by R. E. Vance
“OK, OK.” I lifted my hands 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 hidden. 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 had met Tink at the lowest moment of my life, and I probably wouldn’t 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, and Tink nodded. “The day she died.”
Concern painted 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 ad 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 birds’ 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 toward 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 collarless black jacket and heading for the door.
I was off to confront Miral. I had always been told 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, a twenty-minute walk from the hotel. I would have driven there, but Penemue was still snoring away in the back seat 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 that 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 seem like 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 receptionist stared at the onocentaur, evidently unimpressed. The Once snorted, continuing nonetheless. “Yes, the very Asal of the Vanir who stood against the invading Aesir.”
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 his 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.”
“Indeeeeeed,” 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 all the noise stopped 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 entered 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.
“Miral,” I said, chasing after her, “I need to speak to you.”
She did not turn around as she headed to her office. “Need, Jean, is very much a matter of perspective. Is your need greater than theirs?” she asked, pointing to the overrun waiting room. Her voice came out even and steady, her every word spoken with a refinement that mirrored her grace of movement.
“But—”
“But nothing,” Miral said, extending her hand so that the sickly pixie could rest on it. “My experience is that need is often mistaken for want. What I want is more time. What I need is more help.” And with that, Miral turned on her heel and left the waiting room to examine the pixie, and me to reflect on my shame. Damn, the angel was good.
↔
After being shamed by Miral, I decided I would give her a bit of what she needed by helping. I clicked a pen and, standing in the middle of the waiting room, announced, “OK, I’ll fill out forms.” For the briefest of moments I felt what it must be like to be Mick Jagger. The Others didn’t just come over—they rushed me, each shoving their form in my face, begging that they be first. I literally had to stand on a chair to get out of the crowd. Then, summoning my most commanding voice, I said, “One at a time.”
That had as much effect as telling a group of seagulls not to eat the discarded bread. The rush only got more overwhelming, and it didn’t stop until I yelled, “I will only help those who are quiet! … And sitting!” For good measure I pushed through the crowd and went over to the only Other that had not rushed me—a satyr with a nasty gash on his head.
The Others obeyed. Literally. Every one of them went quiet, sitting down not on an empty chair but exactly where they had been standing.
“On the chairs.”
A whirlwind of wings, feet and hooves filled the room as the Others played a version of musical chairs.
Hellelujah!
When they were quiet and more or less patient, I went around filling out forms. Most of them were complaining about stomach cramps and headaches. Some complained of fatigue. Truth was, most of these Others weren’t really sick, they were just bad at being mortal. They still tried to live by the same rules that had governed them for thousands of years before, and this new world was so cumbersome with all the things they had to remember. Things like eating, hydrating, sleeping. And shitting. You’d be surprised how many Others suffered from self-imposed constipation pains simply because they couldn’t live with the daily indignity of a morning poo.
I must have filled out two dozen forms when Miral walked in and announced, “Fellow Fallen—those of you who have swollen stomachs and aching heads, please follow my associate to the mess hall and bathrooms.” Half of the Others left. “Those of you with dry tongues, please head over to the water fountain and drink. And those of you with blurry vision, go home and sleep.”
The room cleared out, leaving behind the nymph with the broken arms and the satyr with the nasty head wound. Both of whom went off with other doctors, leaving me alone with Miral.
“I do that twice a night,” she said with a cunning smile, and led me to her office.
↔
For the second time today, I sat across a desk from an angel. “Thanks, Miral,” I started. “I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to ask you—”
“Jean, what would you say if I told you I have a way to solve all your problems?”
I blinked twice. “I’d probably tell you that you’re spending way too much time watching infomercials.”
“No, silly,” she said, pulling out a flyer with the words “Keep Evolving” on it. It was the same damn flyer they had found at the crime scene.
“Aha! I knew you were behind this!” I cried out, proud of my detective skills, then remembered it was really Tink who had figured it out.
Still, Miral didn’t have to know that. She rolled her eyes, pulling a manila folder out of her desk drawer and opening it in front of me. I was hesitant to look. The last time an angel gave me a manila anything, I didn’t like what I saw. This was no different. In it was a bunch of empty boxes to be filled out for the OIF—the Other Integration Fund.
“Oh, great. More forms,” I said, closing the folder.
She opened it up again. “They are accepting another round of applications. And I know your bills are mounting up. This will save you.”
The OIF was a government-run initiative. A human government initiative, which meant a lot of hoops to jump through, a lot of paperwork to fill out with a shit-ton of measurables and deliverables. Not to mention milestones and action plans. I danced with them once before and all I got in the end was sore feet. Miral, like so many Others, didn’t get human bureaucracy. It seems that Heaven didn’t really have paperwork.
“I told you, I already tried with the OIF. They pulled the funding as soon as Bella … you know …”
“Yes, because all you did was offer Others a place to sleep. Bella, she offered seminars, talks, classes. You barely offer clean sheets.”
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.
“Don’t you see?” Miral continued. “This is a second chance. If the One Spire combines forces with St. Mercy Hospital, throwing weekly seminars on coping with mortality, the OIF will reinstate your funding.”
“I don’t know,” I said. It would be great to get a bit of cash coming in. As it stood, I was barely making ends meet. I shook my head. “I’ve been down this path before and—”
“You’re already doing it. I’ve called the OIF. They said that all you need to do is throw one seminar a week. That will be enough to gain access to the funding.” She pointed at the flyer. “We got a full house.”
“Resistance is futile,” I said in my best Borg voice.
“Resistance is pointless,” she said, evidently not a Star Trek fan. “I’ve taken care of everything. All you have to do is set up and—”
“Don’t say it,” I said.
“Bake cookies.”
“I hate baking,” I protested.
“Think of it as penance. Now, tell me—what did you want to see me about?”
Chapter 8
Blessed Be He
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I told Miral about Michael and finding the flyer. I also found myself telling her about Penemue and the HuMans, about Judith and Astarte and the damn headache I’d had since waking up that morning. Hell, there must be something about women with wings—they can always get me talking. Once I started, I opened up to the angel, telling her about every pain, problem and pathetic thought that rattled around in that empty canister I called my skull. It felt good to get it all off my chest, and with every word I spoke, I felt my burdens lifting.
I told her everything except about my dreams of Bella. Some things were private, damn it, and angel of mercy or not, she did not have full reign over all that occupied my mind.
After I finished unburdening myself, I went silent, expecting, hoping, praying for some kind of ancient divine wisdom that would cure all. But she didn’t say a word. She just stared at me for a long, long time before finally standing up, walking over to her cupboard and offering me a Tylenol.
“This is for your headache,” she said.
I took the pill and said, “The murders? Any thoughts on that?”
“Either it is a Fanatic, or her killer returns. Only time will reveal which it is.”
“Time. You’re the once-captain of God’s army and a being older than solid objects, and all you can tell me is ‘Be patient’?”
“Indeed. And it gets better than that. For the rest of your problems I recommend faith,” Miral said as she ushered me out her door.
“Faith in what?” I said. “They’re gone, remember.”
“Even when they were here, faith was never about them. It was always about having faith in yourself,” Miral said, giving me a knowing smile.
“So that’s it? Faith and patience?”
“Yes.” Then, as if as an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and let the cookie dough sit for at least half an hour. That way the cookies will come out all the more fluffy.”