by R. E. Vance
This was new. I’d seen Grinner do both, but never at once. He looked up at me and, with an admonishing finger wag, said, “Tut, tut, tut—we can’t have you falling and hurting that precious head of yours.” Then the freak blew me a kiss and, still looking up at me, grabbed the minotaur by his left horn.
As far as I could tell, it was more out of malice than any tactical gain that he crushed the minotaur’s horn, turning it to dust that hung in the air. The minotaur howled. To the ancient Greek monster, losing a horn was the worst of all possible fates. When we would fight a troop of Others, we’d always try to find a minotaur in their midst and shoot at his horns. This would drive the beast into a berserking fury. Berserking meant not thinking. And not thinking, when up against a trained and coordinated Army, meant easy pickings for us. Like I said, I was good at what I did.
The minotaur swung wildly. There was nothing he could do and Grinner knew it. With a cackle, he propelled the mighty humanoid bull through the air and into the building across the way.
Grinner turned to me and said, “Now you.”
The air got heavy and I dropped to the ground, pinned under tons of atmospheric pressure. I was a goner and knew it.
Then I heard a terrifyingly sweet voice from above. “Cease! Leave the human alone!”
Hellelujah! The archangel Michael had arrived.
Chapter 4
Life from Above
“Leave the Human Jean alone!” trumpeted Michael as he descended from the sky. The Billy Goats Gruff were also there, surrounding Grinner, each staying over thirty feet away.
“What concern is it of yours?” Grinner asked. He took a step toward the largest of the Gruffs, who in turn took a step back, keeping the distance between them equal. At first, I thought the distance was arbitrary, but then I looked around at the carnage that surrounded Grinner. Nothing really extended beyond those thirty feet, with the impact of his destruction lessening the farther away it got from him. I felt stupid—how had I not noticed that before?
“I have vowed to uphold the law on this plane of existence,” Michael said.
“Human law,” came Grinner’s reply, with disdain on the word human.
Michael shook his head. “Mortal law.”
“Why,” Grinner said, pointing at the archangel, “do you insist on protecting a mistake? Does your god still command it or is it sentimentality that compels you?”
“It is neither,” Michael said, but did not offer his reasons.
“Tell me, Archangel Michael, did He tell you He was leaving? Or did He just go, leaving you behind like so much unwanted garbage?”
Michael just stared at the Avatar of Gravity, his face betraying nothing.
“I see,” said Grinner, then his eyes flickered as if he remembered something and he spoke in a language I did not understand. But to say this was a language would be incorrect, because human language has structure, cadence, and a flow to it. It is why we can distinguish the babbling of a baby from a language we do not speak—there is a certain rhythm to the words. There was no rhyme or reason to the sounds that Grinner uttered, but nonetheless Michael nodded and responded in the same alien language.
Tongues—the undecipherable language of the gods.
I watched in awe as two beings born at the dawn of time conferred in their shared non-language. Grinner nodded, then pointed to the sky and, again speaking in tongues, said something that shocked Michael. From his reaction, it was something he clearly did not want to hear, because the archangel trumpeted the command to attack and the Billy Goats Gruff began slinging stones at Grinner. The first few hit him before he could manipulate the gravity around him, but then he changed their trajectory, shooting the stones back at the Gruffs. The largest Gruff, Magnus, charged, and Grinner sent him flying straight up. The other two Gruffs also attacked—and all the while Michael watched without comment or action.
With the Gruffs attacking Grinner, Gravity’s Avatar was no longer paying attention to the fact that he was slowly crushing me to death. I had maybe five minutes before I passed out. Another ten minutes and I would never wake up again. And all the while Michael was doing nothing, letting the Gruffs continue their tactics that only served to keep Grinner’s mind off of me and on them.
Then it hit me. Michael most likely knew I was the key to Grinner’s plan. From his reaction to their little chat, I was sure that Grinner explained all that had happened, offering him the same deal he did Joseph and the Others that fought him before Michael arrived. Serve me as you did your OnceGods and I will restore all. But Michael could not accept the ascension of another being besides his God. That was against his nature and what the first Fall was all about. But even though he wasn’t powerful enough to stop Grinner, he still knew that without me, the bridge would be lost forever. Michael was a force of good and he could not outright kill me. But he could allow me to be killed, and that was exactly what he was doing now.
