GoneGod World

by Vance, R. E.

  Everything about her screamed desire, and by the GoneGods I was not immune. I looked at her and wanted nothing more than to embrace her for a few perfect moments of unbridled ecstasy. But that was just it. It was not love, it was lust. It was not passion she inspired, but desire. And if you could see her in that light, you could see that the way she held herself—the way she gestured, walked, spoke—was an unnatural lie designed to capture her quarry. She was a predator, and your desire was her prey.

  Still—she was beautiful.

  “Picked a fight with the HuMans,” I said in answer to Astarte’s question, figuring it was best to warn my guests of what might come.

  “Oh, darling,” she sighed. “Is it serious?” The words slipped off her tongue with a hint of a Parisian accent coloring her voice. I doubted she ever spent any time in France and I was pretty sure that her accent was the side effect of me once confessing a particular love for the way French women spoke. The introduction of the accent had been subtle, and if it weren’t for my experience with Others, I might have never noticed. Still, despite noticing, the accent was a nice touch to her seductive dance. Hearing her speak aroused me in ways that made me doubt why I remained loyal to the dream of my wife.

  I nodded.

  “What are you going to do about it?” she said, her tone demanding. Once-upon-a-time, Astarte was a demigoddess, worshiped by thousands, lusted after by more. She was used to getting her way, commanding people to do her will. Some habits die hard.

  I thought about telling her to shove it and deal with her own battles. That I was done fighting their battles for them. But I could see that her forcefulness came from fear. After living thousands of years unable to be hurt, the fear that some kids with a baseball bat would come knocking on your door took on a completely different nuance. It wasn’t her fault that Penemue got drunk and did what he did. And it wasn’t her fault that she was a lover, not a fighter. “You could offer them a freebie?” I joked.

  Astarte laughed at the suggestion. I mean really laughed, clutching her stomach, her cheeks turning rosy red. Her laughter seemed to turn off the sultry sex-goddess and leave a vulnerable, beautiful, real woman in its place. I don’t think she’d ever looked as lovely as she did at that moment. “Oh, Human Jean,” she said, “you are a delight. An evening with me would change them forever, but I fear that I am not what they want.”

  “What? Do you think they’d turn you down?”

  She gave me a look that a thousand cold showers couldn’t reverse. “No one turns me down,” she said. “But after … well, that’s another story.”

  Astarte was right. She wasn’t what they wanted, and once the blood was rerouted back to their big heads, they would resume their path of carnage. I nodded. “Well, I’ll figure something out. Until then, will you keep it down?”

  “Cross my heart,” she said, crossing something far too low to be a heart. “Now if you don’t mind, I really must say goodnight, unless of course you want to join …” She pushed the door open, revealing bodies which would have required an autopsy to figure out where one body stopped and another began.

  “Thanks,” I said, summoning all the willpower I had, “but lust isn’t what I need right now.”

  Astarte glared at me before opening the door wide, revealing the full glory of the orgy inside. “Why not?” the succubus said in a harsh tone. “You say it like there is something wrong with Lust. What would you prefer? Love?” She laughed at the word. “I could never be so cruel. Love is not the doe-eyed virgin you believe her to be. Love is always hungry. Love is always wanting. Love is not rational. Love does not compromise. And Love is not happy simply possessing you. She wants to own you. Control you. Be you. The first murder was because of Love. And I promise you that the last of your kind will die for her.

  “Love is the single-minded hunter who consumes its prey, sucking it of all its worth, and then seeks another. Love is only happy when you are on your knees, begging her to stay. And Love will walk away, leaving you to your self-pity just to feel your ‘need.’

  “Love is addiction, leaving you always wanting more.

  “Love is a disease for which there is no cure.

  “But Lust … Lust is the tender paramour that wants nothing more of you than what you are now. Lust does not seek some idealized fictional version of yourself, nor does she try to mold you into that false creation.

  “Lust is present, Lust is attentive and Lust is now.

  “And when now is over, Lust moves on, harming you no more than a pleasant memory harms a child.

