by R. E. Vance
Still, to display so many awards was quite prideful and very unangelic. I pointed to the awards and said, “Pride cometh before a fall.”
Michael stopped fiddling and looked behind him. “Indeed,” he sighed with recognition. He raised the tips of one of his multiple pairs of wings so that I could no longer see the display from where I sat. “But I have been told that they make me more … more … human.”
“A worthy quality?” I asked, knowing how he felt.
“A useful one,” he said, finally getting out the folder and slamming shut his drawers. He settled on the steel-frame chair, then looking past me and out of the window he said, “Your car registration will soon expire. Be sure to renew it lest I am forced to impound it.”
I looked behind me and through the window at my 1969 Plymouth Road Runner. He could read the registration sticker from where it sat a hundred feet away in a dimly lit parking lot at night? Hellelujah.
“Did you really call me in here to talk about my car?” I asked. In my mind I debated the possibility of that being the case. After all, he was an Other cop and registrations were exactly the kind of bureaucratic plight that they took very seriously. It was right up there with sorting the recycling and paying overdue library book fines.
“No, human, there is this … ahh … poster I wish to show you,” he said, the word poster stumbling out of his lips. He fumbled with a folder before his angelic dexterity won the day and he managed to pull out a flyer. On it I read:
In today’s confusing mortal world,
Others of all species are welcome to attend
COPING WITH MORTALITY
We’ll answer pestering questions like:
“Why is Sleep Important?”
and
“Headaches—Biological Inconvenience, or Wrath of an Angry Demon?”
and many, many more!
“So?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. I looked over at the clock ticking on the wall. Three-thirty a.m. If I could get home in an hour, I could hang out with Bella for another three hours before my day started. “What does that have to do with me?”
“The address,” Michael answered.
I looked down at the address—One Spire Hotel, followed by a date and time. I took a double look, rubbing my eyes again. Damn, Jean-Luc, wake up. “Holy crap,” I said, my brain finally confirming what I read. “This is for tomorrow. I mean, tonight. This is supposed to start in like fifteen hours.” I failed to hide my surprise.
“Indeed,” Michael muttered. “And crap is anything but holy,” he added, folding his arms over his chest as he waited for my explanation.
“Well, hell—it’s a seminar to help Others cope with mortality. It’s a good thing. The kind of service that Paradise Lot needs. And if you’re going to stop it from happening because of some ridiculous minor infraction, you’re being … being … really anal,” I said. What I failed to add was that I had no idea this kind of thing happened in Paradise Lot, let alone in my hotel. That was exactly the kind of thing the archangel would latch onto.
Michael waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Where would one get a flyer such as this?”
“I don’t know.” I really didn’t. “Various help centers, the hospital, anywhere public service announcements are made. Hell, a police station should be handing out stacks of them.” My voice dripped with sarcasm, which I hoped sufficiently hid the fact that I really didn’t know.
My gambit seemed to work. Michael announced to no one in particular, “I am satisfied with your answer.” He opened a second folder and removed a single photograph.
He threw the rest of the folder’s remains in front of me, scattering photographs that displayed a scene of carnage in a glossy finish. I hadn’t seen this kind of gore since I left the Army. The photos were of three humanoid creatures that were impaled into the side of a building, pressed so forcefully against the wall that they hung to the wall like macabre graffiti. Bits of bone stuck out where the flesh could not stretch enough to accommodate their new form. If it wasn’t so horrific, I might have thought this some comical rendition of a three dimensional creature being flattened by a rolling pin. Their bodies were mangled so badly that it was impossible for me to tell what kind of creatures they were, but given that their blood was bright yellow, I ruled out human.
I leafed through the photos, one after another. Something about them bugged me. Sure, there were the mangled bodies, but whatever had killed them did so by slamming them against a wall with such force that it literally flattened them, though the red brick wall on which they hung was completely unaffected. You’d think that there would be some cracks in the wall, crumbled stone, anything. “What could have done this?” I asked.
Michael shook his head. “We are not sure. All we do know is that time was burned to do this, which means that either this was some ancient grudge settled or we have a—”
“Fanatic on our hands,” I finished.
The archangel nodded.
“How much time?” I asked.
“Again, it is hard to tell. If I were to use such force, I would burn through a month, perhaps six weeks.”
“A month!” I said in surprise. When the gods left, ejecting their OnceImmortal subjects to the mortal plane, they effectively cut them off from their source of magic. Every Other only had a certain amount of time to live. Others could trade in some of that time to tap into their once-upon-a-time limitless magic. The more powerful you were, the more time you had, but still … rational Others didn’t use magic, choosing to preserve the precious little time they had left. Can you blame them? Eighty years, for a creature that has known thousands of years of life, is precious little time indeed.
But then there were the Fanatics, Others so unhinged by mortality that they burned through time in a self-destructive, suicidal rampage without consideration or care. The result was catastrophic. During the Nine Year War, a Fanatic valkyrie took on an entire platoon on her own, aging with every swing of her golden axe. The result? Seventy human soldiers slain before she was too old to lift her weapon.
