by R. E. Vance
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ve heard you speak it before … when you asked the Avatar of Gravity a question.”
He nodded. “The answer to a mystery.”
“Whatever. Point is, once you hear that language, you don’t tend to forget it.”
Conner said something I couldn’t hear over the wind. He pointed at me aggressively. I cupped my ears and Conner gestured in exasperation before giving me the finger.
“I think he’s mad at me.”
Michael nodded. “He says you were reckless down there. That what you did was akin to committing suicide.” Conner started up again and Michael paused to listen. “He also says that you are lucky I woke up when I did.”
“So he’s mad, huh?”
“He has used several expletives that I do not approve of, including three blasphemes.” Both Conner and I gave Michael a Seriously? look, to which Michael shrugged. “I shall overlook them, given the situation.”
“OK, but you tell Conner that I was not committing suicide and that I knew my little stunt would wake you up.” I lied. Truth was I had no idea. And if I was really, really being honest, not only did I have no idea it would work, a big part of me didn’t care one way or another. I waited and Michael said nothing. “Come on … tell him.”
But Michael didn’t say anything, just squinted down at the spot near the Tree. Then he did something I’d never seen the archangel do: he rubbed his eyes.
“What?” I said. Conner sensed the same thing, because I could see him mouth the same question.
“I don’t … don’t know,” Michael said. He nodded in the direction of the Tree. “They are loading something into a missile launcher—”
We heard a muffled pop! and from right under the Tree’s canopy a cloud of dust billowed up. A trail of smoke rose from it and started our way.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I screamed. “An RPG!?”
Michael turned around, putting his back to the missile. “I should be able to sustain the missile; my wings are powerful enough to endure the impact. Still, it will jostle us, so hold on.”
“No, Michael,” I started. “Don’t let it hit you. These guys know how to take down an angel.”
But my warning came too late—the missile hit him square in the back. Michael, archangel and probably the most powerful being on the planet, winced in pain as a cloud of dust enveloped us. Then the big guy closed his eyes and gravity took him—with us still in his arms.
Hellelujah!
↔
During the war, I was part of the team that took down the archangel Gabriel. “Team” isn’t the right word … more like "Army.” A squad of fighter jets, two warships and countless ground-to-air units all coordinated their efforts to finally end the archangel’s life. And even then I think we would have lost had Gabriel not been so concerned with not killing us. Not a single soldier lost his or her life that day. Not a-one. And yet we had to throw enough explosives at the archangel to level Mount Everest.
So when Michael turned to take the impact of one missile, he did so with all the confidence in the world that it would bounce off him or, if it did explode, the shrapnel wouldn’t pierce his skin.
What he wasn’t counting on was that the Occultists were packing something a little extra in their arsenal.
It hit him in the center of his back, but unlike your typical missile head which explodes with a loud, unmistakable BANG!, this one made a barely audible popping sound and a cloud of dust shrouded us. Michael inhaled the particles, coughed twice, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he dropped like a stone.
We fell. And fell. I was sure we were done for … until I saw hope. Working as fast as I could, I unbuckled my belt and reattached it over Michael’s oversized-pants belt loops. I yelled for Conner to do the same. He couldn’t hear me, but he saw what I was doing and mimicked my actions. I tugged my belt to make sure it was secure. It wasn’t the best catch, but it was better than nothing.
“HOLD ON!” I said and braced myself for impact.
Or rather … non-impact. Michael’s falling body suddenly stopped in midair and Conner and I flew out of Michael’s arms. We both held on, which helped, but the g-force was too strong for Conner and he let go. His belt caught, which stopped his fall long enough for me to grab onto his arm.
I pulled him to me as we were slowly lowered to the ground right in front of the human police convoy.
“Thanks,” I said to Penemue, who loomed above Michael’s body, flapping with all his might.
