by R. E. Vance
“Very well, Human Jean-Luc, I will stay. For now. Anything else?”
“Yes … one more thing.”
I told him about Miral, after which he ripped out a second slab of asphalt, this time the size of a cathedral window, and crushed it to dust. It drifted away in a haze, and a bastard version of “Dust in the Wind” started running through my head.
“Michael,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “I know what I have to do. And you can’t help me.”
“I can send some officers. Magnus, Hunter—even Steve will be useful in the assault.”
I shook my head. “The humans are terrified of Others already. We don’t want to add fuel to the flames by having the only functioning Other police force go rogue.”
Michael grumbled so deeply that the bass of his voice literally caused pebbles on the ground to vibrate. “You are right.”
“I need you to be ready for the fallout of the rescue. Justified or not, the humans aren’t going to react well to it.”
Michael nodded.
“And there’s one more thing—this will go against your ‘Ultimate Boy Scout’ principles. It’s not just the children that need rescuing. The accused Others need help, too.”
As expected, Michael shook his head. “Mortal law will judge them.”
“Mortal law has already condemned them. You and I know that they are innocent.”
Michael folded his arms over his chest, as resolute as ever. By the GoneGods, how could such a righteous angel be such a righteous asshole?
“Come on, Michael. You know they are dead if we don’t help them. And wasn’t it you who once told me there are laws that supersede mortal law? That the Universe has a hierarchy of right and wrong? Surely, protecting those we know to be innocent is higher in the echelons of morality than what these terrified humans are going to do to them under the false name of justice?”
Michael considered this for a long moment before finally nodding. “I cannot offer them sanctuary … but I can turn a blind eye in the search for them.”
“Good,” I said. “I know someone who’ll protect them …” My voice trailed off as I eyed Michael, one last request on my lips.
“What?” the angel asked, seeing my question.
I kept looking at him.
“I will not harm you, Human Jean-Luc. What is it?”
“I’m going to need an answer,” I said, still staring at him, my gaze never diverting from his.
Michael considered this before nodding. “Very well. I promise to answer you.”
“Good. Now … tell me everything you know about Penemue’s involvement in the Creation of humans.”
↔
Michael told me. Reluctantly, sure, but the archangel was true to his word and told me everything. And suddenly I felt a sense of awe and admiration for the drunken angel. Armed with the knowledge that Michael gave me, I now knew I needed to get back to the hotel and speak to him.
But first, a couple of errands.
↔
Aau’s front door was covered with police tape, but I knew that before coming to his place. I wasn’t here for him. I was here for something that would draw him to me. Jackal-guards have incredible smell—all I needed was to snag something familiar from his place and take it home with me. Eventually he’d catch the scent and, by extension, get the hint.
But what could I bring? I wasn’t sure what to expect as far as jackal-headed Egyptian décor, but what I found was an apartment filled with typical furniture for someone with virtually no income: old stained couches from thrift shops, threadbare carpets from flea markets and a coffee table with one busted leg balancing on a phonebook. I walked into his kitchen. Whereas the rest of his apartment was typical, this room was not. Incense of every type sat half-burnt on every counter space available, piles and piles of herbs and spices filled his cupboards and his refrigerator was filled with large blocks of wax and meat. Nothing useful.
But then I saw what I was looking for: taped to the window where he’d stood his constant vigil, watching Elliot from across the alleyway, was a picture the young boy drew for him. A rudimentary crayon rendition of a dog’s head on a human body, yellow and brown crayon streaks haphazardly filling the crude shapes, giving the picture color.
Crayon and paper held by the boy Aau swore to protect. That scent would be burned into his memory. Peeling the paper from the glass pane, I walked home, holding the picture in the air as I did and silently praying that the jackal-guard would notice it. After all, I was about to pick a fight with someone Aau was quite keen to meet.
↔
As I walked home, I called the next person I needed help from: George.
The former oil-rig foreman answered on the first ring. “Jean-Luc, I was just—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m kind of in a hurry … those myriads, do you think their desire to meet me would extend to doing me a favor? A potentially dangerous but important favor?”
George’s voice faulted. “Y … yes,” he said cautiously. “What’s this about, Jean-Luc?”
I gave him the CliffsNotes version.
“Holy …” His voice trailed off.
“Guacamole,” I finished for him. “I know. I need their help, and I need your boat. Can I count on you?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good. Thank you, George. Text me when you know.”
↔
Going home is seldom what you expect—not in my world, at least.
I arrived home to the medley of a crying EightBall being restrained by Sinbad as Penemue kneeled about ten feet away from him, his hands in a prayer position as he pleaded with EightBall to listen, just listen. Judith was between them, hands outstretched in both directions as if she were using the Force to keep them apart.
My first couple attempts to get everyone’s attention were fruitless, so I yelled as loud as I could, “What the hell is going on?”
Evidently I had the desired effect, because everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me. EightBall wiped at his tear-swollen face, and Sinbad continued to hold on to his legs, unsure that he’d be placated for long. Judith sighed in what was visible relief at my appearance.
