Shooting Eros - The Emuna Chronicles: Complete Boxset: Books 1 - 3

by Benjamin Laskin

  “I wonder how he did it,” Ellen said.

  “Illusion. You know, like those magicians and illusionists do. They perform all sorts of amazing feats that no one can figure out.”

  “Yeah, but even when the tape was played back in slow motion for some famous illusionist guy, he admitted that he had no idea how the man pulled it off.”

  “Someone will figure it out,” Jill said confidently.

  “So, is he still in jail, or what?” Ellen asked.

  “Until they decide what to do with him, I hear. Sounds like a mental patient to me. Anyway, sweetie, how was the date? You and Professor Matterson seem to be seeing a lot of each other these days.”

  “I guess we are.”

  “So, how serious are you two? Have you slept with him yet?”

  “Jill, show a little class, would you?”

  “Oh, Ellen. Don’t be such a prude.”

  “I’m not a prude. I just think some things aren’t anyone’s business.”

  “So you are sleeping together,” Jill said approvingly.

  “No, we most definitely are not.”

  “Really?” Jill said in a mix of disappointment and astonishment.

  “Really.”

  “But you want to.”

  “Jill…”

  “He wants to, I’m sure of that.”

  “Jill, enough. Drop it. Do I ask about your sex life?”

  “I wish you would, because it stinks.”

  “If that is what it takes to get you off my case. Have you been to a marriage counselor yet?”

  “Three,” Jill snorted. “I tell you, I think they are all as screwed up as we are. Aren’t there any marriage counselors who haven’t been divorced themselves?”

  “Well,” Ellen said, “considering eight out of ten marriages today end in divorce, I suppose it shouldn’t be too surprising.”

  Jill sighed. “Why the hell does anyone even bother getting married?”

  “Actually, fewer and fewer do.”

  “Yeah, well, if you ask me, that’s a few too many. Hell, I could kind of understand when we used to have kids, but who in her right mind wants to have those pesky things anymore? One kid, maybe, and occasionally you’ll run into some freakish, atavistic family with two, but if you don’t go that route, what’s the point? Nostalgia, that’s what it must be. Nostalgia! Oh, and of course,” she added bitterly, “to provide work for wedding planners, caterers, and marriage counselors. What a racket.” Jill sighed and returned to her dilemma. “I have got to get out of this miserable situation.”

  “So you’re going to divorce Jack?” Ellen said, disappointed.

  “What’s one more statistic?” Jill answered flippantly, running a spread of fingers through her cinnamon-blond hair. “Really. You know, Jack wants kids—two of the little leeches! I don’t want any. So it’s best we go our own ways. I’m sure there is a sucker out there for him somewhere.”

  “And for you?”

  “My sucker? I don’t know, but hopefully someone more debonair and intelligent and sexy. A sensitive intellectual. Someone like, well, like your Professor Matterson. Not him, of course,” Jill was quick to add, “but someone like him. Does he want kids?”

  “I never asked. He was married once before, but no kids.”

  “Well, you had better ask. Learn from my mistakes, Ellen. Do you?”

  “Want kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honestly, I’ve been too busy to have given it much thought.”

  “I suggest you do because what you decide may be a show-stopper.”

  “Who said anything about marriage anyway?” Ellen said.

  “Honey, if you’re dating him and you’re not sleeping with him, then what else could you be thinking?”

  “We’re just dating, that’s all. Hell, half of the time it seems that neither of us knows what the other is really thinking.”

  “Then I say that it’s about time you start finding out.”

  “Time!” Ellen reached across the table for Jill’s wrist and checked her watch. “Oh crap, I’ve got to run. I start my testing today. There are probably people waiting outside my office door right now.”

  “For what?”

  “It’s part of my research,” Ellen said, throwing her things into her daypack. “I’ll explain later. And, Jill, maybe you should try one more marriage counselor before you toss in the towel.”

  “Why? What’s the use?” Jill said, exhaustion oozing from her words.

  “Because I’d like to know someone who wasn’t divorced or in a messed up relationship. And, well, at the very least your conscience will be clear. You can say you gave it your best shot.”

