Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  Astarte is right, he muses. Love has cost my other self much. Pushing the door a bit wider to see more of the writhing bodies inside, he shakes his head. “I don’t have a problem with lust …”

  Astarte raises a curious, igniting eyebrow. “Who are you?”

  “I am exactly who I need to be.”

  “Then, Human Jean-Luc Matthias, perhaps just this once you will give lust a chance.” Astarte steps closer to the human she still believes to be Jean, allowing her impossibly perfect body to brush up against his. As she does so, she widens the door even more to reveal several bodies in the throes of passion. “Perhaps, just this once, lust is what you need?”

  Normally a human—or an Other, even—would be distraught, unsure of who or what to focus on: the demi-goddess of lust or the pile of bodies promising incredible passion? But Marc knows exactly what he wants as he removes his jacket.

  With a smile that would stop a charging bull, Marc pushes past the succubus. “Yes, perhaps it is.”

  This is a start, he muses as he slowly undresses. The start to me making memories of my own.

  Sex Isn’t the Only Game We’ll Play Tonight

  When the fucking is done—because that’s exactly what it was—Marc sits up on the bed, looking at the mess of flesh vying for their places on the mattress. Soft snores accompany the bodies that have not fully detached, still exhausted by the evening’s festivities. And although Marc has known these figures, he looks at them for the first time, realizing that not everyone in the mix is human. Rubbing his eyes, he notes that, in fact, only one is. Well, two if Marc is human—something he’s not entirely sure of.

  Hints of sunlight stream through the open window as Marc stands. Only he and Astarte are awake. She, because this is her lot in life and such connections only serve to energize her.

  But how it is that Marc stands, neither are sure. Certainly no human should be so spry—not after the experiences of the night before.

  “Who are you?” Astarte lights another cigarette without hesitation this time.

  “I already told you,” Marc says. “I am who I need to be.”

  Astarte sways her head back and forth. “I’ve now gotten a taste of what Jean has so often complained about … the cryptic answers of Others.” She points the cherry of her cigarette at Marc, an invitation to continue speaking.

  Marc chuckles. It is true that Jean often lamented Others’ propensity for obfuscating their answers. It drove him mad with frustration. But Marc does not find the opaqueness of speech nearly as bothersome. He doesn’t, because he sees something Jean never did: the truth is rarely one thing, and trying to encapsulate it in a single statement is impossible.

  Others may speak in riddles, but their turns of phrase carry far more truth than any direct statement could.

  Seeing that, he repeats his answer. “I am who I need to be.”

  “And who you need to be is one separate from Jean?” Astarte answers. She is the demigoddess of lust, and this is not her first riddle.

  “Separating from Jean. He and I are still one, but with every experience, every breath, every evening like this”—he points at the mattress littered with sleeping bodies—“I am becoming something else. I …” He smiles as he thinks about Penemue, the fallen drunk of an angel. What would he say about Marc’s constantly changing state? Ahh, yes, that’s right … “I keep evolving,” Marc says with a grin.

  Astarte nods. “And where is Jean now?”

  Marc shrugs. “Still on the island, I suspect. Still questioning every move he makes as he desperately tries to do what’s right.”

  “And you? Do you struggle? Are you desperate to do what’s right?”

  “Partly. I’m just as compelled to do what’s right, but I have yet to understand why. But as for the struggle, the desperation … I feel none of that.”

  “No,” Astarte says, dropping her cigarette in a half-drunk glass of wine. The cherry hisses to silence and with a final puff of smoke, turns to ash. “You are not conflicted, are you? You are—”

  But before she can finish her thought, the world goes dark.

  The rising sun is no more.

  ↔

  “What the …?” Marc starts as his instincts—or rather, Jean’s instincts—kick in. There is no way this is natural.

  Gazing over the bodies on the bed, the creatures passed out, Marc considers if any of them could have done this. Perhaps as some playful ploy to enhance round two. Darken this room so that the participants must feel their way around the room. But everyone is so exhausted that the possibility of another round is impossible to fathom, even for Marc, who has never felt better in his—albeit short—life.

  No, whatever has caused this is not coming from this room. It is coming from elsewhere.

  Astarte and Marc stand in the pitch black of her room. All he can hear is Astarte fumbling for something before he hears a spark followed by a flame that illuminates her face.

  A face, Marc notes, painted with concern. She, too, must have sensed the unnaturalness of this and drawn the same conclusion.

  They are under attack.

  The other thing Marc notices is that although Astarte’s lighter shows her face, it does so in a dampened, almost muted fashion. What’s more, it shows little else, the rest of the room just as dark as before she was able to create a light source. Whatever magic dampens the light of the rising sun, it also stops any other light from shining bright or reaching far.

  “What is happening?” Astarte says. She adds, “Whoever is doing this is burning through a hell of lot of time. They have to be, because darkness magic like this is costly.”

  Marc nods in agreement—not that Astarte can see this—as he searches his mind, or rather Jean’s, for some clue as to what this is. Already he feels his connection with his other self severing; drawing upon the other’s memories is becoming harder and harder to do.

