Paradigms Lost

by Ryk E. Spoor

  I glanced at him. “Would that be literally true? Because we’d like to have the ceremony during the daytime.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I can walk in the sunlight; the Lord has seen fit to bless me in certain ways, perhaps to help me in my mission. Our friend Verne, of course, is more than strong enough for such things.”

  “Goody,” said Sylvie. “Then let’s get down to planning the whole ceremony.”

  I looked around for some more snacks. This might take some time.

  CHAPTER 53

  Reception of Revelation

  Verne looked nervous as we waited for Sylvie to join us at the ballroom entrance. It was an unusual expression indeed. “Jason, I know I have asked, but—”

  “Trust me, Verne. The cameras are taken care of. The Jammer and his bosses were confident they could do it, and they gave me the thumbs-up a couple of hours ago. If you can keep from being directly photographed, you’ll be fine.”

  He sighed. “That I can do, Jason. It is just . . . difficult to take this risk. Yet I must, if I wish to be fully a part of society. I am just sorry that I must rely so much on others to do so.”

  I grinned cynically. “I think they’re probably relieved to have the chance. Means that you’re not undetectable by them, that you have limits and weaknesses, and that you will owe them something if they keep doing this kind of thing for you.”

  A brief smile in answer. “Yes, I suppose. A wise man, your Mr. Achernar; one who would rather cement alliances than divide.”

  “I’d say so. Now, I need your help to keep me from committing any faux pas this evening, Verne,” I said.

  “I will do what I can,” he answered with a quick smile, “but as this is Sky’s night, I think he is the one who should be nervous about it all.”

  “Well, at least this is his shindig,” I said. “After all, Ms. Lumiere arranged the reception specifically to showcase his art.”

  “But,” Syl said from behind as she slid her arm into the crook of mine, “it’s not like you’ll be able to escape attention.”

  “Hopefully not too much.” I looked her in the eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine, Jason. I know they still haven’t found Aurora . . . but I have a good feeling about it. She’ll turn up, somewhere, somehow.”

  That relieved me. “Okay.” I gave her a hug as I said over her shoulder, “Have you met Danielle Lumiere before, Verne?”

  “Honestly, Jason, I have not paid much attention to business or social events until recently, so no. I do not, I confess, even know what she looks like. I did read a quick precis of her history, and I will admit to considerable admiration for her ability to not merely survive rude blows of fate but to maintain a head for business at an age when most children are not yet ready to leave school.”

  “You can say that again,” I said, checking my tie one more time before we entered. “This is only the second event she’s attended since her friend was lost overboard almost a year ago and the first one she’s thrown herself, so let’s make sure it’s a good one.”

  The doors opened and we were actually announced to the room, something that I hadn’t seen done outside of old movies. “Mr. Jason Wood, Miss Sylvia Stake, and Mr. Verne Domingo,” a gentleman next to the door said; a hidden microphone conveyed his quietly spoken words to loudspeakers tuned exactly to the level of audibility but below the level of intrusion. And to manage that, they’ve got a sound crew being paid a few thousand dollars an hour, I’ll bet.

  There were a couple hundred people in the long, shining ballroom aboard Lumiere Industries’ floating headquarters, the modified cruise vessel Danielle Lumiere had christened Valinor. I’d never seen so many tuxes and extravagant gowns outside of a James Bond marathon. Despite my extremely expensive outfit, I felt like an utter impostor.

  A tiny, energetic figure popped out of the crowd and walked very quickly towards us. “Mr. Domingo! Mr. Wood! Ms. . . . Sylvie!” she said, evading Syl’s problematic last name. “Dad’s really glad you could all make it,” said Star Hashima.

  “We, also, are very glad we could come,” Verne said. “And allow me to say that you make an exquisite hostess this evening, Star.”

  She grinned and spun around, showing off her brilliant green and sea-blue dress; it contrasted very well with her night-black hair and eyes. “Thanks! But if you think I look good, wait ’til you get a load of our real hostess, Miss Lumiere.”