  “My conscience is always clear,” Jill said. “I’m a modern woman. It’s my life that’s muddled.”

  “Yes, well, whose isn’t?”

  “Okay,” Jill sighed. “I’ll think about it if you think about what I said.”

  “Deal,” Ellen said. “Oh, and can I take this?” She reached for the newspaper. “I want to read the rest of the story when I have the time.”

  “He’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.” Ellen kissed Jill on the cheek and hustled off to her interviews.

  26

  Starman

  A black and white pulled up to the curb in front of the Sunny Day Homeless Shelter. Officer Sam Jeffreys got out of the passenger side and opened the door to the backseat. He pointed to the shelter’s entrance where a group of homeless men were sunning themselves on the steps leading into the building.

  “I called ahead for you,” the dark haired, handsome policeman said as Cyrus got out of the car and joined the officer on the sidewalk. “They got the only bed left in the city.”

  “Thank you, Officer Jeffreys,” Cyrus said, extending his hand. “That was very considerate of you.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “You are doing it very well. Thank you, Sir.” Cyrus smiled and turned to walk up the steps leading into the shelter.

  “Hey, buddy,” the officer said after him.

  Cyrus turned. “Yes?”

  “Got any money?”

  “I’m very sorry,” Cyrus replied regretfully, patting the pockets of his jumpsuit. “I’d give you some money if I had any. But I’m afraid I haven’t a single cent to offer you.”

  The officer laughed and shook his head. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and fished out three $100 global bills, the ever-inflating world currency. He stuffed them into Cyrus’s hand. “In case you want to pick up a toothbrush, shampoo, razor, maybe a change of clothes. There’s a drug store around the corner, and just down from there, a Salvation Army.” He pointed.

  Cyrus looked at the bills like they were alien artifacts. “Yes, thank you. I suppose I will need such things. God bless you, Officer. I’ll make it up to you one of these days.”

  The officer smirked knowingly and gave Cyrus a friendly slap to the shoulder. Doing so stung the palm of his hand. He felt as if he had slapped an oak tree. Jeffreys hid his surprise and said, “Take care, pal, and stay out of trouble, would ya?”

  Cyrus nodded and watched as the officer got back into the patrol car.

  “Funny guy,” Jeffreys said to his mustached partner, O’Reilly.

  “A riot,” O’Reilly said. “His little goaltending prank cost me five-hundred globals. I’m getting that money back from you on the handball court this weekend.”

  Officer Jeffreys grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go eat. I’ll buy you a burrito.” The car pulled away and Officer Jeffreys turned for a parting glance. He saw Cyrus waving goodbye. The cop raised his hand in farewell and turned back around. He chuckled.

  “What’s up?” O’Reilly asked. “You were in a foul mood all morning, and now you’re laughing and buying me burritos.”

  “I dunno,” Jeffreys replied. “But you’re right. Huh…”

  “In fact, ever since we picked up that weirdo.”

  “He’s harmless.”

  “I know he’s h
armless, but he’s still a weirdo.”

  “It’s like I know him from somewhere,” Jeffreys said.

  “You’d remember a guy like that.”

  “Maybe Sara would remember. For some reason, I think he was at our wedding.”

  “Those blue eyes. Good-looking like that. Hell, yeah; she’d remember. Chicks don’t forget faces. Especially handsome ones like that lucky dude. I’m just sayin’. But if he had been there, wouldn’t he have said something?”

  “They told us the guy has amnesia, so maybe, no.”

  “Well, you know where to find him. I doubt he’ll be going anywhere. There is no where in this stinking city to go.”

  “Maybe I’ll drop in on him in a few days, just to see how he’s doing.”

  “That isn’t in our job description, ya know?” O’Reilly said.

  “I know. Just sayin’.”

  Cyrus watched the patrol car pass from view as he stashed the three hundred globals into the pocket on his sleeve.