“A month is not a ‘grudge,’ ancient or not,” I said. “Why give your enemy the satisfaction of knowing they took so much time from you? No, this has Fanatic written all over it.”
Michael nodded. “Still, of all the tortures I have witnessed, not even the Devil killed with such brutality.”
“The Devil doesn’t exist. Not anymore,” I said, handing him back the photographs.
Michael boomed, “So you keep telling me. But I’ve met the demon, and I can assure you that he’s real. Anyway, the victims were cynocephaly. In your travels, have you ever met any?”
“Humanoid bodies, dogs’ heads,” I confirmed. Michael nodded. “Yeah, I knew a few just after the war. They served as guards when Bella and I … you know. But I haven’t seen a cynocephalus in years. Why?” I asked.
“Because we also found this at the crime scene,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He handed me the photo he had removed.
This one wasn’t of a crime scene. It was an old black and white photo of Bella, standing with the Ambassador. They were both smiling and so filled with hope that their mission of peace would work. Although I had never seen this photograph before, I knew when and where it had been taken. They were standing in front of old machinery that would have made a 1950s Frankenstein set director drool with envy. Ancient lab equipment that was more alchemy than scientific, clunky mechanical gears meshed together and sparks of electrical current jumping from antenna to antenna—not that you could see the electricity move in the photo. I just knew because I’d been there once, helplessly watching Bella’s death from behind a steel door.
Hellelujah—I wanted to be reminded of that place as much as I wanted to be drawn and quartered. Actually, I would have preferred the drawn-and-quartered option. At least that one included a foreseeable end to the pain.
Instinctively I reached up and grabbed the fake-silver chain with a twisty-tie wrapped around it. I rubbed the plastic between
my fingers as I held the image for a long time, staring at the unwavering smile she wore no matter how bad it got. I guess that’s why the Ambassador chose her—he needed a human counterpart to help his mission to broker peace between humans and Others, and Bella was, well … Let’s just say that few humans were as kind and as good as she was.
“Have you seen this photograph before?”
“No …” I said, having to clear my throat. It stung to see her so happy when in just a few short months she would be dead. “How did you get this?”
Michael studied my face, as if looking for some hint of a lie in it. He must have found none, because he said, “It probably means nothing. After all, Bella and the—”
“One of these guys had it?” I asked, rising from my seat.
Michael nodded. “We have no way of knowing who originally possessed the photograph. We suspect it belonged to one of the victims, who most likely knew her during her time as a diplomat.”
I nodded. “Like I said—some were guards, but no one I ever got close to.”
“Very well, Human Jean-Luc. I thank you for your time,” he said, standing.
“What? So that’s it? You found a photo of my wife … my Bella … and a flyer with my hotel address on it, and you just, ‘Thank you for your time,’ boom, boom. Thunder, thunder. Come on. You’ve got to give me more than this.”
“We’ll keep you posted if anything comes up. In the meantime, should you remember anything, please do give us a call.” He handed me one of his cards.
“I have your number,” I said, leaving the card on his desk. “Just tell me if the hotel is in danger. I have guests and—”
“We do not believe so,” Michael interrupted. “We believe that this is retribution for the cynocephaly failing to protect the Ambassador. But like I said, this is an ongoing investigation. We will keep you posted.”
I gave Michael my best Oh, really? look, to which he answered, “I promise.” A promise from an Other was as good as gold, and a promise from an archangel was even better.
I nodded and made to leave, pausing at the door.
“Yes,” Michael bellowed. “Did you forget something?”
“The photograph. Can I have it?”
“It is evidence,” he said. But when I didn’t move he sighed and said, “After the investigation is closed I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Chapter 3
Do Caged Angels Sing?
I stepped out of Chief of Police Michael’s office, my heart fluttering with anguish. Bella was the last person I expected to see at four a.m. in a police station, and I was struggling not to break down. But it was more than that. Someone had a picture of Bella. It drove me crazy thinking that some nutbar would be looking at her, thinking about her. I supposed that the photo could have belonged to one of the cynocephaly. Hell, it was even likely. The now expired Ambassador was somewhat of a celebrity amongst Others and his picture hung on many walls, like a velvet painting of Elvis. The Ambassador had done much good before some Fanatics set an explosion that ended his life, and there were many Others who still remembered him for trying.
However, if the photo of my Bella belonged to the killer, that meant he could have been part of the plot that ended Bella’s and the Ambassador’s lives all those years ago. After Bella died, I tried tracking down the group responsible, but all leads went cold. In the end, after spending three years hunting for her killer, all I had was a river of blood and was no closer to finding her killers. A part of me really hoped that the photo belonged to those elusive Fanatics and that our paths would finally cross. I would relish the second chance at avenging my dead wife.
But that probably would not come to pass—I’d spent all my second chances when Bella took me back. Twice. The first time was when I returned from my stint in the Army. And the second, well … that was when she began haunting my dreams. Hallucination or not, Bella saved me.
I would have to put aside all thoughts of payback. That was the old me. The new me was about helping Others. And right now, an Other was waiting for me to bail him out of jail.
