Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  Michael watches as Miral turns on her heel, walking away before he can answer. She is angel. And angels do what their hearts dictate. And few hearts are purer than hers.

  As soon as her anger is tempered by time and rest and a chance to heal, she will change her mind. Of this Michael is sure.

  But seeing her walk away, his uncertainty wavers and is replaced by cautious hope.

  ↔

  That night, Conner washes Miral, dabbing her wounded wings with hot, wet towels and disinfectant. He dresses her wounds as best he can, and when she asks how deep Jean’s blade went, he lies, telling her that it’s little more than a flesh wound.

  The truth is, Conner can see bone. He knows that nothing short of a miracle will let her fly again.

  She knows he is lying, too, and she loves him all the more for it.

  As exhausted as they both are, that night they make love for the first time. They have known each other before, but this is the first time Miral envelops him with everything in her heart. Completely, totally, entirely.

  After their lovemaking is complete, they lie together, holding one another in silent joy. She knows that she shouldn’t be so happy. War is coming. Her wings are now a useless carcass that she is condemned to carry (We all have our crosses to bear, she silently mocks). Tomorrow is not filled with hope. Tomorrow is filled with dread.

  Still, she is joyous. She is happy. She is at peace.

  Because of him. Because of her Conner.

  As sleep takes them both, Miral thinks of the love that those parents and children shared on the dock. She rubs her belly, silently wishing that she and Conner could be blessed, too.

  To be so would be Heaven.

  Marc’s Story—Part 1

  The three forms of Hecate watch as the human who killed their husband lands a helicopter on the field in front of his lair. They lurk as the fiend helps two fae creatures depart from the metal dragon before walking into a castle lacking a moat, a drawbridge—even lacking turrets manned by archers or mages. Rather, his castle has a glass door that turns around and around, letting anyone inside, be they friend or enemy.

  Such arrogance. The thought imbues all three of their minds at once, for even though Hecate is of three bodies, she is of one mind, one soul … one heart.

  Once upon a time, Hecate was the goddess of the hunt. The protector, the predator of night. Each of her forms represents a different phase of the moon, and thus a different kind of hunt.

  Her first form—the physical representation of the new moon—is a woman of impossible brightness, whose very shape is hidden within the shifting light of her being. She is the youngest of the three, and perhaps the most innocent. Pointing at this fiend’s castle (what did the human who helped them find the fiend call it … a hotel?) she says to her other selves, “Such bravado. Does this human truly believe himself so strong, so invulnerable that he needs no walls of stone to keep his enemies out?”

  The laelapses by her side growl, exposing teeth far too sharp and long for their otherwise doglike appearance.

  Hecate’s second form, who represents the half-moon, lifts her sword, its crescent blade’s tip following the human as he walks inside. “Careful, his frail form is deceiving. He is, after all, the one who dispatched our Erlking.”

  As soon as the words leave her lips, the three forms remember what this human did to their king, their husband. They recall how he engaged in one-on-one battle with the Erlking and how, with a stroke of impossible will, managed to fell the demigod.

  Perhaps his arrogance is well deserved, they think. For one capable of ending one such as the Erlking is certainly a creature of great power.

  But then they recall the battle and know that the human defeated the Erlking partly with skill, partly with power … but mostly with luck. Their king—their husband—underestimated this human, believing the talking monkeys to be weak and easy prey. He let the human get close, let his guard down. It wasn’t the human who defeated the Erlking … the Erlking defeated himself, allowing his arrogance and pride to dictate the course of battle.

  “You old fool,” the third form whispers. She is the spirit of the fading moon, a creature of impossible darkness whose form is hidden by the shadows that ebb and flow around her.

  Hecate, in all her forms, is a spirit now lost in this GoneGod World. Once a goddess, they were worshipped as the protectors of the home. They were the deity of the wild hunt, a spirit as revered and powerful as Athena herself. But then they did something foolish, something that has ended many lives and, in truth, will eventually be the end of them.

