by R. E. Vance
“—then they stamp—”
“It doesn’t!”
“—then they stand still.”
“Work that way!” Michael bellowed. The room shook. Not in the metaphorical sense. It actually shook. “I am the archangel Michael, Captain of the Host, Guardian of the Faith and First amongst all angels. I am the Angel of Mercy and Bringer of Rain. I am the Slayer of Heretics and the Protector of Nations. And despite my lofty position in the angelic hierarchy, I am only allowed to formally request anything from a First Law once and only once.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You mean to say, with all your power you can only speak to him once?”
“No, that is not what I said. I can only formally address them once, be it a request or a question. With Time, I asked him not to touch the divine. With Death, I requested that God and gods have dominion over souls. With Energy, I asked that she never cease to flourish in the celestial domains. But with Gravity, God spoke to Gravity directly and what He asked of the First Law, none of us know.” Michael stood up and took a sip of his coffee, looked at the cup and grimaced. I guess they didn’t have homebrew in Heaven. He looked down at me and said, “And I wasted the only question that Gravity’s Avatar was divinely bound to answer, in order to save you. I would think that after such a sacrifice, you would owe me a little respect.”
That did it—this angel thought that I owed him my life because he’d used up some once-upon-a-time favor for me. To Hell with that! He’d been willing to let me die to end this little problem. And now he wanted my gratitude? “Owe you? Owe you! I owe you nothing! You would have gladly let him kill me.”
“A means to an end.”
“A means to an end? A means to an end! Is that how the gods saw us? Little mortal pawns, a means to get what they wanted? And what exactly did they want from us? What? You don’t know, do you? You were never privy to their private little plans … Maybe, just maybe, if we were not treated like stepping stones to get to some unknown ends, we would have been more grateful and had a little bit more … what was the word you used? Respect?”
I expected Michael to lose his temper, bellow at me in that mind-thumping voice of his or take me for another flight in the sky, but instead the archangel just nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Truly, you have earned that from me.” And with that he put a fist over his heart and took a step back.
I fought the urge to say Now that’s more like it, opting for the less confrontational, “Even if I run, won’t he level the city anyway, believing that I am hiding?”
“I will tell him you are gone,” Michael said.
“So?” I asked, but I knew the answer. This celestial Boy Scout couldn’t lie. If he told Grinner I’m gone, it would be because I’m gone. “Fine,” I said, “but there has to be another way. He might leave Paradise Lot alone, but won’t he just go from city to city, looking for me? Isn’t running just transferring the problem to somewhere else?”
Miral nodded. “Indeed, Jean-Luc. But the alternative is worse. He must not find you. Have faith that we will hide you well, and pray that when the Avatar of Gravity tears this world apart to find you, he leaves enough of it intact for us to survive. That is the best any of us can hope for.”
“That can’t be the solution,” I said. “There has to be another way!”
But even Miral’s eyes were downcast, and I could see that two of the oldest and strongest creatures to walk this world agreed—the only hope for humanity and Others to survive was for me to run. Or die.
“Then kill me,” I said. “Kill me and be done with it. Show my carcass to Grinner and he’ll have to stop.”
Michael and Miral exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Michael agreed. “That would be a cleaner solution, and one we have considered. But Bella lives in the Void, which means there is a way back. To kill you now without—”
“Without trying to find it yourself,” I hissed. “You’re just as bad as he is.”
“No, Human Jean-Luc,” Miral said, coming to my side and taking my hand in hers. “No—we do not wish to become gods or God. We do not seek dominion over humanity or Others. We merely want life to be better for all. I want to fulfill Bella’s destiny, save my friend and see her again. Imagine, Jean-Luc, if we could connect again with the Void, turn on the lights to our Father’s mansion—then we would be whole again and the worlds would be safe. That is all we seek. I swear it on the very essence of my being. Michael and I only want to go home. And in going home, we wish to reunite you with Bella.”
“Is … is there a way back?”
Miral shook her head. “I don’t know. We do not have the power—not at the level that Gravity’s Avatar possesses. But there are beings out there whom we may consult, and other items that may be available to us … We both have faith that, in time, a way home will be revealed.”
“Faith.” I shook my head. In the past, I never had much faith, but it was all I had right now.
“Here,” Michael said, handing me the photo of Bella. “I took this from Evidence.”
“But the case isn’t closed yet,” I said.
“We know who the murderer is. That is enough.”
I looked at the picture. There I was again, looking down at Bella as she smiled and shook the hand of the Other that would betray her. I wondered if she had known his plan, if she would have told the Ambassador to fuck off. Probably not. Knowing Bella, she would have held out for some hope that he’d change his mind or that things would go differently. Or maybe she would have had faith that he would succeed. Damn you, Bella. Your optimism is a real pain in my ass.
I stepped to the counter and slipped the photo in my jacket pocket, the breast opposite the one holding the candle. Didn’t want to get wax on my Bella.
“OK,” I whispered. “OK. How long do I have?”
Michael stepped back to the window and looked to the heavens above. “He will need to observe the night sky for a full cycle to fully be able to answer my question. We have until dawn.”