Penemue stirred as he lowered us to the ground. “Ironic,” he said, “that it is I who stops Michael from falling. “
↔
I’d like to say that the human convoy took one look at us—a policeman, a deputized human hotelier and two angels—and that they got out of their cars and asked how we were doing, if we were OK, or, if they were heartless, demand to know what was going on.
But apparently the special unit assigned to Paradise Lot was more than heartless. They got out of their vehicles with guns drawn and anti-angel nets out.
“Stand down!” cried out a bald cop who got out of the lead car’s passenger side. He wore wire glasses and a short-sleeved plaid shirt that he buttoned all the way to the top. From the way he held himself, he was clearly the guy in charge of this entourage.
“Don’t you mean ‘flap down’?” Penemue mused.
The cop didn’t hesitate. He gave an inaudible order and three anti-angel nets came flying our way. The thing about these nets: they’re made of steel thread twice the thickness of the fishing lines used for sharks; they’re also seared so that they imbed themselves in the skin. Oh, and they’re electrified. Perfect for hunting angels.
But on humans, the voltage and constricting nature of the net was more likely to kill us than just subdue us. Luckily, I was ready for their overreaction. As soon as I saw the order, I pulled at my belt buckle. Conner and I fell with a thud, and by the time we were standing again we had a half dozen guns trained on us.
“What the hell are you doing?” I growled. “That’s Michael—Paradise Lot’s Police Chief.”
The bald cop squinted his eyes. “Seems like your ‘Chief’ is asleep,” he sneered.
“He was hit by the kidnappers, you idiot. They’re still by the Tree. We need to get there before they escape.”
The bald cop gave more inaudible orders and the twelve officers divided up—eight on the angels and four on us. Clearly they had no intention of going to the Tree anytime soon.
As they approached, Conner pulled out his badge. “I’m Paradise Lot PD and I’m ordering you to stand down.”
“ ‘Ordering’?” the bald cop barked. “You are not in a position to order anyone.”
I knew his type—and I knew we were sunk.
Conner was slower to accept the situation. “Didn’t you hear what he said? The kidnappers are at the Tree and—”
“And how do I know that you’re not the kidnappers? Or some stinking Other in disguise? How do I know that as soon as I turn my back you won’t burn time to turn me into a frog or a pillar of salt? Hmm?”
“Common misconception,” Penemue said, his voice uneven under the electrical current of the net currently sunk into his flesh. “Lot’s wife was never turned into a pillar of salt. It was dust that mixed with her salt-filled tears. But that’s a lot of words to explain, and would really cut into the drama of the situation. That’s why the early writers decided not to include—”
One of the cops Tasered him before he could finish.
“Hey,” I said, “don’t you—” But before I could finish, I met the same fate as Penemue.
“You dare detain our chief?” a voice brayed.
Magnus: eldest of the Brothers Gruff and one of the most powerful known Others. He was Paradise Lot’s lead detective and probably could have been police chief if he wasn’t ill-tempered, poorly mannered, totally arrogant and prone to extreme violence.
Standing next to him were his younger
brothers, Hunter and Steve. And behind him were a half dozen Other cops in the Paradise Lot PD. Not that the humans considered them real cops.
“Free our Captain! Now!” The way he said “captain” didn’t help the situation at all. It sounded tribal, primal; exactly the kind of word you would expect from an old-world Other hell-bent on causing chaos.
“Magnus,” I said, lifting my hands in front of me. “This situation requires calm. Please, everybody—let’s all take a deep breath.”
“Yeah,” the bald cop said. “Let’s.” He pulled out a customized shotgun designed to permanently put Others down—buckshot filled with silver, iron and a whole host of other herbs, minerals and metals lethal to Others. He cocked the shotgun and smiled, exposing a row of crooked teeth.
“There’s no need for that,” Conner said. “They’re fellow officers of the law.”
“The law?” Baldy said. “Others and the law. That’s rich.”
Another two officers pulled out their pistols.
