought, looking at her gray immobile face.
Marty and I hung back as Others approached her one by one. Minotaurs grabbed their horns and brayed, centaurs dug their hooves in the sand and bowed, fairies sprinkled glitter, angels sang hymns.
Atargatis came with her seven children—all having traded human faces for their sharklike appearance—and touched Medusa before saying a prayer in a language I didn’t understand. The BisMark placed his hands on her knees. Miral kissed her feet, wiping angelic tears on her ankles. Penemue and EightBall poured out Drambuie by her statue while Michael and the Gruff Brothers saluted her.
Then it was Astarte’s turn. The succubus pulled Gilgamesh’s pendant from her pocket as she stumbled to her once-upon-a-time friend, and placed it on the pedestal. As soon as the pendant left her hand she collapsed to her knees, letting out a mournful cry that broke all the hearts that heard it. Atargatis helped her up, gently guiding her back to where Penemue, EightBall and I stood. As soon as she was next to me, she reached out for my hands, not with the usual sexual overtone, but for comfort. I squeezed her hands in mine, watching the entirety of Paradise Lot pay respects to once alive, always wonderful Medusa.
What commenced after was a cacophony of Other religious fever.
Prayers, chants, incense, drumming, dancing and lamenting filled the beach with mayhem. And yet it all blended together into something truly beautiful and special, like overlapping children’s games independent in practice but harmonious in nature. An aura of meaning rose from this unhappy event.
At least that’s how I saw it. The gaggle of human reporters that trained their cameras on the event would probably have their own, fear-mongering interpretation.
Eventually the crowd thinned, and still Marty and I hung back. I couldn’t go to her. Not now, not with all these Others around. It was too much—getting any closer would break me. I was sure she’d understand. I hoped she would.
↔↔
I returned to the Millennium Hotel, walked into its grand foyer, said goodnight to my sad entourage and walked upstairs, thinking about the next stage of my life—a life of simplicity up in the wilderness. I considered leaving in the night. Why wait for the morning? If I left right now, I’d get to my PopPop’s cabin by dawn.
I opened my door. The soft light from the hall illuminated my suitcase. Maybe, I thought, a little earlier if I hurry.
“Hello, Jean. It’s been awhile.” The voice sounded like fingernails scraping across a blackboard.
I didn’t look to see who spoke. I didn’t need to. I would’ve recognized that raspy voice anywhere. “Turn on the light,” I said, walking in, berating myself for being so naïve. The Army may not have known I still lived, but she would.
“No need for the light.”
“Not everyone is as comfortable with the dark as you,” I said.
“True.” I heard a click of the tongue against the palate, and the bedside lamp turned on. What sat next to the lamp was an aigamuchab, one of the aigamuxa Others from the Okavango River region. She looked like a human female except for one startling detail—she had no eyes, her forehead fused with her cheeks. Her eyes were instead on the soles of her feet. Not that she needed eyes to see—she relied on clicking and echolocation.
This aigamuchab wasn’t any typical Other. She was General Shouf, the first Other to join the humans in their war against Others before we settled into this uneasy peace.
She was a fierce warrior, ruthless against all life, be it once-upon-a-time mythical or AlwaysMortal. And she was my former commander.
Her hand rested on the light switch and, now illuminated, I could see her eyeless face cocked in my direction. “It’s been too long, Jean,” she rasped.
“That depends on your perspective. How did you—”
“One word. One simple word: ‘Enough.’ Seems the Other who protects you has also failed you.”
“And, what? You’re here to arrest me?” I asked.
“No,” Shouf shook her head, the lamp light running across her smooth forehead. “I’m here to imprison you.”
“I don’t hunt Others. Not anymore.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And after the events of the past week, I’m finished helping them, too.”
“Always so dramatic, Jean,” her words scraped out of her.
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m finished.”
“You’re not finished.”
“Yes, I am. Arrest me if you want, either way … I’m done.”
“I’m not going to arrest you. As for being done,” she leaned forward, her eyeless face reflecting the lamplight. “You’re just getting started.”
(Not) The End
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Continue reading BOOK 3: CrystalDreams.
Jean used to think the apocalypse was the worst thing that could happen … boy, was he wrong.
When a six-year-old girl stomps her way into Jean’s hotel lobby claiming to be Sinbad the Pirate on an important mission, Jean is drawn into a complex
plot designed to fuel hatred between humans and Others. At the heart of it is a power-struggle between a racist politician, an activist ex-god and an infamous arms dealer by the name of Mr. Cain (yup—that Cain).
Scroll down to read a sample … or CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE READING
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CRYSTALDREAMS
Monsters are real.
Little Sarah has known that monsters are real ever since two of them stole her from her bed and took her to this place.
Now she lays on a metal bunk bed with a mattress that doesn’t even have a sheet. The mattress is stained and old and she can feel its springs on her back, her arms, her legs. Even her head.
She’s locked in a room with only three solid walls—the fourth is made of metal bars and a metal door. There is a toilet in the room, too, that isn’t private at all. And that’s a problem, because there are eight kids in the room with her, and they all stare when she goes. Sarah hates to be watched when she goes.
But her bed and the terrible room that’s not really a room isn’t the worst thing about this place—not even the other kids watching her when she goes. Not by a long shot.
The worst thing is the missing wall that has bars that stops her from getting out. She doesn’t know the word for the kind of room she’s in … why would she? She’s only six. If she were older, she’d know she is in a prison cell. She’d also know that it’s normal for the prison cell to look out into the central area, which in this case is a courtyard.
And, lastly, if she were just a bit older, she’d know that the monsters lurking in the courtyard are anything but normal.
Monsters … yuk!
When Sarah was really little, she used to be afraid of monsters that weren’t real. You know—the ones that live under your bed or in your closet. Those monsters aren’t really scary, because as soon as Daddy turned on the lights they would disappear.