Back in the main area, I approached Officer Steve and said, “OK, you can take me to Penemue now.”
The Billy Goat Gruff stood on his hind legs, pulled out his clipboard and asked, “Jean-Luc Matthias?”
↔
Penemue sat in the drunk tank, expounding on the glory days of immortality lost, which was—according to him—another symptom of Mortal Madness. That, I was expecting. What I did not expect were the half dozen HuMan gang members that sat in the tank with him.
Penemue, unlike Michael, was just an angel (it’s funny how natural those words were—just an angel, like that wasn’t special enough), which meant that he was only eight feet high and had one pair of wings to Michael’s three. He was well built, with the physique of a finely tuned bodybuilder, although these days Penemue was looking more like Homer Simpson than Arnold Schwarzenegger—if, that was, Homer had long beautiful blond hair and wore a tweed vest.
When we walked in, the leader of the HuMans perked up. “Come on, Officer. Let us go … We weren’t fighting. Cross my heart,” he said, making a little X over his heart. Their leader was a boy of eighteen affectionately known as EightBall. He had all the tell-tale sign of the HuMans: shaved head covered in tattoos of symbols that once meant something—the cross, the Star of David, the crescent moon, the Wheel of the Dharma, the nine-pointed star and a half dozen other symbols from dead or dying religions. As for his name, my guess was that it had something to do with the vertical infinity symbol tattooed right between his eyes. In the right light, it kind of looked like the number 8. To those with a limited imagination, his dark complexion combined with the tattoo made his head look like an eight ball. “We weren’t fighting. We were having a disagreement, that’s all,” EightBall repeated.
Penemue sighed. “The boy is correct. We were merely having a disagreement as to whether or not I should exist. A debate that has raged on long before the GrandExodus, although for less literal reasons.”
Officer Steve ignored this, pulling out keys and unlocking the cell. “I formally discharge Angel Penemue into your care,” he said.
Before he could open the cell door, EightBall reached out and grabbed Officer Steve’s hoof. “How come the pigeon gets out and we don’t?”
“Because,” Officer Steve said, withdrawing his hoof and pulling at the door, “the telephone numbers you provided either did not work or the person answering refused to come and collect you.”
“Awww, come on, Baa Baa Black Sheep,” EightBall said. Several of his fellow gang members chuckled at the insult. “We’re just a bunch of poor kids abandoned by our parents, out looking for love in all the wrong places. Show us some love, Mutton, and let us out.”
At EightBall’s words, Penemue turned to the boy and said, “Not abandoned, young human. Orphaned. I tried to tell you, your mother and father would have never done such a thing … Do you know why they named you Newton, young human? It is because—”
But before Penemue could finish, EightBall—whose real name was apparently Newton—punched him square in the nose, causing little streams of light to bleed out of his nostrils.
So that was why they were fighting—Penemue was doing his thing. Angels were created with a single purpose in mind—their one true “thing”——and Penemue’s thing was knowing all that was written. That included the abstract, metaphorical writing of one’s deeds on one’s soul. And with Penemue’s perfect memory it meant he could tell you everything about you, your parents, your extended family and all your relatives going back to the beginning of time, with an eerie precision. Sadly, Penemue’s thing tended to freak the hell out of people.
The youngest Billy Goat Gruff produced a billy club from out of only the GoneGods knew where and in a stern voice bleated, “That’s enough out of you hooligans. One more peep and I’ll lock you up and throw away the key.” Clearly the Sherlock that Steve studied was more Victorian than modern.<
br />
The gang burst out into laughter before settling down. “Look here, copper,” EightBall said between chuckles, “he started it.”
Penemue nodded. “Indeed I did. My apologies, young Human New—ahhh … EightBall.”
Officer Steve huffed and opened the cell. Penemue, still stinking drunk, stumbled out. “Let’s try and have a week where I don’t see you in there. Think you can manage it?” the Gruff said, temporarily abandoning his Victorian English vernacular. I had to admit, I was impressed at how natural he sounded. Officer Steve got on all fours and walked away—hellelujah, he sounded like a cop; in the right light, he even looked like a cop … until he got on all fours and trotted away and reminded everyone he was a large goat.
“Come on, you giant lug,” I said, trying to lead Penemue away. The angel used his wings to help balance himself, feathered tips pressing against the police station’s linoleum floor.
“Hey, priest,” EightBall said before we could walk away. I looked over as the young boy gestured for me to come close.
I should have walked away, ignored the kid, but instead I tugged at my collarless jacket and said, “Priest? I’m no priest. But I think you know that already.”
“Yeah, we do,” EightBall said, gesturing for me to lean in close. He looked around to see if Officer Steve was listening. “We know all about what you do, priest. We know where you and the pigeon live. And we know how much you love them freaks. The boys and I used to turn a blind eye to you insulting the human race by helping those rejects out, but no longer. Pigeon got us fired up and now we’re going to fire you up. Soon as we get out of here, we’re coming and we’re going to rain holy, righteous hell on you and your hotel.”