“Yes, the law,” a voice behind us bellowed. We all turned to see that Michael had finally come to. The archangel, obviously still woozy from whatever hit him, stood, glancing at the net enveloping him as if it were an annoying cobweb. I had watched Penemue try and fail to break free, and he was a big guy. Strong too. I’d seen him lift an eighteen-foot pine tree like he were moving a child’s bike. But he couldn’t break through the netting. Michael, on the other hand, ripped it apart like so much thread.
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t thank the GoneGods that Michael is on our side.
Michael staggered over to the bald cop. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yeah,” Baldy said, and I had to hand it to him—the guy wasn’t scared. Or maybe he was just too dumb to know he should be. “I’ve seen your dossier.”
“Then you must know that I and my fellow officers”—he gestured around him—“are not here to harm you.”
Baldy squinted his eyes again. “The dossier says you are on our side.” He considered this, then, rubbing his head with the hand not holding the shotgun, he sighed. “You’ve got to understand we were just responding to a call.”
“I know. And what’s more, I wish to commend you. You and yours are true professionals.” Michael extended his hand. “Officer … I’m sorry, but I do not know your name.”
“Officer O’Donnell. But my boys call me O’D.” He spit out the toothpick he had been chewing on and replaced it with a fresh, unmangled one.
Magnus snorted and stomped his right foot in protest. “Are you serious, Michael? You extend your hand to these humans who have shown you utter disrespect?”
“I DO,” Michael thundered, extending his wings. This caused everyone there to stare at him in awe: the Other cops, the human convoy, Conner and me—even Penemue wore an expression of reverence. “And what is more, these human cops acted exactly as they should. They did not know our intent. Nor do they know these men.” He pointed at Conner and me.
“Michael,” Magnus said.
“And what is more—we are here to help them. Not the other way around. Now let us give them our full cooperation. Do you understand?” Michael gave Magnus a look that could evaporate Lake Erie.
Magnus averted his gaze, pausing for a long second, then nodded.
“Good,” Michael said. “Very good, indeed.”
I started to say, ‘Hellelujah,’ when O’D cut me off with a “Hoorah!”
Got to hand it to marines – ex or current. They’re pretty damn cool.
Regroup, Reassess … Retreat?
The cops—Others and humans—got back into the vehicles and sped toward the Tree. Only the angels stayed behind. We couldn’t risk whatever happened to Michael also happening to Penemue—which meant that a fallen angel was standing around in the desert with the very archangel who kicked him out of Heaven. Awkwaaard!
I couldn’t think about that now. Instead, I was riding in the lead vehicle, hoping that the three Occultists and their monster were arrogant enough or stupid enough to stick around for Round Two. Except Round Two would be against fourteen humans armed with anti-Other weaponry and a dozen powerful Others.
How do you like them apples, Vampire Bowser?
(I may have still been bitter about what that bastard did to my Road Runner.)
But they weren’t arrogant, unfortunately, and they certainly weren’t stupid. When we got to the Tree, there was no trace of them. Not a single sign of where they’d gone, or even that they’d been there at all..
Hunter, the middle Gruff, wasn’t named “Hunter” because it sounded cool. Well, he wasn’t named Hunter just because it sounded cool. He was named so because there arguably wasn’t a better tracker on the planet. And yet he found no trace of them either. The only footprints were those of Conner and I, plus the two basketball-size potholes made by Michael’s knees.
The humans pulled out all sorts of equipment trying to measure for burnt time, but nothing showed. No time was burnt. Not a single damn second.
It just didn’t feel right. I looked at my own magic tracker, my Mickey Mouse watch. Whenever Mickey was near magic, his second hand spun around like he was lining up for a cartoon baseball pitch.
Mickey’s second hand did seem slightly off. I started to count the seconds, trying to match my count to the second hand. And that’s when I saw it—the second counter went marginally faster than my count. Magic had been burnt … but very little. Certainly not enough to cover four people’s tracks.
I thought about telling the cops what I’d discovered, but they’d just dismiss my watch as being broken, or say my counting was off. After all, their own equipment showed nothing abnormal—and they had the latest tech from Memnock Securities.
