by R. E. Vance
“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,” he said, standing. “I thank you for your time.”
“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 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 added, “After the investigation is closed I will see what I can do.”
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 4:00 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 the photo could have belonged to one of the cynocephaly. Hell, it was even likely. The now-expired Ambassador was something 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 off 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 her life and the Ambassador’s 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 on the hunt, all I had was a river of blood—I 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 a second chance at avenging the murder of 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 had been expecting. What I did not expect were the half dozen HuMan gang members who 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 he was only eight feet tall 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 chest.
Their leader was a boy of eighteen affectionately known as EightBall. He had all the telltale 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 since 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 yourself, 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.
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 stinki
ng 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. 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 leave. 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 closer. 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 out those rejects, 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.”
I sighed as if bored. Only two things got through to a kid like him: fear and respect. And since respect took time, I went for fear. “Fine … but will you do me a favor?” I said in a steady, even tone. EightBall looked at me curiously. “When you come, just make sure you take me down first. I don’t want any of your blood on my hands, and if I see you hurting someone living under my roof, well then …” My voice trailed off, letting his imagination finish the thought.
EightBall looked at me, confused, a hint of fear touching his eyes. For a moment I thought maybe that was enough, that him seeing how deadly serious I was, how unafraid I was, would deter him from attacking. Like I said, I knew his type. EightBall’s eyes hardened. “OK, old man,” he said, nodding slowly, “I can do that for you. You go down first.” He backed away from the bars, rejoining his gang on the bench.
Hellelujah—so much for a peaceful resolution.
Chapter 4
Trains, Planes, Automobiles and Wings
Getting Penemue into the back seat of my old Plymouth was damn near impossible. In the end I had to rest him on his stomach. It wasn’t far to the hotel and we could have walked it, but have you ever tried to act as a crutch for an eight-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound angel? The last time I tried, I nearly passed out from the effort, even though Penemue used his wings as crutches.
The arches of his wings jutted out the driver’s-side back-seat window, while his taloned feet hung out the passenger’s. It wasn’t the best I could do, just the best I was willing to do. The angel had, after all, woken me from a very pleasant dream.
“Drambuie,” he said as I pulled out of the police-station parking lot.
Drambuie was a sickly sweet honey whiskey and the only thing the fallen angel drank, claiming it was the closest thing mortals had to Ambrosia. If you’ve ever had a Drambuie hangover, you’ll know that the last thing you’d ever want to drink was Ambrosia. I honked at no one in particular as I hit a speed bump way too fast. The angel groaned, and I smiled at my overdeveloped sense of passive aggression. Like I said—pleasant dream.
“I think you’ve had quite enough of that stuff for one night,” I said, taking a fast turn. Another groan from him. Another smile from me.
Penemue lifted one of his wings, pulled at a little canteen of Drambuie and began downing it. Seeing that turned my passive aggression to aggressive aggression. I reached into the back, yanked the canteen from his grimy claws and threw it out the window. “Hey,” he protested. “I was drinking that.”
“Yes, you were,” I growled. “And what good did that do you? I’m bailing your ass out of jail at four in the morning, we got a gang of testosterone-jacked teenagers who want to turn you into a pincushion of light—and you want to drink some more. What’s wrong with you?”
“The same thing that is wrong with all of us. Mortal Madness! For which death is the only known cure.”
“Shut it,” I said.
“Indeed,” he said. A hand popped out from the back with another canteen in it. “Drink?”
“Drink? What? Where did you get that from?” I said, grabbing the second canteen and throwing it out the window.
“I have more than one wing, Human Jean-Luc,” Penemue said matter-of-factly. “And layer after layer of feathers. I could stay dry in a tsunami. Did it once in a river of blood—”
“Penemue!” I barked. “Are you even listening to me?” From my rearview mirror I could see the angel’s face turn toward me. Our eyes met in the glass.
“Jean, please. I hear you. All of Paradise Lot hears you.”
“Why!”
“I wanted to play pool,” Penemue said. “Figured I’d be good at the angles.”
That was too much. I pulled the car to the side and threw the gear into Park. I turned to face the fallen angel and said, “I supported you when you were homeless. I covered for you when the cops came round looking for all the library books you stole. I lied for you when your makeshift distillery blew up and I took care of you when you sprained your wing playing Santa Claus and got stuck in a chimney.”
