GoneGod World: A Paradise Lot Urban Fantasy
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Bonus Content:
OK—so we’re accumulating quite the cast and growing quite the world … a world that cannot be contained by just following Jean-Luc’s story. That’s why I’m in the process of writing a series of short stories that will NEVER BE SOLD, and are reserved for fans of the series.
CLICK HERE IF YOU’D LIKE EXCLUSIVE ACCESS TO PARADISE LOT CONTENT
Prologue
The gods are gone. All of them.
I’ve had the same dream every night since they left. I’m running from a devouring darkness that rushes over the world like a tidal wave of emptiness. I run on charred earth, unsure if the darkness or fear will get me first. In the distance, I can just see a pinprick of light ahead. If I can get to it, I will be safe. My legs burn and my lungs heave. I run and run toward the light, but before I reach it, the world stops. Not like a ledge or a shore; the world just stops. Null and void. And I know, in that way you do in dreams, that I’m standing at the end of everything.
I turn around. If I’m going to die, I want to see it coming. The darkness slows down as the rushing wave breaks into a creeping black fog. It knows I’m trapped. It’s savoring my terror.
Just before the darkness envelops me, a burning light grows from the Void.
Like the darkness, it blinds.
I am surrounded by light and dark until a hand reaches from the burning halo and pulls me somewhere else.
That’s when the dreams differ, because every night she takes me somewhere new.
↔
Tonight, we walk on a sandy beach that reminds me of where I proposed to her. This is more secluded though—there’s no other sign of life. An imperfect memory of a place made perfect by time and imagination.
I’m in linen shorts and little else. Bella is in the same sleeveless sundress that she wears on all our nightly rendezvous. It’s the dress she wore the night we got engaged; the one she wore when we drove up to PopPop’s cabin for what would pass as our honeymoon.
The dress she was wearing the day the Others killed her.
The hem is dry despite her being ankle-deep in the ocean. She’s standing next to me, so close that we could hold hands. But we never do. Even though I want it more than anything, we never touch. I don’t know why.
“Hi, Bella,” I say. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the blue, cloudless sky. “I thought you hated salt water. What was it you used to say? ‘Salt’s a preservative and I don’t like the thought of anything preserving me.’ ”
“Dust to dust,” she says, still staring at the same spot in the sky. A single cumulus cloud has crept in from beyond the horizon.
“Yeah, yeah—‘dust to dust.’ Mummify me, I say. I want to be this beautiful forever.”
“I stand by my words,” she chuckles, looking at me for the first time that night. “I wanted life to use me up, and when it was done with me, I wanted to fade away into whatever came next.”
“And did you?”
“Nothing comes next. You know that.”
Yeah, I do. Everyone knows that Heaven is closed and Hell doesn’t exist.
“So what are you? A ghost, haunting my dreams?” I ask. The words come out bitter and angry.
Her mood darkens and in a distant voice she says, “Ghosts aren’t real. Not anymore.”
“Well, they kind of are,” I say. “Have you spoken to your mother recently?”
A smile creeps across her face as she shoots me her “You better behave” look.
“Be nice. You promised.” Her smile fades and she is looking at the horizon again. The lone cloud has been replaced with a gray, ominous skyline. She points. “There’s somewhere you need to be.”
I hear the distant roll of thunder as the wind picks up.
“There is nowhere I want to be,” I say, raising my voice so she can hear me over the wind.
A fork of lightning strikes the sand beside us as a gale force wind blows in from the sea, far too fast to be natural. The once blue sky is now blanketed in grays.
“I didn’t say it was somewhere you wanted to be. There is somewhere you need to be,” she says, flattening the wrinkles of her impossibly dry dress.
“I don’t want this to end. Not yet.”
“Oh Jean-Luc, I don’t want you to go either.” She captures me with her intense cerulean blue eyes and, in a serious tone I’ve seldom heard her use, says, “Jean, there’s a storm coming. The thing about storms is that they always end. Remember that, and remember your promise.”
I nod. My promise. A promise I made to the dream of my dead wife one lonely night in the middle of nowhere. A promise that I would go to Paradise Lot and help Others. A promise I plan to keep.
The storm is getting stronger. I need to wake up. “Will you be back?” I ask her this every time I have to leave.
“Whenever you sleep,” she always replies, smiling. “Someone has to save you from your dreams.”
I know she will. She always does.
“In this life and the next,” I say, just before my body jolts as the real world comes into focus.
↔↔↔
My mobile phone was ringing. I glanced at the clock. Three in the morning. Only one person would call me at this time: Penemue.
Chapter 1
Of Angels & Men
I parked in front of the Paradise Lot Police Station, to where I had been summoned—if such a lofty term could be used for being roused from a perfect dream at such a GoneGodless hour—to bail out a certain guest of mine. My head throbbed from lack of sleep. I hated being woken up; I hated being taken away from Bella.
From outside, the station looked like any other: red brick building; a boring backlit sign with the name in big blue letters; a flex-face shield above the door. Typical—until you went inside.
The first indication that the Paradise Lot Police Station, and by extension the world, was different was that the entrance had been unceremoniously enlarged. Whereas the doors were previously wide enough to accommodate three humans standing shoulder to shoulder, now they were big enough for an elephant.