  “I look forward to it,” Verne said.

  “Well, you’ll get your chance right away. Dad sent me over to make sure you found him easy. C’mon, he’s like on the other end of the room.”

  “Slow down, Star,” Syl said with a laugh. “Genteel, remember. Your dad isn’t going to disappear in the next five minutes.”

  Star did a creditable job of reining in her obvious need to run from point to point, but I could see the repressed energy. “Boy, Sky must have his hands full with her,” I murmured to Syl.

  “No doubt,” Syl answered. “But she obviously loves her father to death, so he’s doing a good job, I think.” Syl looked . . . dazzling, actually, I thought to myself. Incredibly gorgeous. I hoped we might be able to dump Verne later on, actually, much as I enjoyed his company. And in a couple of weeks . . .

  We finally emerged from a thick ring of real VIPs—I noticed Steven Cameron, the director of some of the biggest hits in Hollywood (including some of my favorites, like the wildly successful Lensman adaptations); Angelina Weaver who was the most bankable action-movie star these days; and a bunch of others, including the Vice President of the United States.

  Sky Hashima was in the center of this knot, answering questions and pointing to various paintings and sculputures positioned around this part of the room. While he kept a calm, confident smile on his face, I could see by the stiffness of his back that he was very nervous.

  He relaxed slightly as his daughter came into view with us in tow. “Star! Thank you for getting them so quickly.”

  I stepped forward and shook his hand. “Congratulations on this event; looks like everyone who is anyone is here. But I don’t see our hostess.”

  “She’s on her way,” Sky said. “I don’t know if you heard, but there was a major fire at one of the manufacturing plants that started just before the event, so I actually haven’t met her or her right-hand man yet—they’ve both been in an emergency meeting.” He turned and gave Syl a hug. “Been a long time since my first visit to your shop, hasn’t it?”

  She hugged back. “Not all that long.”

  “Seems like half a lifetime ago to me,” Sky said, and then bowed to Verne. “And I owe you a lot of thanks again, Verne.”

  Verne waved it off. “I merely began the process to expose your work to the proper audiences; it is your own work which has produced success from that exposure.”

  “Maybe, but the genteel form of advertising sure doesn’t hurt.” Sky glanced to one side. “Oh, I think that’s them now,” he said.

  I saw a very tall man—taller than Verne—with carefully trimmed brown hair and a square, tanned face. He was wearing a suit that must have cost several thousands of dollars and which seemed ready to bust at the seams trying to contain shoulders of heroic proportions. The man was escorting someone so tiny that she was barely visible. Then the crowd parted and let them through.

  I suddenly felt a crushing grip on my left arm—Verne’s side, and glanced over, opening my mouth to protest; my objection vanished as I caught sight of him. Verne had gone paper-white and looked as though he was about to faint dead away; I followed his gaze—straight to our hostess.

  Danielle Arwen Lumiere wasn’t called “The Golden Girl” for nothing; cascading waves of gold-blonde hair framed her face and fell nearly to the floor. I’d seen pictures of her, but they hadn’t conveyed the beauty adequately. I wasn’t used to finding myself staring at someone like that, but for a moment, concerned though I was about Verne, I couldn’t keep from doing so. Scarcely five feet tall, the sixteen-year-old owner and C
EO of Lumiere Enterprises Group—from her sunshine-gold hair to her brilliant smile and huge, gray eyes that somehow were both familiar and exotic—outshone everyone around her. Danielle’s dress made her look like a delicate fairytale princess, stepping straight from a book into reality—a reality that was a bit too gray and dull to hold her.

  I blinked and looked back at Verne. “You okay?”

  He made a visible effort, and the touch of color returned to his pale cheeks. “In’e valahet . . .” he murmured, then straightened, letting go of my arm, which had gone numb. Jesus, I’m gonna have bruises there tomorrow. “My . . . apologies, Jason. Yes, I am . . . okay now.”

  Good. But you’re going to owe me an explanation later, I thought.