“Saint Nick, and it was an industrial shoot and I was trying to escape a pack of guard dogs with a taste for the divine.”
“Whatever!” I shouted. “The point is, you were laid up for three months while I fed, watered and Drambuied you. I think I’ve earned enough credit to know why! Why would you mess with them? Why would you go to the HuMans’ headquarters? Why? Why? Why!”
“Because …” Penemue hesitated. “Because I wanted to apologize.”
“To who?” I asked.
“To Newton. EightBall, I mean.”
I had expected a lot of clever answers from the angel, but the thought that he’d apologize to anyone for anything left me flabbergasted. Eventually I asked, “For what?”
“For what?” Penemue echoed. “Let’s see … Perhaps I wanted to apologize for burning down his house. Or perhaps it was because I felt guilty for stealing his future and turning him into an orphan. Or perhaps I wanted to say sorry for killing his parents.”
That last comment shut me up. The two of us drove in silence until the angel eventually broke it. “Killing his parents, Jean-Luc. Even for a human, you are daft. During the GrandExodus, I fell on his home and killed his parents. For that, I felt I at least owed him an apology, even if it is thirteen years too late.”
So that was what this was all about. Others were just as shocked by the gods leaving, so much so that most didn’t show up in the best of moods. In Australia, scores of bunyips came out of the sea. In Japan, yūrei descended Mount Fuji. Giants wandered out of Stonehenge, and in Oxford angry dwarves walked out of some poor guy’s chimney. And those were the nicer arrivals. Sadly, in most places Others showed up in a more Biblical fashion.
Volcanoes spewed dragons and tornadoes were filled with shrieking banshees. Oceans boiled and skies turned blood-red. In Paris, the earth opened up, swallowing the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile as ghouls and orcs streamed out in droves, attacking everything and anything that was unlucky enough to have been nearby. In Greece, minotaurs leveled the Parthenon. In China, the Jade Emperor’s army wiped out entire villages before their rage finally subsided.
And as for Paradise Lot? Well, the sky opened up and legions of angels fell onto my city like comets. One of those comets killed PopPop, making me an orphan. Another comet did the same to EightBall.
More fluorescent tears streamed down Penemue’s face as he spoke. “When I was ejected from Heaven, I fell—and not for the first time, mind you—onto this cursed city … and right onto the apartment building where young Human Newton’s parents resided. I didn’t mean to, but as anyone who has fallen can tell yo
u, one does not always have control over one’s trajectory.” He spoke the last sentence with a pompous air, trying to hide his shame.
“For days, I stood out on the Palisade,” Penemue continued, “trying to work up the courage to speak to the young boy. When I saw him this evening, laughing with his friends, I thought to myself that today would be the day I apologized—but before I could say anything, the gang of boys just attacked, and … well, you know the rest.”
I didn’t know what to say. Penemue’s guilt for accidentally killing EightBall’s parents was consuming him. This was not the kind of guilt that went away with a confession or even self-destruction. Believe me, I know. This kind of guilt stalked you, nipping away at your heels little by little, until you were driven mad. And there was nothing I could say or do to console my friend.
Penemue looked up and said, “Did you know that young Human Newton was considered a child prodigy? At the age of eight he could play the entire Fifth Symphony with nary an error. His parents were so proud that they saved every penny they could to encourage his talent. Who knows what he could have accomplished had I not stolen his future from him?”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s theirs.” I jerked my head at the car roof, indicating the gods. “For leaving. For the way they left.”
“Perhaps …” he said, his voice drifting off. “But I do have wings, and had I been just a little bit faster or more aware, I might have fallen elsewhere.” And with that fell more fluorescent tears, until the twice-fallen angel fell once more into sleep.
Chapter 5
Lust or Love
We drove home, a soft snore emanating from the back seat. After hearing Penemue’s confession, I knew the EightBall problem wasn’t going away. Beyond the little annoyance that the HuMans were a violent group of Otherphobes who would start targeting the One Spire Hotel, this was an issue of penance for the twice-fallen angel. How could he blame himself for their death? It wasn’t his fault that he’d been evicted from Hell without warning. And it wasn’t his fault that his entry to the mortal realm happened to be over Paradise Lot. But those were rational arguments for a much larger problem, and as one who has more blood on his hands than a thousand good deeds could wash off, when it came to seeking redemption, rationality was not the nail on which you hung your coat.