It was eight in the evening, which meant that I had roughly nine hours until sunrise. “Good,” I said. “I have enough time.”
“For what?”
“To say goodbye.”
Chapter 6
Putting Affairs in Order
It took some convincing to get Miral and Michael to give me a few hours to get my affairs in order. What eventually won me my freedom was pointing out that a chief of police and a head of St. Mercy’s Hospital would have to make a few phone calls before going on the lam. It was, after all, protocol. That was something that neither Michael nor Miral had considered. In Heaven, they only acted when under direct order by You-Know-Who. Here on Earth there were no direct commands, booming voices or divine inspiration, there were only protocols and rules.
Angels understand rules. They get order. But what they don’t understand is bureaucracy. That is something uniquely human. There were papers to fill out, requests to be made, people to be informed before they could leave. And I, being a human hotel owner, would have similar, albeit less demanding, requirements. They saw the wisdom in that and, in the end, settled on meeting up three hours before dawn. The minimum amount of time necessary to get a head start on Grinner. And just enough time for all three of us to locate and fill out all the necessary paperwork.
↔
I could no longer protect my guests, but I could make things a little bit better, if only by a single degree.
First up—settle my debt with the fairies. At the “Coping with Mortality” seminar, I had asked them for a favor, which they’d agreed to do for the lofty price of seven vials of glitter and two bottles of Elmer’s Glue. Since I had neither on me, I asked Miral if I could raid the children’s ward. Glue they had, but sadly no glitter—so eight clown noses and a rainbow afro wig later, the fairies agreed to my revised payment terms and handed me what they found.
Now on to the next thing … Fun, fun, fun!
↔
Over the arched door of the Palisade hung a crudely-draw
n picture of a creature with pointy ears and dull fangs. The face had an X over it and in poor, nearly illegible letters read, No Others Allowed.
From the phone booth across the street I called the arcade.
“Whaaat?” answered a vile voice that I recognized as the HuMan kid that had hit me with the baseball bat.
OK, Jean-Luc, it was now or never. In an uneven, gruff voice I said, “EightBall. Now!”
“Yeah, who the hell is this?” BallSack asked.
“This is the shit-kicker that’s gonna make an example out of you if you don’t get me that shit-ball leader of yours on the phone. Now!” The words flowed awkwardly out of me and I finally understood what it felt like to be Steve from the Billy Goats Gruff. Difference was, I got my tough-guy vernacular from CSI, whereas he got his from old Dick Tracy comics. I vowed that if I survived this, I’d buy him all the seasons of CSI.
My gambit must have worked, because BallSack’s voice faltered before he said, “Ahh … ahh … Ahh’m gettin’ him. Hold on.” From the receiver I could hear some scrambling before another voice came on.
“Ah, hello?”
In my best sultry accent I said, “Hi there, lover …” I sprinkled a bit of Parisian for good measure.
“Who is this?”
“Oh, come on … You know who this is. I’m that Other who makes dreams come true.”
“Why, you little—”
“Hold on, lover. You can act tough for them. And maybe you act tough for me later. I’m a bad, bad girl and I need a spanking from a big, tough guy who will set me straight.” My cheeks were red with embarrassment. This would not be one of those stories I planned on telling anyone. Ever. “Will you set me straight? Huh, will you, lover?” I said for good measure.
“Well, ahhh, damn right, I will!” he said. I got to hand it to the kid, given how little blood was flowing to that tiny brain of his, he was doing OK. Just when I thought I had him, he asked, “Why?” his tone carrying with it more mental power than a hopped-up horny teenager should have.
“Protection,” I said without hesitation. “My gifts, for you making sure your friends leave me alone.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, “How often?”
“As many times as you want it for as long as you want it. It is a straight-up deal. My body for your muscle. Simple.”
There was a silence as he contemplated it for a while. Then there was a heavy swallow on the other end before he said, “Fine. Where?”
“Good,” I said. “The hotel.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said and hung up.
↔
Given how the conversation went, I gave it 50/50 that he’d come out alone. He was too calm, too collected and for a moment I thought that he really hated Others enough to turn down a succubus. Not a simple feat—I should know.
But then he popped out alone and I knew teenage hormones had won the day. He probably figured he could have his cake and eat it—quite literally—by having an unbelievable night, followed by some Other-bashing.
He looked down the street and before he could get his bearings, I put a pillowcase over his head. I then took out a piece of lead pipe and pressed it hard against his back, hoping the cool metal feel would give him the impression I had a gun.
“I just want to talk,” I said. “Ten minutes, then I’ll let you go.”
“Screw you, man!” he hissed.
“Look, don’t make me gag you.” I dug the lead pipe in to his back and, twisting his arm, forced him to walk forward.
Asal trotted forward pulling a rickshaw.
I smiled. “Asal, my friend, if you would be so kind.”
↔
It took Asal nearly half an hour to trot over to where we were going. That’s a long time to sit next to someone handcuffed and blindfolded. Not exactly ideal for facilitating conversation, but I think we did well, all things considered. He swore at me and I ignored him. I’ve known marriages less civil.