  The October sunshine felt good, but most everything else did not. He took a deliberate step, and then another, noting the sensation. Compared to his angelic life, he felt like he was walking in lead boots, breathing with a snorkel, and peering through greasy goggles. Everything seemed ponderous, thick, soupy, muffled, stifling. The sheer physicality of being human weighed on him like a wet blanket. He wondered if he’d get used to it. His head hurt and he was very thirsty.

  He also wondered how much memory he had lost. He closed his eyes and tried to recall his heavenly abode. To his great relief, he could still see it, though the memory was already in the initial stages of fading and becoming dreamlike. He called forth the faces of his friend, Captain Volk, and me, his loyal student, Kohai. How glad he was that he hadn’t lost us completely. But for how much longer?

  Cyrus looked around, deciding what to do. This fact too was disturbing. He never really had to decide what to do before. For centuries, he always knew what he had to do. He existed to do a particular job; to carry out matches. Sure, it involved decisions regarding training, planning, and the slaying of yetzers, but everything he did was geared towards fulfilling his mission as a cupid, as a malach.

  Now, suddenly, he had no such divinely sanctioned mission, no goal, and no purpose. Not one that was handed to him, anyway. Yesterday his errand was saving the world from a loveless future; today it was buying a toothbrush! Disturbing indeed, and very depressing.

  Depressing? Are the yetzers already onto me? He wondered. “Oh, no you don’t,” Cyrus said aloud. “Beat it!”

  A woman passerby heard him and gave the stranger a wide berth. She noted the shelter and the scrum congregated on the steps outside, quickly put two and two together, and fled the scene.

  “Okay,” Cyrus said to himself, “first things first.”

  He marched up the platform of steps that led into the Sunny Day Homeless Shelter, squeezing between the shelter’s residents who were sunning themselves on the steps, not one of whom would muster the effort to budge an inch out of his way. Cyrus ignored the cackles, whistles, and snide comments they made about his attire.

  Upon entering the lobby, he scanned the premises for a drinking fountain. The lobby was small and stank of BO and Lysol. Across the room, beyond an arrangement of ratty, secondhand furniture draped with newspapers, magazines, and snoozing men, he spotted a water cooler. He crossed the room, pulled a funnel-shaped paper cup from the dispenser, and drank. He drank some twenty tiny cups worth before he finally felt satiated.

  “‘Scuse me, mista. You a guest here?”

  Cyrus turned and walked over to the reception window, which resembled more of a caged-in ticket booth at a railway station or racetrack. At six-feet five inches, Cyrus had to bend to get a look at the unsmiling, heavy set, exceedingly buxom woman who had called out to him.

  “Hello, ma’am,” he said cheerfully. “I have a reservation. My name is Cyrus.”

  “Cyrus what?”

  “Just Cyrus.”

  The woman rolled her eyes and checked her computer. “I don’t see no Cyrus.”

  “Cyrus with a C?” he said.

  “One sec. No, no Cyrus with a C or S,” she said. “You sure you got a reservation?”

  “I was told by a police officer that a bed had been reserved for me here.”

  “Police you say?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “Hold on…” The woman tapped at the keys. “Nope. No such message. No such name. No such nothin’, honey.”

  “Hmm. Well, is there a spare bed here?”

  “No. Full house.”

  “So, even if you had a record of me, I wouldn’t have been able to stay here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Check back tomorrow. Folk wander off, get arrested, die. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Chas v’chalila!”

  “Say what?”

  “God forbid.”

  “Hell, beats sleepin’ on the street.”

  “God will provide,” Cyrus said assuredly.

  “Hah!” the woman snorted. “He ain’t never provided nothin’ for me, sugar.”

  “You don’t say?” Cyrus replied, dubious. “You might want to ponder a little more deeply the events of your life. You might discover more help than you think.”

  “I do say! Don’t go tellin’ me my business, Mr. Fancy Pants! There ain’t no G—”

  Not wanting to encourage her, Cyrus covered his ears and beat a quick retreat from the counter. He didn’t need his special powers to recognize that the woman was possessed by a Victim Yetzer. He downed ten more cups of water, and then exited the premises through a gauntlet of more harassment from the throng of homeless.