  They fell in love.

  Not with a god, but with a lesser creature of great power. The King of Elves, the Lord of the Hunt … the Erlking.

  Oh, if only it had been lust or passion, instead of the burning altar of love, things would have been easier. Better. But Hecate’s heart yearned for this immortal elf and, sacrificing their godhood, they became creatures of the hunt, forever destined to stand by his side on the Wild Hunt.

  But then the gods left, and they were all four made mortal. What’s more, this human monster ended their husband’s life before his allotted time in this GoneGod World had expired, denying them a mortal lifetime together.

  “You old fool,” she repeats, and as the words escape her lips, so does a single tear.

  Lifting her finger to her cheek, she captures the tear before flicking it away in disgust.

  “You old fool,” she repeats a third time, her voice no longer sad, but filled with enough rage to rival a hurricane. “You allowed this lesser being to kill you. And this night, my three forms shall avenge you. For this night, the hunt begins.”

  The three forms look at each other, nodding in unison, before the fading moon lifts her hands in the air. “Let the hunt begin with darkness.”

  OtherMe Is Yummy

  Marc flies the Apache helicopter into Paradise Lot and is amazed when no one says or does anything. The military helicopter’s radio is silent. Nor does any Other take to the sky to see who or what is flying the damn thing. Silence is all that greets him.

  Silence and apathy.

  “This is a contradiction I will never understand,” he mutters to himself.

  Over the rushing of the helicopter blades, he hears someone cry out the words, “Excuse me?”

  Turning, he looks at the Others he is ferrying—a changeling, a pixie and a monster-under-your-bed. Searching Jean’s memories, he knows all three to be innocent victims in the little drama that just unfolded. He also knows that even though they have been rescued from the prison, their troubles are just beginning.

  “What did you say?” repeats the changeling.

  Marc shakes his head. “I was simply commenting on the contradiction that is common to all life—humans and Others alike.”

  “And what’s that?” the changeling asks.

  “The fact that we are on the brink of war. And despite that, I fly a warbird here and no one seems to care.”

  The three Others look around, confirming Marc’s observation. No Others in the sky, no human squawks on the radio. “Why do you think that is?” the changeling asks.

  “Because everyone thinks it’s someone else’s responsibility to investigate. Worse, they convince themselves that someone else is investigating. But when it’s always someone else’s responsibility, then it becomes no one’s responsibility.” As the words come out of him, he remembers his Popup— No, that isn’t right. Jean’s PopPop said the same words. He said the same expression over and over again throughout their—Jean’s—childhood. Maybe that is why Jean … and now Marc … will always investigate. They were raised never to trust that others would take responsibility. Marc shakes his head in disgust. “I will never understand such apathy.”

  “I don’t know,” the changeling beams, “I’m kind of grateful that no one is pursuing us. It’s a change of pace.” She sighs in the exaggerated way common to the fae.

  “I disagree,” Marc says, quiet enough that the rush of the
helicopter blades buries his words. “For it is apathy that led us here. The apathy of humans, of Others … and of the gods.”

  ↔

  Marc pilots the Apache to the only field he can think of that is large enough to house such a monstrous metal bird: the gardens of the Millennium Hotel. He lands the bird and once the blades settle, he exits the cockpit.

  The Others are already standing on the field. They look at him with expectant eyes. He knows that they believe him to be their guardian (yet more shirking of responsibility), and so they stand around like mindless drones, awaiting their next order.

  Marc would like nothing more than to set them free so that he may—what? Start living a life that isn’t his? Forge ahead as Marc Matthias, anomaly-cum-human? He isn’t sure what that future would look like for him.

  So, he follows the old script of his upbringing. He also remembers the words he—rather, Jean—once uttered: “My name is Jean-Luc Matthias and my doors shall forever be open to the lost and frightened, the poor and homeless. And as for those with evil in their hearts? Beware! For the human Jean-Luc stands watch.”