Once we got to where we were going, I pulled EightBall out. He resisted, tried to make a break for it, but the blind can only make it so far before running into something hard, like a wall.
“Come on,” I said, helping him up and opening the front door of the abandoned building, “this way.”
I led EightBall upstairs and into a burned-up room. The moonlight streamed through a hole in the roof. With the darkness hiding the details of destruction, the husk of a room was actually quite beautiful. I let him go. Again he tried to run, this time tripping over some rubble before falling to the ground with a whoop. I pulled off his hood.
“You son of a bitch, I’m going to …” He started looking around, but as soon as he recognized the place we were in, he stopped. With confused eyes, he asked, “Why the hell did you take me here?”
“Astarte told me to give you what you really want and since she’s older than sin, and a damn-near goddess of desire, I figured her advice was pretty sound. But what does someone like you want?”
I stepped behind EightBall and pulled at the chain linking the handcuffs. He resisted, but from the angle, the strain on his wrists got him on his feet pretty damn quick.
“I tried to think what a punk kid like you would want. I mean, really want,” I said. “What does someone who grew up on the streets want? Peace? A vacation? Nah, that’s not it. Maybe a brand new gun or knife. If I asked you, you’d probably say something macho like a minute alone with me in a locked room.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” he growled, crooking his neck back to meet my gaze. His eyes burned with a fresh fury and I knew if I released him, he’d go at me with everything he had.
“Maybe,” I said, pretending that his hate didn’t bother me. “I have no doubt that you desire my blood, but I don’t think it’s what you really want, deep down.”
I sat him down on a chair and sat facing him on another. A coffee table was all that stood between us. “I struggled for a while with an answer. For a long time I couldn’t come up with anything. Until, that is, I realized that you are exactly like me.”
“I’m nothing like you! Other-lover,” he spat.
“Both of our parents were killed by Others. Both of us have hated them for a long, long time. I had all the lines down pat. ‘They don’t belong here. This is our home, not theirs!’ And ‘Why should I care that they were evicted from their home without so much as a warning? Too bad for them! Screw ’em, right?’ ”
EightBall nodded, smiling at the thought.
“Only difference is, I was wrong,” I said. “Something I realized about six years ago. And given our age difference, it’ll be something you’ll realize in about eleven years, but by then you will have caused a lot of hurt. And not just to them.” I put down a book on the table. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you, kid.”
“What’s that?”
“A book,” I said. “It was inspired by something that Penemue told me about.”
“That pigeon?”
“Yeah, that pigeon,” I said. I took off my collarless jacket and placed it on the back of my chair. Then I unlocked his handcuffs. As expected, he immediately went for me, so I kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to sit back down on the chair. I put a heavy hand on his shoulder and said, “You see, I know what I really, deep down in my core, want. I want to belong. To somewhere. To someone. And I figure that’s what you want, too. This book is where you belong. Take a look inside and if you still want to stab me, I won’t stop you. Not this time.” I removed my hand from his shoulder and took a step back.
“So, I look at your stupid book and then I get my free shot. That’s the deal, right?”
“If you still want it, then yeah, kid, that’s the deal.”
EightBall picked up the photo album, each page displaying a single picture. It was skillfully rendered with elegant calligraphy ordaining the book’s margins. I gotta give the fairies their due credit—they were not well-equipped to live in the GoneGod world, but they sure knew design. The book was beautiful.
> He thumbed through it. Fast at first, skipping over the photos he didn’t recognize, but then he slowed down when he got to a picture of a young girl, no older than eight. She still had her whole life in front of her, but looked enough like who she would become that EightBall recognized her. He slowed, his hands gently touching the surface of her face. The next image was of the girl’s father, the two of them at the local grocery store in what was now Paradise Lot’s downtown. The young father owned the place and his daughter, no older than ten in this picture, proudly helped him stack the shelves, a smile on both their faces. The next was of the same bright-eyed little girl, now twelve, dancing ballet, her grace unhindered by the black and white gloss of the photograph. Next she was playing the piano, then she was standing on stage, having won second place in a father-daughter foot race. Then of proud parents, standing by a young lady who wore a blue graduation dress and a proud, glowing smile. The young woman at Christmas, sitting by her aging father, who wore an oxygen tank but still managed to smile, happy to be surrounded by his family.
EightBall wiped away a tear as he turned the page to that same young woman, walking down the aisle, an old man in a wheelchair clapping in the front. Then her hand was out as a nervous young man put a ring on his new wife’s hand. Then the same woman, older now, holding her protruding belly. Page after page of the young couple preparing the baby’s room, getting ready for the new addition to the family, until the pictures showed the proud mother holding her newborn in her arms. More tears of joy as she held the fragile little creature.
The last picture in the book was of a young EightBall—Newton—standing with his mother and father, holding a plaque of his own: first place in the piano recital. He smiled, two front teeth missing, as proud parents each put a hand on his shoulders. And then, abruptly, the book ended, several blank pages remaining to be filled.
Tears streamed down his face as he looked up at me and asked, “How … how did you get this?”