  The big man stepped slightly forward. I thought I glimpsed a strange look exchanged between the man—Rex Hammersmith, Danielle Lumiere’s bodyguard and right-hand man—and Sky Hashima, but whatever I did see, it was gone almost instantly. “Mr. Hashima,” he said, “allow me to present Miss Danielle Arwen Lumiere.”

  Sky took her hand and bowed over it. “Thank you very much, Miss Lumiere, for giving me such an . . . extravagant event.”

  She smiled and the temperature of the room seemed to rise by a degree and a half. “Oh, just call me Danielle, if I can call you Sky. Your work’s wonderful. I had Rex buy two of your pieces just yesterday. And I have to apologize for not having been here to meet you; I had to make sure they got the fire under control . . .” her brilliant smile faltered momentarily, “. . . and that the families of the people who got hurt or . . . worse were being taken care of.”

  “Well,” Verne said, now apparently fully recovered, “it is good to see that you continue the traditions and practices set by your parents. Lumiere has a most . . . salutary reputation in a field filled with other corporations of . . . often questionable motives and morality.”

  “Why, thank you . . . Mr. Domingo? Yes, of course, you must be Verne Domingo. Thank you for such kind words; my mother and father taught me that a company that cares is one that will survive when others fall. And, of course, I have to thank you for bringing Sky to everyone’s attention. I can’t think how he was missed for so long.” She turned that stunning gray gaze on me, and suddenly, I realized where I’d seen eyes like that before.

  Danielle Lumiere’s eyes were virtually identical to those of Xavier Ross.

  I was distracted by this realization, so I don’t remember her greeting or my response to it. I did notice Syl studying her with unusual intensity. I had no idea what was going on, but I had the feeling that the answers to many mysteries were flying around just out of reach, and I had not a clue what the mysteries were, let alone what the solution to them might be.

  To my great relief, after asking a few questions about the Morgantown Incident and congratulating us on our forthcoming wedding, our hostess kept to her mission and focused on Sky and his work for the remainder of the evening.

  However, this wasn’t true of many of the guests, and despite trying to escape it, I found myself being questioned about everything werewolf-related. By the time we finally left, my throat was sore from talking.

  “Well, Jase,” Syl said as we got into Verne’s limo, “Miss Lumiere is very interesting, isn’t she?”

  I shot a glance at her to see if she was trying to yank my chain for staring too much at first, but her face was dead serious. “She’s . . . unique,” I said finally.

  “I’ve never seen such a perfect example of . . . oh, charisma, I guess. And she doesn’t seem conscious of it, really,” Syl agreed. “I could sense something special about her, and so could most of the people in the room, even if they couldn’t say what it was.”

  I looked at Verne, settling into his seat across from us. “What do you think, Verne? And before you answer, you damn near crushed my arm.”

  Verne bowed his head. “I apologize, Jason. I am . . . rarely surprised. And this evening, I had such a shock as I have not had in centuries. Many centuries.”

  “Didn’t know blonde high-schoolers were your type,” I said wryly.

  He neither smiled nor looked irritated, which told me how serious this was. “Imagine, Jason. Imagine being who I am, with the history you know. Imagine that there was a person from your living days, one who was a bright and shining symbol to all your people. A symbol snuffed out on the same day that your world was turned upside-down by monsters and sunk beneath the waves.

  “Then imagine, half a million years later, that you came face to face with her, exactly as she had been when you last saw her, the same smile, the same eyes of the King, the same hair that shone from out of the midst of a crowd, and that you sensed her in that moment—sensed her, and knew it was the same girl, the same soul.”

  I stared at him wordlessly. Sylvie broke the silence. “Verne . . . you mean to tell us that Danielle Lumiere is someone from . . . Atlantaea?”

  “Not that she, herself, was transported from Atlantaea, no,” Verne clarified. “But she has been somehow . . . reborn into a body that seems utterly identical to one from five thousand centuries ago. She is even known by a name so very similar, for then she was called ‘Dahnelle,’ and her name in Atlantaean meant, quite simply, ‘the Golden One’; ancient Atlantaea—you should be aware—had virtually no people of fair skin or light hair. It was a rare and remarkable sight indeed for most of us.”