The next indication that it wasn’t your typical cops’ HQ was who manned the front desk: Medusa. As in turn-you-to-stone lady-of-legend and friggin’ Queen-of-the-Gorgons Medusa. As I walked in, at least seven of her thirty or so snake dreadlocks looked up. “Jean,” she said, not taking her own eyes off the computer screen, “what brings you here at …” One of the snakes looked at the clock on the wall. “Three in the morning?”
“Same old, same old,” I said. She giggled and pulled out a form for me. I avoided eye contact as I took it from her. I wasn’t afraid she’d turn me to stone—she could, if she was willing to burn through a couple years of her life—it was just that some habits die harder than others. It didn’t matter that in this Brave New GoneGod World she no longer guarded the Golden Fleece, or that she, like all cops, had taken a vow to serve and protect. Nor did it matter that she was mortal, with all the insecurities, doubts and fears that entailed …
She was still friggin’ Medusa.
Her giggles faded, and a shy hand took the signed form back. A few taps on a keyboard later a hurt voice said, “Officer Steve will be with you in a moment.” I got the feeling one of her snakes was eyeing me, which was confirmed by a disdainful hiss.
I reminded myself that humans didn’t look at her out of the same superstitious habit as me. Hell, most Others probably avoided looking at her for the same damn reason. Medusa, like all Others, was newly mortal—thirteen years to be exact—and I guess she went through all the existential angst any teenager did. After all, wasn’t not being seen the basis of countless teenage vampire novels?
Oh, hell …
Medusa looked up immediately, and my heart fluttered in fear as our eyes connected.
I did not turn to stone.
And really looking at her for the first time, I noted that the Medusa of legend had a bad rep. She wasn’t hideous—hell, she wasn’t even plain. High cheekbones housed perfect little dimples on a kind face.
Unused to eye contact, she turned away with a bashful flutter—and that’s when I noticed she possessed a more than ample, perfectly formed bosom that heaved quite seductively with every breath.
Medusa was hot!
Hot enough that any serious suitor would consider a bath of snakes just to get used to scaly skin crawling all over them. Plus, Astarte, the succubus who lived in my hotel, had informed me that between the sheets, the snakes were quite the erotic apparatus—for both parties.
“Oooh,” Medusa said, shivering at my touch, “Marty likes you.”
“Marty?” I asked, retracting my hand. “You named him?”
“Only the mains,” she said. “This is Johnny, Alfie, Rocky, Jimmy, Cory, Georgie, and you’ve already met Marty. What, don’t you name yours?” she asked.
“What? My hair?”
“No, silly,” she said, her eyes sliding down my torso.
“Oh! Oh … Ahh, I suppose I did, once. Well, not me, but, my wife. I mean …” I stuttered, feeling my face burn red.
Medusa broke my awkward stammering by touching my sleeve.
“I like your jacket,” she said.
There was something about my jacket. It existed in that sweet spot of representing different things for different people. It was black and collarless. To some, I looked like a hipster priest, my white T-shirt acting as the clerical collar. Others saw me as a sort of fashionable monk, back from years in the mountains. Astarte said the jacket reminded her of an ancient demon called the Judge who separated the righteous from the wicked—and then burned the righteous. Sounded like a great guy.
Medusa looked at me expectantly. Oh, hell … I suddenly felt like I was back in junior high. What should I do? Maybe I should compliment something about her? Perhaps one of her snakes? If so, which one? And if I picked one, would the others be offended? And would they be venomous?
The switchboard beeped—and I was literally saved by the bell. Her snakes hissed at the computer as she buzzed me through to the back.
“Officer Steve will meet you through there,” she said, disappointed.
Just before entering, I turned to say goodbye. I was met by a head full of snakes, all of which simultaneously winked at me.
Hellelujah!
↔
Officer Steve met me at the door, shifting from four legs to two and standing erect before me with an ease that implied every creature could do so. Being one of the Billy Goat Gruff brothers, Officer Steve had a cubicle shaped more like a stable than an office space.
Serious, efficient, smart and diligent, the Gruff brothers made perfect cops, despite looking like your typical—albeit very large—goat. Officer Steve was the youngest and thus smallest Gruff, which meant he was the size of a lion.
“Hi, Steve,” I started, but he lifted a hoof, indicating that he needed a minute. Then his hoof fanned out into finger-like appendages, which he put into his overcoat to search for a pen in pockets not designed for hooves.
As he fumbled in his pockets, I surveyed the room and was greeted by the hustle and bustle of Paradise Lot Police Station. Just like any human station, this one was filled with angry cops and even angrier cops. Except here, the average beat cop had fangs. An annoyed valkyrie led a cuffed dark elf to an interrogation room, a despondent three-headed cerberus booked several stoned fairies. A minotaur detective with a pinstriped tie sat in his nipple-high fuzzy cubicle, filling out paperwork. Several broken pencils littered his desk, all destroyed by powerful hands more used to war hammers than No. 2 lead pencils.