  “But most importantly,” Astarte said, pulling out an envelope of money from only the GoneGods knew where, “Lust pays your bills.

  “Now tell me, Human Jean, what’s so wrong about Lust?”

  “Well,” I said, feeling myself blush, “when you put it that way …”

  Chapter 6

  The Head of the Pin is Crowded

  Given the fun, fun, fun of the last four hours, I decided that a couple hours of sleep would be a good idea. I lay down under my duvet—extra fluffy—and closed my eyes, thinking that being bone-tired was all I needed to fall asleep. Stupid. Like sleep would come to me now. Sure, the woman of my dreams, both literally and figuratively, was waiting for me once I drew back the curtain of night, but come on! After an evening of dealing with Penemue and the imminent threat of the HuMans, appeasing my tyrannical ghost of a mother-in-law and summoning every ounce of self-restraint to not join an orgy with a succubus that I knew would have rocked my world with fifty shades of rainbow. Every fluid, hormone and muscle was revving at maximum, and nothing short of a baseball bat to the head would put me under. And I doubted that would work.

  So I did what I did every night I couldn’t sleep. I played with myself. No, not like that. Amongst my many quirks, I collect old toys. I have almost the entire collection of the original Transformers, a bunch of He-Mans, some GoBots, an Etch A Sketch, an entire village of Smurfs and a bunch of other toys that went extinct as soon as your phone let you fling about angry birds. Tonight I staged a battle between Voltron and the G.I. Joes, letting my subconscious mull over all my problems while the Red Lion flanked Snake Eyes.

  As Red Lion pounced I thought about the HuMans and Penemue, about my bills and complaints about the noise. I thought about everything that was wrong except the one thing that was really bothering me. You see, dealing with the Others that lived in the One Spire Hotel was like being a stage manager for the cast of The Muppet Show, and over the years I’d gotten used to that. As for those pictures that Michael showed me—well, I’d seen worse. Much, much worse.

  So why were the Defenders of the Universe and Joes at each other’s throats? Because of Bella. I hated seeing her there, with her wide hopeful smile as she stood next to that damned Ambassador.

  Questions swam in my head. Where did the photo come from? Why was it in Paradise Lot? Did it have anything to do with her death? What did it have to do with me? And what the hell was up with that flyer? “What is ‘Coping with Mortality’ anyway?” I cried out loud, the last question spilling out of me.

  A flicker came from the right eye of my Castle Grayskull just before its little plastic drawbridge lowered and a three-inch-tall golden fairy walked out, rubbing her eyes.

  “Sorry I woke you, TinkerBelle,” I said to the golden fairy.

  I had no idea if her real name was TinkerBelle, and since she couldn’t speak, she had no way of telling me. But in the six years we’d lived together, she’d never once complained. She either was unaware of Peter Pan or saw the name as a compliment. As for why I named her TinkerBelle … well, how many three-inch-tall golden fairies do you know?

  Her dragonfly wings fluttered and she flew until she was close enough to me that I could see her annoyed face—which I suspect was the point.

  By way of an apology, I said, “Penemue got arrested again.” Tink gave me a knowing look that said she knew that wasn’t everything. A look that said, And …

  “OK, OK.” I lifted my ha
nds up in front of me in a defensive stance. “When I was at the police station, the archangel Michael showed me some pictures.”

  Tink did two flips in front of me before fluttering up to my face and jutting out her arms in a bodybuilder’s stance, puffing out her cheeks.

  “Yeah, him.”

  Tink never left the hotel, staying out of sight whenever an Other came around. But it was more than being shy that kept her out of sight. As far as I understood—and I admit I didn’t know much—TinkerBelle was a legend of a legend. A myth of a myth. To Others, Tink was as unbelievable as Medusa, Loch Ness and Big Foot had once been to humans. And I was the only living creature that knew of her existence. I met Tink at the lowest moment of my life, and I don’t think I would be standing here if it wasn’t for her immense capacity to forgive. I owed the fairy a lot—I would see myself die from a hundred thousand paper cuts before I let any harm come to this fable of a fable.