  Well he is Marc Matthias, and although those words were uttered by his other self, they are still his words.

  He gestures for them to enter the hotel.

  “You will stay here until we find a safe house.”

  The three Others breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief as they follow their strange savior into the hotel well known for welcoming Others in need.

  Lust Is Enough

  Marc enters the hotel. With memories he knows are not his own, he finds keys for the three fugitive Others. They will all stay in one room near an exit; should the authorities come, they will have an escape route. He explains this and watches as they climb the central stairwell outlining the foyer.

  As they climb the spiraling stairs, he notes the carving on the first balcony’s guardrail—an intricate portrait depicting a great hunt. Searching Jean’s memories, he tries to find a thought about the mural, but uncovers nothing. Seems Jean never thought much of the stairwell’s carving.

  Marc’s thoughts, on the other hand, go to perhaps his greatest battle … the day he took down the Erlking and claimed his hunting sword as his own. Yes, it was Jean’s body that delivered the final blow, but it was Marc’s determination, confidence and willpower that won the day.

  Jean’s other self isn’t sure why he thought of that day. Perhaps because he knows that the essence of him is what won that day for Jean. He knows that whatever he is, he represents the relentless warrior residing within Jean’s quirky bones. For Marc is the undoubting, unwavering, sure part of Jean. And the part of the Jean that stayed with his other self—the part that is full of doubt and questioning—isn’t in him. Marc wonders if freedom from such things is a boon or a curse.

  And not knowing, he wishes to test himself in renewed battles to see what he is capable of when free of Jean’s doubt.

  The Others scamper up to their room, happy to have found a sanctuary. They have deluded themselves into believing they’re safe. They are anything but … and their stay here is only a reprieve from the coming storm. Marc will have to find them another shelter, train them to stay hidden, perhaps find a network that hides the wayward and unjustly pursued.

  And what if such a network doesn’t exist?

  Marc shakes his head, making his way behind the mahogany desk that acts as a reception. He briefly pauses beside the desk, reminding himself that he may not be Jean, but he is from Jean, which in some strange way grants him ownership of this place.

  Walking around the circular reception, he hesitates in front of the chair. It is marred by time and neglect, tears and stains, does not belong in such a grand place. This magnificent desk deserves a regal, plush leather chair. Something with gravitas. Searching his memories, he knows he retrieved this chair from a dumpster, its previous owner abandoning it for reasons only the GoneGods know.

  He just hopes it’s not because someone peed on it. Then he remembers scrubbing the damn thing—rather, he remembers Jean scrubbing the damn thing—and sits down.

  Shaking his head, Marc wonders how long Jean’s memories will take their toll on him. “Until I create enough of my own,” he muses, confident that in time, the duality of his being will fade. It must … or he will lose his mind.

  Letting out a long sigh, he forces his mind to focus on other, more tangible problems. What to do with the fae? They can’t stay here for long, nor can he turn them away. But there is nowhere for them to go, and he considers building them a network.

  But a network comprised of different Others from different pantheons will be difficult. For one thing, they do not trust each other. Ironic that the fae are wary of the Norse, when both fae and Norse are hunted by the same enemy.

  Too much distrust. Too many simply concerned with their own survival. Marc shudders at the realization that without cohesion—without unity—nothing will improve. And no one will survive.

  Well, no Other will survive.

  The humans have banded together against a common enemy: mythical creatures created by their once-upon-a-time gods. And even though the humans were created by the same gods as the Others—which, in a way, makes these mythical creatures their brothers and sisters, or at least long-lost cousins—they didn’t care. As far as humans were concerned, this was their Earth and these invaders didn’t belong.

  “The one upshot to war,” Marc mutters to himself, “is at least the Others will have to band together.” Then, setting his feet atop the mahogany desk, he adds, “Unity.”