  But some things are hard to forget. Marc recalls a single, terrifying memory of a time Jean encountered this kind of magic. It was during a hunt.

  No, not a hunt, for that implies Jean was the hunter. It was when he was being hunted by a creature so fearsome that the gods themselves once tried to lock him away. But that is another story. What Marc recalls is the fear that Jean felt as the creature—the … Erlking—cast similar magic to impede Jean’s attempts to escape.

  But how did that battle end? With Jean victorious. Of that much Marc is certain. Jean defeated the Erlking, taking his hunting sword as a trophy. So whoever is casting this magic is either using a trick out of his playbook, or the Erlking wasn’t as dead as Jean thought him to be.

  Either way, Marc cannot indulge in any more recollections, for the room fills with the low bass hum of growling dogs.

  Hounds, Huntresses and Hate

  Marc may be blind, but he is far from helpless. He listens for the coming attack.

  He hears the soft padding of the laelaps’s feet as it moves along the hotel room’s carpet. Then there is an almost imperceptible crouching sound, followed by nothing. Marc knows the creature is in the air, leaping at one of its intended targets, but he cannot tell who …

  Will the beast attack him or Astarte? Or perhaps someone on the bed? There is no way to tell, but rather than be paralyzed by doubt or second-guessing, Marc charges toward Astarte. Pushing her down, he simultaneously kicks behind him while throwing his arm into a backhanded swing.

  His foot flies wildly through empty air, but his hand connects with fur and teeth, knocking the doglike creature to the side.

  No longer seeing Astarte, Marc says, “Get on the bed, form a perimeter and get ready.”

  She doesn’t speak, but the rustling movement tells him that Astarte is doing exactly that. As soon as she is on the bed, several of the once writhing bodies begin to stir. A deep, baritone voice that Marc only heard grunt the night before asks, “What’s going on?”

  In response, a howl sounds as two more clawed feet enter the room. He also hears the first laelaps stir. Marc’s blow w
as heavy enough to stun it, but from the way it growled, he knows that the creature is not out of the fight.

  Three of them, he thinks. Three. And from the way they move, he doubts they are as blind as him. Or if they are, then the dark doesn’t hinder them.

  Closing his eyes—as useless as they are now—Marc crouches, trying to determine which way the door is. He knows that if his back is to the bed, the door is to his left. He is sure that this is the Erlking or one of his many followers attacking. Or perhaps it is another Other wishing to claim the Erlking’s status as the greatest hunter of all by felling the one who killed the Elf King.

  But I’m not the one who killed him, he thinks, knowing such a pathetic defense will not serve him in this battle.

  Deserved or not, this is his fight, and if he can’t get out of the room, then the innocents behind him will be punished for something his other self did a long, long time ago.

  Focusing on where he thinks the doorway must be, he thrusts his body forward. But the doorway is small, and as he throws his body through its narrow pathway, his shoulder hits the doorframe with a bone-crunching thud; he hears his collarbone crack. Grimacing in pain, he fumbles out the door when two of the doglike beast charge at him.

  He tries to get of the way, but blind as he is, it’s luck of the draw whether feinting right or left will do anything. Marc chooses right. A poor choice; one of the dogs slams into him as another clamps down on his wrist with crushing force.

  Much to his surprise, Marc does not scream. Despite the enormity of the pain, he makes little show of it. This is so unlike Jean who, having suffered lesser injuries in the past, would have screamed like a fresh baby just out of the womb.

  The second dog still clamps onto him, and before the first can leap away from Marc to resume its attack, he grabs it and does the only thing he can think of. He runs for the floor’s railing and throws himself over the edge.

  ↔

  Falling into darkness is far more terrifying than falling with light. With light, one can see the approaching ground, ready themselves for the inevitable impact. But in the dark, the hard ground can come at any moment, and even though the fall is brief and the ground is near, Marc feels fear for the first time since coming into existence.

  He’s not afraid of the pain. He knew what this fall would cost him before he tumbled over the edge.

  What he fears is the uncertainty. That is what grips his soul—should he have one. And with every nanosecond he spends falling, he wonders if this will be the moment of impact. When it is not, his fear cycles back. Will this be the moment of impact?

  Will this be it?

  Will this be it?

  Until it finally is. Marc feels relief as the breath is knocked out of him and the familiar pain of his body hitting marble washes over him. He relishes that; he would gladly jump off a hundred buildings than deal with that uncertainty again.

  That, and Marc is no fool. During the fall, Marc twisted his body so that the laelaps would hit the ground first, his bony body acting as a cushion to his fall.

  The laelaps that had bitten his wrist detached during the fall, and with a whimpering yelp, hit the ground several feet away. But the one Marc gripped made no noise as it hit the ground.

  Well, no noise came from its fang-filled lips. There was a splattering sound, accented by the crushing of bones and flesh as its body flattened under the weight of Marc’s own.

  “One down, two hurt, and I’m just getting started,” Marc says as he gets to his feet. He tries to access just how injured he is: his wrist, his shoulder, bruises from the fall. Feeling around, he looks for any more punctures on his body. He knows that the adrenaline of battle would hide any wounds. He can’t feel anything—just the soft, gushy mess of the laelaps’s body caking his own.