When the gods left with only a “Thank you for believing in us, but it’s not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck,” Others were forced from their homes to live on the mortal plane. Some fought this change, but most Others accepted their new lot in life, trying to make the best out of a bad situation. Paradise Lot Police Station was an example of them trying. The station was filled with legends trying to fix the problem created by our mutual gods. But even legends have limitations and these guys had been utterly defeated, not by mortal combat but by a far more formidable foe—human bureaucracy.
Officer Steve finally managed to pull out his pen. Clicking it awake, he asked, “Jean-Luc Matthias?”
“Oh, come on, Steve, we spoke less than an hour ago on the phone. What’s more, we’ve met over a dozen times before.”
The Gruff gave me a blank look, his pen hovering over his clipboard as he waited for my answer.
“Yes, yes—I’m Jean-Luc Matthias,” I said, annoyed, doing my best to iron out my frustration as I reminded myself that the Gruffs were just doing their best in the GoneGod world.
The Gruffs, more diligent than most, studied human customs, determined to fit in as best they could. But since they were creatures of story, they preferred tales to dry explanation, finding particular comfort in the legends of Sherlock Holmes. Hence the London Fog overcoats, heavy wool hats and smokeless pipes. At least they were trying.
Officer Steve ticked a box and handed me a form to fill out.
“What happened this time?” I asked as I filled in my information.
“Fighting, I’m afraid,” the Gruff brayed in a British accent. Damn Sherlock.
“Again?” I said, surprised—Penemue was an arrogant pain in the ass, but a fighter he was not.
“Indeed, but this time it is a bit more serious. You see, your feathered friend was engaging in fisticuffs outside the Palisade.”
“What?” I said. “What the hell was he doing there?”
“Not a clue. But he’s been roughed up pretty bad. When we arrived on the scene, three HuMans were pinning him to the ground like a butterfly on display. They’re all locked up now.”
Damn—this was far more serious than his usual drunk antics. The HuMans were a gang of Other-hating wannabe bad-asses. If you imagined the illegitimate children of Nazis and nutbar survivalists, you’d just be scratching the surface of what kind of scum these guys were. And the Palisade served as their headquarters. No sane Other would come within five blocks of the place. But then again—Penemue was suffering from something he called “Mortal Madness.” I guess in that way he wasn’t really that different from the rest of us.
I shook my head. “Damn,” I said aloud. “Where is he?”
“This way, sir,” the Gruff brayed, reverting to four legs.
We took four steps before an ominous voice bellowed, “Hold—I wish to speak with the human.” Only one creature possessed a voice made from thunder—the archangel Michael.
Hellelujah … it had to be him!
Chapter 2
Even Angels Have Their Wicked Schemes
After the GrandExodus and the initial years of fighting subsided, Michael retired from his role as archangel, Advocate of Man, Slayer of the Great Dragon and Leader of the Host of God, to begin his career as a police officer in Paradise Lot. We’d had our run-ins in the past, and he didn’t like how I ran the One Spire Hotel. He didn’t like the kind of Others I let in and how willing I was to ignore some of their more questionable ways. There was a time, early on, when he visited the hotel daily, citing some violation or other that I was ignoring. It wasn’t until I countered with “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” that I finally got the archangel to leave me alone. Since then, he only came around when there was a complaint.
Still, despite him being such a hardass, I had to
hand it to the archangel. He could have been a demigod here—what with all the denominations of Christianity vying for him to be the head of their various churches—but instead he chose to enter the police force in one of the slummiest, dirtiest parts of the world, insisting on starting as a beat cop before quickly working his way up the ranks. For that, if nothing else, I could respect him.
The archangel strode into the main area, each movement exuding strength, each gesture demanding respect. By the GoneGods, he was power incarnate. “Human Jean-Luc,” he didn’t so much as say, but rather boomed. He was addressing me with my species, which meant that whatever he had to show me mattered. Using one’s species as a prefix put a formal twist to any conversation. It was like using “Mister” or “Missus,” and was a habit employed by many Others. I, for one, welcomed the habit, finding it useful in avoiding embarrassing situations like confusing gnomes for dwarves, harpies for valkyrie, or elves for vulcans—not that I’d ever met a vulcan … yet.
“Look, if it has to do with Penemue, I—”
“No, Human Jean-Luc. My business with you this evening has nothing to do with the fallen angel or his debauched ways,” the archangel bellowed, each word coming down like a hammer. “Come. Follow me and all shall be made clear.”
↔
Michael led me to his office, its door widened to accommodate his massive size. Head to toe, the chief of police was eleven feet high and built as if Mr. Olympia were carved out of granite. He walked in, sat on the steel frame that acted as his chair, and gestured for me to take the seat opposite him. He started fumbling with his desk drawers, his massive fingers struggling to flip through files.
As I waited for Police Chief Michael to find whatever it was he wanted to show me, I noted that on his office wall hung various awards and one framed newspaper clipping from the local rag that showed an unimpressed Michael accepting a plaque—the headline reading, “Archangel Climbs Police Ranks at Record Speed.” Well, with such a colorful resume, there wasn’t ever really a doubt, was there, that he’d rise quickly in the ranks of the local PD.