I’ve been told that close to the end you see your entire history flash before your eyes. Here, under that suffocating weight, I was as close to the end as I had ever been. I thought about what Hermes had done—his sacrifice. I thought about Bella and the Ambassador, and all those wasted years I had spent angry and distant. I thought about my promise to her.
But then the more mundane memories entered my mind. I thought about the One Spire Hotel and its collage of guests. I thought about Paradise Lot and its insane collection of shops and temples and restaurants. St. Mercy Hospital and Miral’s attempt to do good. I thought about mortal pain—hunger, lack of sleep, thirst and how bad Others were at being mortal and how abysmally terrible they were at filling out forms. What was that Once’s name? I wrote it on that first form I filled out … Asal, the Ass of Kvasir? He was so grateful, said all I had to do was call out his name and he’d be there. Swore it. An Other’s vow. And oh how seriously Others took their vows. Their promises. It was an unbreakable oath … almost magical in nature …
“Asal,” I whispered.
Nothing happened.
“Asal!” I cried out.
Michael looked at me curiously, perhaps wondering why my last word would be that of a strange onocentaur whose name never made the history books.
“Asal!” I said once more.
“Yes,” a voice brayed. “You called?”
↔
From friggin’ nowhere, I heard the trot of hooves on asphalt as Asal appeared and said, “Human Jean, how shall I be of service?” He stood right outside Grinner’s radius of effect.
“You big beautiful talking donkey! Get me out of here,” I said.
Asal dug his hooves in the ground and said, “As you command!” He walked into my personal waterfall of gravity, the weight of the air pushing him down as he entered. His knees buckled, his back strained, but like any stubborn donkey built to shoulder heavy burdens, he stood strong and continued to walk. Step by step, he got closer, until he was able to reach down, picking me up and putting me on his back. I worried that my added weight would bring him down, but he was too stubborn to fall. He took heavy step after heavy step, until he got out of Grinner’s sphere of influence. Outside and free, he trotted away.
As glad as I was to be pulled out of the fray, I really wished some Other with a bit more speed had come to my rescue. Asal’s donkey legs carried on much like a donkey did—slow and stubborn.
I looked over at Michael and yelled out, “Your plan to do nothing didn’t work. Now it’s time to do something!”
Michael nodded at me, respect in his eyes. “You are resilient. Perhaps even worthy of the redemption you seek.” Then he turned to Grinner, who was dealing with the Gruffs’ annoying distraction. He was slowly winning, with only Hunter, the eldest of the Gruffs, still standing.
Michael spread out his wings—his primary wings spanned twice the length of a city bus. His two smaller sets of wings swathed his body, and with that done, he wrapped his primary set over his shoulders. It looked like he was clamping on armor. Enveloped by his own wings, he proppe
d the tips of the large wings under his chin. Then his hair made way for the layer of feathers that rested underneath, forming a helmet. No, not a helmet—this was more like a second skull. I doubted there was a gun with a high enough caliber to scratch its surface.
Michael stepped into Grinner’s radius. Step by step, the archangel drew closer, wading through that immense weight as if it were the shallow end of a pool. Grinner saw the archangel’s approach and, with a push, knocked the Steve Gruff down on his goat tail.
Then he turned his full attention on Michael, straining as he called down more and more weight. But still Michael moved forward, an outstretched hand reaching for Grinner’s neck. Grinner took a step backward, calling down even more weight. Michael faltered, and I thought for sure he’d collapse. But then he stretched out his third, lower wings and, using them as crutches, took another step forward.
Grinner hissed and said, “Have it your way!” putting his two hands together. This gesture caused the air to literally compress, and it hardened into a block of oxygen and hydrogen, nitrogen and every other gas in the atmosphere, turning them into a substance as solid as stone and as transparent as glass. It fell right on Michael’s head, and I thought for sure the archangel would be crushed to a pulp … but he wasn’t.
He just stood in the impossibly dense solid air, surrounded by a halo of light apparently shielding him from the pressure and the weight inside Grinner’s crushing sphere. I could see the strain. There was no doubt he was burning through time—a wildfire of years, stripping away what he had left.
The strain on Michael’s face was palpable, and for the first time in all the years of war and battle, all the encounters I’d had with angels of all hierarchies, I saw an angel sweat. I thought that wasn’t possible, that somehow they were created without sweat glands. But he did. Little beads of sweat formed on his forehead, then became streams that ran down his face. It was both humbling and terrifying to see the archangel Michael sweat. It made him look so weak. So mortal. So human.