And then I looked at Penemue. His cheeks shone with tear-made light. I knew exactly what had happened.
Before anyone could confirm what I already knew, I heard a sultry Parisian accent speak from the third-floor landing. “Drama … as usual.”
“You’re one to talk,” I growled up at Astarte. “Go to your room and—”
“But I want to watch. The energy, the emotion, makes me so, sooo …” Her voice trailed off, one wandering finger slowly making its way down to—well, thankfully I couldn’t see exactly where behind the landing’s railing. I couldn’t deal with Astarte’s sensual distractions right now.
“No and NO!” I screamed. “Your room. Now.”
Astarte turned away. Just before she could close the door, I yelled, “And tell your IT Support I need to speak to him.” She groaned an amatory little vibration and closed the door.
“Now. You guys,” I said. “What is going on?”
“You knew,” EightBall said to me, wiping away more tears. His voice was empty of anger or accusation. Just truth. “You knew and you didn’t tell me.”
“It was an accident! Mr. Penemue said he was sorry. You have to forgive him. You have to,” Sinbad said, her voice conveying that this was all the justification needed. In her world, accidents were made right by apologies. Man, I wish I lived in her world.
Penemue groaned. “I tried to tell you. A hundred-thousand times, I tried to tell you.”
“You—you don’t say anything to me,” EightBall said, refusing to look back at Penemue. “Not one damn word.” The teenager looked at me, his eyes full of hate now. “You knew.”
“Yes. I did.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“It wasn’t my place to tell.”
“You let me live here, in this place, with the monster who kille
d my parents.”
At the word monster, Penemue groaned. More light trickled down his face.
“There’s no need for such words,” Judith admonished.
Normally her tone would garner an apology from EightBall, but this time he just looked down at her legless figure and spat out, “Monster, monster, monster … Monster.”
“That’s enough!” Sinbad said. “I already told you it was an accident and—”
EightBall was now turning his anger on everyone. Couldn’t say I blamed him. He glared down at the little girl clinging to his legs. “Shut up, brat. You’re a monster, too.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Do you think all the normal little girls are strong enough to hold a grown-up like me back? Or wrestle an angel—the same angel that fell from the sky and murdered my parents—like I saw you do a couple days ago? No, you’re a freak. A freak, freak … freak!” EightBall screamed this last word down at Sinbad.
The little warrior pirate burst into tears. Judith immediately floated to her and bent down to pick her up and cradle her.
“That’s enough,” I growled, my gaze hard on EightBall. The teenager evidently felt bad for hurting Sinbad the way he did, because he lowered his head … a momentary reprieve from his onslaught.
“Judith,” I said. “Do you mind taking Sinbad upstairs? We have some stuff we need to work out down here.”
“Of course.” Judith started floating to the elevator, speaking to the little girl in soothing tones. “Do you know what I have in my room, Sinbad? A new story. About a super duck and a red balloon. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Uh-huh,” Sinbad said in-between sobs.
EightBall watched them go. As soon as they were in the elevator, he turned to me and said, “Consider this my resignation.”
“I would need to pay you for you to be able to resign.”
“Whatever,” the boy sneered.
“Please, Newton … EightBall … if you just let me explain,” Penemue said. “And at the end of it … you are free to kill me. I will not fight you. But please, let me explain.”
“Shut up … pigeon,” EightBall said.
“That’s enough—” I started, but Penemue cut me off.
“No, Jean-Luc, it’s quite all right. You’re right, EightBall. I am a pigeon. A drunk. A twice-fallen angel. I am all those things and worse. I do not deserve your love or respect. But for the friendship we once had … I beg you to at least hear me out.” Penemue laced his fingers before him, holding his hands in a prayer gesture.
“Will hearing you out offer you comfort?” EightBall asked.
“Yes,” Penemue admitted.
“Then no, I will not hear you out,” EightBall said, and the teenager walked past Penemue without so much as a glance.
“EightBall … come on, man. You don’t have to be like this,” I said.
But the boy’s retort, which came in the form of a middle finger, told me he was too angry to listen.
The little bell above the turnstile door rang out angrily once, twice, as EightBall pushed his way out of the Millennium Hotel.
↔
As soon as EightBall was out of sight, Penemue wailed. I don’t mean cried out or sobbed. I mean wailed, his lamentation full and total and simply overbearing.
Angels are many things, no two of them being exactly the same—warriors, poets, drunks, police chiefs—but the one thing that they all share is a deep emotion unlike anything humans can ever hope to feel or imagine. If you think of emotions as nerves, then an angel’s body is devoid of skin, each one of their nerves exposed and vulnerable to the world and amplified so that it can feel the gamut. To say that an angel is “sad” is to diminish the thousands of nuances of the emotions they feel, and I knew that what Penemue felt was a sorrow so deep and unique that no language had yet to find a word for it.