  “Hey, Starman,” called out one of the men after him.

  “Pardon me?” Cyrus replied, turning to face the man.

  The heavyset man ran a hand over his week-old stubble and gave Cyrus the once-over. He smiled mischievously, revealing two rows of crooked, badly stained teeth. “Starman,” he repeated. “You look like you’ve come from outer space.” Behind the man the others snickered and brayed their agreement.

  “An alien!” clucked one of the men.

  Cyrus smiled and nodded good-naturedly. “Have a nice day, fellas,” he said, and turned to walk away.

  The bearded man bounded out in front of him. “Yo, Starman, you too good to talk to us?”

  “Not at all. I have some matters to attend to, that’s all.”

  The big man touched Cyrus’s jumpsuit. “Soft,” he cooed, making sure the others heard him.

  His pals responded with catcalls.

  “Give it to me, Starman,” the man said.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. It’s my only clothing.”

  “I’ll trade you what I got on for it.”

  Cyrus noted the man’s grimy jeans and mustard smeared, stinky flannel shirt. “I’m sorry, but no thank you. This uniform has sentimental meaning for me.”

  “Hear that?” the man said to his buddies. “Starman here says his spacesuit has sentimental meaning!”

  Sensing some entertainment to spice up another monotonous day, the rest of the men, six in all, got up and encircled Cyrus.

  “Well, then, how about that cap of yours?” the leader said. Without waiting for a reply, he snatched for Cyrus’s hat.

  Cyrus intercepted the man’s wrist, and with an Aikido-like move, spun the man down and face first into the sidewalk. The man’s buddies immediately jumped into the fray. In a matter of seconds, Cyrus’s whirlwind of flowing arm and legwork reduced the thugs into a groaning heap.

  The leader of the pack wiped at his scraped and stinging face, as the others coddled their arms, elbows, wrists, and chests, trying to rub away the radiating pain.

  “Who the fuck are you!” the leader demanded.

  “A stranger in a very strange land,” Cyrus answered.

  Cyrus walked off, shaking his head in disappointment
. “That took way too long,” he muttered. He checked the palm of his hand. “Okay, first things first.”

  27

  Skipping Odds

  “What’s the matter, Commander?” Judge Minos said as he fed chunks of bread to a bevy of ducks floating along the grassy shore of a small lake. “I thought you’d show a little more gratitude.”

  “This isn’t the way I wanted it,” Sett said. “I wanted to earn my promotion, not stumble into it by default.”

  “I can appreciate your sense of honor, but isn’t loyalty a trait of a true leader? You were as qualified to become Supreme Commander of the Cupid Corps as Captain Cyrus was. He, however, was disloyal and didn’t know how to follow orders. You do, and so you see, you were the better man all along.”

  “Don’t you think that Captain Cyrus should have at least had a trial?”

  “We have Eros! When Eros decrees, who are we to judge?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” Minos tore off another piece of bread and tossed it among the ducks. “Your first duty is to complete the match that our disgraced captain failed to carry out. This match is of utmost importance. You are to finish it immediately.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Minos withdrew a file from under his black gown and handed it to Sett. “Study this and learn the case well. Take as many cupid fighters as you need. It is likely that the demons you are to face are both numerous and of a particularly ferocious variety. Clearly, they were too intimidating for even the intrepid Captain Cyrus, for what other reason could he have had to stall as he did?”

  “Perhaps he felt that this match was not a proper match,” Sett said.

  “Felt?” Minos spat, stabbing his walking cane into the ground. “We are not here to feel.” He drew the word out with his nasal twang. “We are here to serve Eros. Not a proper match? Arrogance! Eros does not make mistakes!”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Not another word of such talk, do you hear me, Commander? I won’t stand for it. Eros was too forgiving with Captain Cyrus. Perhaps our greathearted father believed that the captain’s previous record merited the patience he bestowed upon him. Three chances to carry out his mission! Three opportunities to prove his fealty to his maker, and he threw them away. Such disdain, such ingratitude! I am certain that Eros will not be so tolerant the next time around.”