  Tink gestured, So what?

  “Well … one of the photos was of Bella.”

  Tink’s eyes widened in surprise. She pointed toward her wrist before taking a picture with an imaginary camera.

  “When was it taken?” I guessed. Tink nodded. “The day she died.”

  Concern painted across her golden face. Her eyes narrowed and she shrugged, pointing at me and then at her own head. “How do I know?” I asked. Again, Tink nodded. Hey, what can I say? After years of playing charades with the fairy, I was pretty good.

  I told Tink all about the photo and how I recognized the place from its background—modern equipment surrounded by ancient gears and apparatus, like she was standing in an updated version of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. Bella died in that place exactly one year after the Ambassador came to this very hotel and convinced her to join him on his crusade of peace. The devil and his promises.

  Tink listened, but it wasn’t until I mentioned the Keep Evolving flyer that she put up a hand, gesturing for me to repeat myself. “Yeah—he showed me this advert for a seminar that I am supposedly throwing at the hotel.”

  And are you? she gestured. Don’t ask me how she did it or how I guessed it—sometimes I think she cheated and burned a bit of time to telepathically give me the answer.

  “No,” I exclaimed.

  She shrugged, rolling her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure,” I said.

  Her hand hit her forehead in a Duh! gesture, and her wings stopped fluttering and started flapping. Like bird’s wings. Or angel wings.

  “How could I be so stupid?” I said. There was only one creature brazen enough to organize an event at my hotel without informing me. Angel Miral. “You’re a genius!” I said.

  Tink blew on the backs of her fingernails before wiping them on her chest. She whisked off to the left turret of Castle Grayskull, pulling the drawbridge back up as she entered her home. With a flicker, the castle went dark.

  “Goodnight, Tink,” I said, putting on my black collarless jacket and heading for the door.

  I was off to confront Miral. I always thought angels were supposed to offer humans comfort and care, but to me they were all just a pain in the ass.

  Chapter 7

  White Wings, White Coat

  Miral worked at St. Mercy Hospital, which was a twenty minute walk from the hotel. I would have driven there, but Penemue still snored away in the backseat of my car. Better to walk. Besides, dawn was nearly here, and with the light, Paradise Lot came to life.

  ↔

  Paradise Lot was located on an island roughly half the size of Manhattan. Although once-upon-a-time an affluent human city, given how violently the Others appeared over its skies, the island quickly became an unofficial refugee camp for Others. After the war, humans upgraded Paradise Lot from an unofficial Ellis Island of sorts to an official Ellis Island-cum-refugee camp-cum-Gaza Strip where all the Others got official-looking documents which did not allow them to travel, vote, own land or legally marry. They could, however, use the ID to pay taxes.

  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

  Yeah, right. More like, “We welcome all you OnceImmortal creatures of myth and legend. We give you the least of what we have to offer. Please do not ask for more.”

  Any way you cut it, Paradise Lot was a slum. The only difference was that in this slum, winos had angel wings and the homeless slept in discarded lamps.

  That said, for those who could afford it, Paradise Lot did have the kind of establishments that appealed to Others and their particular tastes. The Stalker Steakhouse, for example, was a restaurant that catered to werewolves and other Others that liked to actually hunt their meals. Then there was the Red Rooster, an extremely impractical place to go unless you knew how to perch. For culture, you could watch an Eleven play at Adawin’s Playhouse—that is if you had the time to spare. The average play lasted three weeks and made Japanese kabuki feel like you’re watching the latest Fast & Furious movie on fast-forward.

  And then there were the Others’ places of worship. Churches, mosques and synagogues, as well as temples, shrines and sanctuaries of the ancient or forgotten, were open day and night, welcoming all practitioners if they were willing to dedicate themselves to the single purpose of praying the gods back.

  The gods have yet to answer and in that way, not much is different between the GoneGod world and its silent past.