↔
Bored and feeling useless, I went over to Baldy. “Give me something to do,” I said.
“You qualified?” There was no condescension in his voice. It was just a question.
I thought about giving my full rank and title, and would have enjoyed watching his eyebrows raise, but running from your past meant keeping secrets. I settled with “Back in the Army I was certified as a Class Two Engineer.”
“Geek Squad,” he muttered, unimpressed, and pulled out a metal detector. “Then you know your way around this.” He handed me the device and pointed at the Tree. “See if our troublemakers dropped anything by the Tree that goes beep.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, just happy to have something to do.
↔
I took my metal detector and joined the rest in the investigation. I had to hand it to the human cops—they were thorough, professional and tenacious. And they were a close-knit crew that knew how to work together, seamlessly augmenting each other’s investigations. Exactly the kind of people I’d wanted on my team back when I was in the Army. I was beginning to think I could like these guys.
If only they weren’t Other-hating AlwaysMortals.
This thought stopped me in my tracks. Did I really just refer to other humans as AlwaysMortals—and, what’s more, in a derogatory way? That was something I’d have to talk to my shrink about. Surely I’d need to find a shrink after all this crap.
I wiped my brow. This day was taking its toll on me. Sure, I’d just got into a fight with three overpowered Occultists and their pet monsters. But what really hurt was that I lost my precious 1969 Road Runner. Yes, it was a car, but it was a car my PopPop gave me, damn it. A car that had seen me through thick and thin, a car that I owned pre-Others, pre-apocalypses, pre–my-life-in-constant-turmoil.
I loved that car. Just another thing I loved that the GoneGod world took from me.
If that wasn’t enough, I was still a deputy in the Paradise Lot police force, I was still being blackmailed by my former commanding officer and I was still the owner of a hotel that was costing me more money to run than most money laundering operations “cleaned” in a month.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been neck-deep in the muck while fighting the good fight—but this was the fi
rst time I was tired of the good fight. Bella, Medusa, PopPop … years of anguish. I’d paid my dues, and as far as I was concerned, the good fight could go on without me for a while.
It had been easy to give up and give in to Evil-and-Cute’s sword. Mr. Cain’s offer was looking more and more appealing, and I might have dropped my metal detector right then and there if it wasn’t for the tears in the monster-under-your-bed’s eyes and the missing kid who didn’t deserve what was happening to her. That I couldn’t ignore. That I couldn’t walk away from … yet.
But the minute she was safe and sound in her parents’ arms … that was a different story altogether.
↔
I was circling the Tree, looking for metal, when Conner came up to me. “Jean,” he said. “We need to talk.”
I continued my sweep. “So, talk.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone about the bubbling monster?”
I gave Conner a look that asked that question right back at him.
He put up his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I have no idea what I saw. I’m new. But you recognized it. Or at least you recognized how it died. You’ve seen creatures die like that before, haven’t you?”
I nodded. “Back when I was in the Army.”
Conner sighed, running his fingers through his still-perfectly-coifed hair. Man, what kind of gel did he use to withstand that g-force wind? I didn’t even want to imagine what my own hair looked like.
“Why haven’t you told anyone?” he asked. “Level with me.”
I shrugged. “They won’t believe me.”
“Us.”
“Whatever. They’d assume we were under some kind of spell or something.”
“But we weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because of that phone call you took. Another thing you failed to mention. What’s going on?”
I stopped scanning and looked up at the rookie cop. His crystalline eyes bore down on me like he was gazing into my soul. I thought about telling him about Shouf blackmailing me and the monsters she was trying to create. Monsters that always died exactly like that shark-anomaly did. But that only would lead to more questions—questions I didn’t have answers to. Questions that would distract from the mission. Questions like, What are the anomalies? Who’re making them? And what connection do they have with the kidnapping? All important questions that needed answering, but right now the only questions I cared about were, Where did those Occultists take the kid? and How do I find them before they cause her any harm?