And I knew that there was nothing I could do for my friend except simply be there for him. I went over to the grieving angel—even on his knees he was nearly as tall as me. I grabbed my twice-fallen friend and did the only thing I could. I hugged him.
Tight and long and hard. I held him, letting him know that even though his world may be crumbling, I would still be there for him till the end.
We stayed like that for a long time, my jacket and shirt wet with light. But such intense pain cannot be constant; it ebbs and flows like the tide. Eventually, his lessened, if only a little bit, and he was able to finally look up at me.
“He’ll never forgive me, will he?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But time … it has a way of making things—”
“Less?” he asked.
I thought about losing my mother, my grandfather and wife, and how the passage of time affected my grief. “Yes. Less,” I lied.
↔
When Penemue found his footing again, I asked him to the roof—and since I couldn’t fly, I let him pick me up and take me there. Since we moved to the Millennium, this had become our spot. From the top of the Millennium Hotel, we could see all of Paradise Lot and the ocean beyond.
We sat up there for a long while before I finally gathered the courage to ask him what I needed to ask him.
“Michael told me what you did,” I started.
Penemue wiped away some light from his cheeks. “He did, did he? I guess secrets are in short supply in the GoneGod world.”
“I know now that the Occultists … Evil-and-Cute, the anomalies … they were never after me. They were after you. They want to know how you did what you did.”
“Hmm … they want to bind souls to their Creations. How interesting.”
“I don’t think it’s just souls.”
“My question is, where are they getting the souls from? The gods took all of them with them.”
“I don’t know … but does it matter? They want you to tell them and they’re not going to stop coming after you until they find out.”
“So, then, what do you want me to do?”
“Run,” I told him. “Hide.”
“Tell me, Jean-Luc … do you know where the children are being kept?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then you don’t want me to run or hide, do you?”
I shook my head. “But you’re my friend. I can’t ask you to do anything that will put you in danger.”
Penemue’s smile barely touched his eyes. “I know. And yes.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be your bait.”
↔
There was a silence between us as we sat on the rooftop of the Millennium Hotel, staring at the city lights that shone in the distance.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“They’re going to need you to cooperate. Will you be able to resist them long enough for me to find you?”
The twice-fallen angel shrugged. “I don’t know. They seem very persuasive. Miral was unable to resist their call. And given Mr. Cain’s personality shift, I suspect he couldn’t either. They are both very strong-willed beings. I … well …” He pulled out his trusty bottle of Drambuie and looked at its black-and-gold label. “Not so much.”
“So maybe we change the plan—”
“No,” he said. “I already screwed up one child’s life for falling. I’m not going to let other children suffer because of me.” A single tear of light streamed down Penemue’s face.
“EightBall will get over it,” I said.
“No … no, Jean-Luc, he won’t. He may heal, but forgiveness is very different than healing.”
I didn’t say anything. There was no point. We’d been over this a hundred thousand times before. Penemue did not mean to kill EightBall’s parents. It was an accident caused by an event beyond his control. But it happened, and he was there, and no amount of arguing would temper his guilt.
I put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in for another hug.
I wasn’t great at this whole “hugging” thing, and let me tell you—it was damn difficult to console a
being that was over three feet taller and about twenty potato sacks heavier than you. But Penemue took the gesture as it was intended and hugged me back.
“OK,” I said. “So what’s the plan?”
“The plan is easy: go somewhere out in the open, alone, and wait to get captured. Luckily I’ll have this to pass the time.” He took in a long gulp from his bottle.
“Aren’t you worried that what happened to Miral will happen to you? I mean, we know she’s under Colel Cab’s spell. Otherwise Miral wouldn’t have bowed to that bug god. And remember what happened to Michael at the Tree?”
“They’re different.”
“How so?”
“Whatever Colel Cab does to angels is faith-based. She is an empath, and empaths play on creatures’ dominant emotions. For angels, that’s faith.”
“I’m not following,” I said.
“Let me put it this way … you wouldn’t trust someone who’s trying to quit smoking on a tobacco plantation.”
“Tobacco plant-what?” I shook my head. “Are you seriously equating faith with addiction?”
“For angels … yes.” He wiped his mouth and offered me the bottle.
“No, thanks. But you’re going and—must I remind you—you’re an angel.”
“Ahhh, therein lies the rub. I am a fallen angel. Completely different.”
“How so?”
“Because I spent thousands of years in Hell.”
“Again … so?”
“Think of Hell as rehab. I’m no longer addicted to faith.”
“You’re no longer addicted?”
“No. I’ve been clean for nearly an eon,” the twice-fallen angel said. He proceeded to down the rest of his bottle, burbled, and pulled out a fresh bottle from the confines of his wing. Holding it to his ear, he twisted the cap. The plastic cracked open. “Best sound in the world,” Penemue smiled.
“Clearly,” I said.
Penemue took a swig from the fresh bottle and returned it to his wing. Standing, he picked me up with the ease of one lifting an empty suitcase and he glided back down.