  As he considers his next move, Marc hears a scream followed by a blinding light filling the room.

  ↔↔↔

  Hecate’s new moon form sends her hounds into the hotel and up the stairwell. Despite being made of light, her sister’s magic is so complete that New Moon finds it difficult to see. She knows that she must end the foul human quickly, for with every passing second that her other self maintains the magic, she too ages.

  And thus death draws nearer. How ironic, she thinks, if this day we manage to end the human, only to die of old age in our efforts.

  She puts the thought out of her mind; her hounds will make short work of this human. With his death, they will finally be able to move on and find their place in this GoneGod World.

  Her hounds are just as blind as their prey, but they are Hecate’s. They are used to hunting in such conditions, and long ago learned to use the less deceptive sense of smell when seeking out their prey.

  She hears them in the room, feels their rage as they attack the human and one other inside. Perhaps this will be a swift victory. Then, from the door bursts forth the human, one of the hounds in his arms. Another clamps down on his wrist as the three tumble over the edge of the stairwell and falls to the ground below. With a deafening thud, she watches as one of her loyal beasts is crushed into oblivion.

  Bastard, she thinks.

  Illuminating the hotel, she blinds the human and reveals her location. Then, pulling out a mace made from the very star that hung on Orion’s belt, she charges forth.

  New Moon, No Moon

  Marc turns to see a hooded figure standing before him. Despite the impossible, blinding brightness, he’s able to focus on the center of the halo, as if part of this creature’s magic is to be able to see her face even as the rest of the world is denied to him.

  And the face he sees? It’s unmistakable. Marc recognizes that face, but he doesn’t know where from. Her features would be marvelous—high cheekbones, kind eyes, beautiful and inviting lips—if they weren’t contorted in fury and anger. Marc searches John-Luc’s memories, trying to find any clue as to who she may be. But he knows that he has never met her before. She is a new player, but still someone from his past; how he knows this, he is not sure. She is someone he has never met, and yet she is entirely familiar.

  Despite being blinded, he senses her hand in motion. A second, somehow even brighter light appears over her head, and Mark knows that she wields a weapon. He does not stand still to figure out what kind of weapon; now is the time to move.

  Making his way to the stairwell behind the elevators, Marc heads downstairs. One flight down is an exit outside, and he figures if he can only get to the helicopter, he can use the heavy, mounted gun to level the playing field. He may not be able to see his target, but when you’re spraying your surroundings with heavy shells, all you really have to do is get close.

  But before he can make it outside, another one of those damn dogs jumps on his back. How many are there? Marc wonders as he tumbles down the second flight of stairs into the dining hall below.

  ↔

  Marc knows that he needs to get outside—out in the open—if he wants a chance at surviving the night. But a monstrous hound stands between him and the closest exit. To escape from any other place would require running through the basement of Jean’s hotel, in the dark, moving while using only his hands to feel around and the memories of another man to guide his path.

  Marc doesn’t like the odds of success. The only other alternative is to stand his ground and fight the hound, so he tilts his head to listen for it.

  It is behind him and to the left, about ten steps up. Given the angle of the stairwell’s descent and the three yards between them, he is sure the hound will cease to pursue him on foot, instead leaping from its vantage point onto his back.

  Of course, he has no way of knowing this. He is not facing the hound and even if he was, his sight is oppressed by this magical darkness. But Marc is sure that he is right.

  The hellhound’s location, its next move … Marc simply knows. Just as he also knows that these hellhounds can see in the dark.

  And he knows that sight in such circumstances isn’t always an advantage.

  Ma
rc takes three more steps. Instead of continuing to run as the hound would expect, he pushes himself to the left, hugging the wall as tightly as he can.

  He times it perfectly. The hellhound leaps past him, and because it leapt with the ferociousness intended to knock the human over, it sails past him, knocking itself against the wall.

  Marc knows he has two seconds before the hellhound shakes off any injuries it might have sustained and continues its pursuit.

  Jean-Luc would run. He would head out the door and try to make it to the helicopter. He would regroup and plan his next move.

  But Marc is not Jean-Luc. Last night proved that—and so does his next move.

  Leaping from where he stood, he lands hard on the hellhound’s back. How he knew where the hound was, he is not sure. Perhaps he heard where it crashed and aimed for that point. Or maybe his eyes are adjusting enough to the dark to make out the shadows within the shadows.

  Or maybe he just knew.

  Whatever it was that guided him did so with uncanny accuracy. Marc’s bare feet land on the back of the hellhound’s neck and with a bone-chilling crunch, he hears the beast’s neck snap.

  Then he feels it flail around in its death throes. It is dying, but based on its injury, it will be hours before the mercy of death finally takes it. Until then, it will suffer.

  “Good,” Marc whispers, walking up the stairs. “I will leave you to your pain. Just one more difference between me and Jean-Luc.”

  Part XVII

  Hell

  Prologue to Part 3—