  “Unity,” a sultry voice calls from the third-floor landing. “I’m all about unity.”

  ↔

  Marc doesn’t need to look up to know who’s speaking. It’s Astarte, the succubus who lives in his—rather, Jean’s—hotel. She is a creature who, before the gods left, drew her nourishment from sex. Now that the gods are gone, she trades sex for money, which in turn she uses for shelter, food and other amenities.

  Not much has changed for her, Marc thinks, rising to his feet.

  “Something is different about you, lover,” Astarte says.

  Marc starts up the stairs, drawn to the demi-god of lust. She is like a siren, and her presence is her song.

  “You walk with more … swagger.”

  Marc doesn’t say anything, continuing up the stairs toward Astarte. When he finally makes it to the third-floor landing, he looks into her deep brown eyes and—

  How strange, he thinks, I remember her eyes to be blue. Not brown, but …

  It takes him a long second to realize what is happening. Astarte is a creature of desire and she takes on the traits most desired by those lusting after her. Bella had blue eyes and so Jean desires that color.

  But Marc … Marc’s preference is brown. Why? He’ll have to consider this later, and takes comfort that there are some differences between him and his other self.

  Then, seeing her sultry, slender body, her perky, small breasts and her impossibly exquisite lips—all traits he remembers her having—he realizes that his taste in women may not be all that different than Jean’s.

  “Unity,” Marc says. “There are two fae who need to find a sanctuary, and I fear this hotel is not it.”

  “ ‘Unity?’ ‘Sanctuary?’ ‘Fear this hotel is not it?’ It seems more than your gait has changed. What happened on that island?” Astarte looks her friend over, her beautiful brown eyes softening with concern, and for a moment Marc doesn’t see her as a creature of desire, but as the friend she is.

  Then he notices her tongue ring and his mind is drawn to everything else she can do with her mouth.

  “Much happened there,” Marc says simply, seeing no reason to rehash the past. What was done was done. Training his eyes on Astarte, he points to the upper floors. “And all that matters now is helping the fae upstairs. They are wanted by the authorities. Well, they will be wanted as soon as anyone of power realizes what happened.”

  Astarte tilts her head in confusion, li
ke someone trying to recall an old memory or place a face not seen for a long, long time. “You still care, so it is still you, but you are so ...” She lets the words trail off into an unspoken oblivion as she pulls out a cigarette and lighter from the GoneGods know where.

  Marc notices her hesitation as she strikes the flame and draws its heat toward the exposed tobacco. Then he remembers that in a situation like this, Jean would normally say something like, “No smoking” or, “You know the rules.” But seeing the succubus ignite the cigarette is so sensual that he cannot bring himself to mimic his other self’s pedantic ways.

  Astarte, seeing that he will not protest, lights the cigarette before saying, “There are people—well, Others—I know who might be able to protect them. I can ask them, if you like?”

  “And they will help in exchange for …?”

  “What is due to them.” Astarte curls a lip. “And what is due is always the same when dealing with me.” As if accentuating her words, a moan echoes from inside her room, and Marc knows that there are several people receiving their “due” right now.

  Seeing Marc’s interest, Astarte says, “I owe you rent. I have an envelope of money, as per usual. There is also a bonus payment inside, if you like.” She touches his chest, a nimble finger finding its way beneath the collar of his shirt.

  Marc does not draw away. Astarte, surprised by his lack of withdrawal, goads him with, “Unless, of course, you still prefer love over lust?”

  “Love?” Marc pronounces the word as though it’s from a foreign tongue. As he does so, he searches his memories—or rather, Jean’s memories—for all the times love has betrayed him. There was Bella, of course, but as different as Marc is from Jean, even he cannot deny the taste of that emotion when it comes to him.

  Then there was Medusa. That wasn’t love—not yet, at least. That was the potential of love. The promise of love. And that promise was broken the day she sacrificed herself for the good of others.