  “Holy crap.” I thought for a moment, as Morgan—the only driver we’d trust on this sort of expedition, so far from Verne’s home—put the limousine in gear and started the drive home from New York City. Finally, I said, “I’m guessing that you don’t come across . . . what, reincarnated Atlantaean souls very often?”

  “Never,” he said, and there was hollow agony in that single word. “Understand, Jason, Sylvia: the Great Sealing ritual performed on the magical link between our world and the other, Zarathan, was powered by the souls of the dying. Those who died that day, nearly to the last man or woman, were consumed in the ritual that Kerlamion performed. They were neither reborn into the cycle of life, nor taken to any of the realms beyond life; they simply ended, and so none of the millions in the great City, none of my friends and family and colleagues, none of them have been reborn or found their true destination beyond. Only those few who fled before the ritual and survived the destruction were complete . . . and she was—she must have been—one of their primary targets.”

  He shook his head. “So she cannot have escaped. And yet . . . she is here. Unaware of her past, and I suppose I should leave it so. But I fear that any who remain of our old enemies will wish to complete their work. In that summary of her life, I saw that she has already lost her parents, and—more recently—one of her few true friends of childhood. I wonder already whether this is pure accident, or more.”

  “It’s not your responsibility, Verne,” I said. “If she really was the same person, maybe, but you yourself say she’s more, what, a reincarnation?”

  “Yes. Yes, you are right, Jason. Yet . . . she would have been my responsibility, for she was to be wed to the one for whom I was responsible, the Prince himself.” He took one of his rare deep breaths. “But . . . without revealing much that would endanger her in and of itself, there is little I can do. So you are, I am afraid, correct.”

  “Verne,” Syl asked after a moment, “what did you mean when you said she had the ‘eyes of the King’?”

  He managed a smile. “Ah, of course, that would mean nothing to you. Torline, the Eternal King, had extraordinary eyes, eyes of gray, most often described as of the color of stormclouds reflected on a blade of steel, large and expressive eyes which seemed to look through you. Oh, there are and have been many others with eyes of shades of gray, but those eyes, that shade of gray . . . only the King, and those of his near blood—within three generations—ever showed those eyes, and few even of those.”

  That put a new perspective on a few earlier events. I pulled my laptop out and opened it, as Syl said, “But wait, you said she was supposed to marry the Prince. T
hat would make them cousins or something, wouldn’t it?”

  Verne chuckled faintly. “Well, yes, it would. But is it not true that many royal families of your own history encouraged intermarriage?” Syl nodded. “But in this case it is more complicated. Torline and his Queen were married at the dawn of Atlantaea’s rising. It is no exaggeration to say that the fact that they existed was what led to Atlantaea becoming what it was. Yet in all that time—one hundred thousand years—they had but one child between them. That one, at the end of their reign, was Prince Mikael, and his birth was the greatest joy of the age, for we all knew how desperately the Eternal King and Queen had longed for a child that was theirs together, and how they had long accepted that it would never be.

  “But the two Immortals, with such life before and after them, were not jealous nor wishing to see their lines end; and so it was not unheard of for someone of great accomplishment to catch the eye of either the King or Queen and become one of their favored; from these unions there were other children, and all saw this as strengthening the Empire of Atlantaea, for how could the child of one of the Eternal Rulers be anything but a strength and blessing to our people?”

  “I guess that does make sense,” Syl said after a moment. I think I still have the files, I thought, as I searched a couple of directories. “So there were a lot of semi-distant relatives pretty much everywhere in the main city.”

  “Maybe not just there, either,” I said, and spun the laptop to face Verne. “How about that?”

  Verne leaned forward, staring at the image of Xavier Ross, and once more he looked as pale as a ghost. “Who . . . who is this?” he said finally, and his voice was shocked.

  “That’s the kid I think I got killed, Verne. Xavier Ross.”

  His head snapped up. “This is Xavier Ross?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly, he leaned back.