  ↔

  I got to the hospital and walked into the emergency room where Miral worked. It was, as always, filled with a nice cross-section of Paradise Lot’s inhabitants. Fairies, pixies, gargoyles, and a nymph with both arms badly broken. They were all vying for attention from the understaffed, overworked nurses and doctors.

  The average Other wasn’t very good at standing in line, as was evident by them crowding some poor fairy receptionist who kept insisting they fill out a form first. Unfortunately, the average Other wasn’t very good at filling out forms either, as most of them only knew how to read or write in an obscure language that no one but their kin could read.

  And then there were the Onces.

  Onces were the ones that once-upon-a-time were somebody—or something. They were the dukes and duchesses, the princes and princesses of Olympus, Tartarus, Hades and the several dozen other realms that once-upon-a-time meant something. And now that they were lowly commoners, just as mortal as the next guy, well—they didn’t take kindly to being asked to sign their name. Some laws of nature were all too true—the higher you are, the harder you fall.

  “I am Asal of the Vanir,” cried out a half-man, half-donkey creature. The fairy receiptonist stared at the onocentaur, evidently unimpressed. The Once snorted, continuing nonetheless. “Yes, the very Asal of the Vanir who stood against the invading Ӕsir.”

  The receptionist, still unimpressed, handed his human half a form and said in a detached voice, “And I am Elsvir the Reception-Desk Fairy who once stood against an invading horde of asses who think they’re better than everyone else. Next!”

  Asal stomped his hooves and brayed, “Well, I never … If it wasn’t for me, you would be speaking orc garble, eating babies for lunch and enjoying the obsessive drumming those deformed Northerners never seem to get enough of.” The onocentaur shuddered at the thought. “As a reward for my deeds, the All Father assigned me to be Kvasir’s steed. For nearly a century I carried Kvasir, the wisest of all men, on my back before—”

  “The form,” the receptionist said.

  “But I drank from the Mead of Poetry.”

  “Next.”

  Normally I’d leave a Once to their rants and inevitable humiliation, but Asal looked so sad, his donkey ears drooping, his human face downtrodden as he stared at the form. Besides, he held the paper upside down. I grabbed it from him and said, “Here, let me do it.” Sometimes it really sucks that there’s no Heaven, because if there was, I’d get a palace for sure.

  He looked down at me�
�not hard given that he was basically a horse—and said, “Finally, a mortal that understands protocol.”

  “Indeed,” I said, stretching out the word to an unnatural length. Sarcasm.

  “Yes, indeed!” the onocentaur responded with much enthusiasm. Sarcasm was wasted on Others. “The name is Asal of—”

  “Of the Vanir, yes, I’ve heard.”

  “So you know of my deeds.” The gleam in his eye was positively palpable, and I’m a sucker for a pathetic smile. I nodded. Why not? It probably made his week.

  He hee-hawed and dug his hind hooves into the carpet and bowed, right leg tucked behind his left foot in an elegant bow. “Young master …?”

  “Jean.”

  “Jean … I am forever in your debt. Should ever you need the services of Asal, the great Ass of Kvasir, all you must do is call out my name.”

  “Thanks,” I said, pointing at the form, “but right now the only service I need from you is to answer a few standard questions.”

  ↔

  I had just finished Asal’s form when the room went quiet. Ever been to a party when suddenly everything went quiet and someone broke the silence with “An angel passes by”? Well, it’s more literal than you’d think. An angel did pass by. Rather, walked in. Miral walked into the waiting room, her every step holding a dancer’s polish. Her dovelike wings hunched over her shoulders, forming a doctor’s coat, tiny linoleum name tag with the words Resident on Call pinned to them. As soon as she entered, all of the waiting Others ran up to her, hands—and claws, tentacles, etc.—outstretched. Miral ignored them all, looking over the crowd—not hard to do, as she was seven feet tall—and called out, “Sparkles. Miss Rainbow Sparkles, of Coca-Cola?” A sickly-looking pixie fluttered up from her seat, gripping her stomach as she flew over to Miral.