I knew that Michael could die. But still, he was putting up some kind of fight, because Grinner’s own face was strained as he concentrated on dealing with the archangel, all his attention on the sphere he had conjured.
I had to do something. I had to help. “Quick, Asal, take me to the edge.”
Asal faithfully did as I asked, and when we were close, I dismounted. Cautiously I took a step forward and came up against the hardened air. I felt around. Any structure that so recklessly compacted would have a weakness, a point where the compression was uneven. I’d seen it with stones compressed for asphalt, with structures compressed by the deep sea—I’d even seen it with my overbaked cookies. And it had worked with the ceiling. The pressure had to be uneven, and there was no way Grinner was concentrating on that. All I had to do was find the weak spot and exploit it.
My hands ran across the smooth and solid transparent surface. It was perfect. I guessed when you employed the entirety of gravity, it would be even and—
My hand ran across a slight ripple. A scratch thinner than a hair that disrupted the smooth surface. It was hardly anything, but it would have to do. I pulled out my hunting sword and struck down on the fracture. Nothing. I hit again and my blade reverberated against the surface like an aluminum baseball bat hitting a giant gong. No, no! This wasn’t working and I could see Michael starting to fail. His knees shook and the sweat was stained with particles of light. Damn it! No. I thrust my hunting sword point-first into the hairline crack and … it stuck.
Hot GoneGodDamn! It stuck. I pushed, but it didn’t budge. I doubled my efforts, crying out with all the strength I could summon, and although it moved forward a bare fraction of an inch, it was still not enough. Then the minotaur with the now-destroyed horn came forth, dusting off bits of the building Grinner had thrown him into. “Master Human,” he snorted. “Let us … together.”
“Asal, take a step back,” I said as I knelt to hold the blade steady, and the one-horned minotaur readied himself to swing. He pulled back and rocketed forth his mighty war hammer, connecting perfectly with the end of the hilt. Once, twice, thrice, the bull struck. Four, five, six—it was working, but too slowly to be of use. “This is hopeless,” I said, looking over at Grinner, who still focused his power on containing the archangel.
“No, not hopeless. Let Yara-Uno be of assistance,” said the Australian vampire.
In the hole that my blade created, Yara-Uno inserted the needle-sharp point of his fencing sword. He hung there, ineffectual and limp. I was about to pull it out and resume the attack with the sword when the minotaur put a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and he shook his head. Yara-Uno pulled out the needle and closed his eyes, lifting it in line with his nose. Then he began humming—not humming so much as vibrating. The Earth beneath us shook and bits of rubble started lifting from the ground.
Without warning, Yara-Uno opened his eyes, which were now two white disks, more headlights than eyes, and yelled, “I am Yara-Uno, the last of the great Ma-Yha-Who clan, and I summon the strength of all my ancestors and their ancestors before them. I summon my bloodline from the dawn of time and before. I summon all of them for one last strike!”
I swear to all that I know to be true, in whatever universe the GoneGods were, they felt this little guy’s cry. Yara-Uno thrust his needle’s tip into the hole and beyond, and with a whopping crackle, the atmosphere cracked.
And splintered.
With a burst of energy, the solid air shattered.
The minotaur must have sensed that the thing would fly apart, because he shielded me and Yara-Uno from the blast as invisible shards of atmosphere pierced his back before turning into harmless, effervescent air. I could see the life leaving him—one more soul going nowhere—and as it did, I said the only words I knew to comfort him.
“You fought well. The angel is free.”
The beast smiled as his eyes glazed over. Then his face took on the expressionless indifference of death.
Michael, now free, did not hesitate. He leaped forward with unearthly speed and grabbed Grinner by the throat. I thought he was about to snap the Other’s neck or smash him against the ground. Punch him in the teeth, rip his head off. I could see that part of the archangel wished to do so, but another part of him, the part that made Michael Michael, hesitated. He grimaced from the battle that raged within him. Suddenly the archangel pulled Grinner’s face in close and whispered something in his ear. Then he let the maniac go.
Grinner nodded, looked around and then disappeared.
“What’s wrong with you?!” I screamed. “You had him, and you just let him go!”
“I swore an oath long ago that I should never harm a First Law. It was part of the covenant between the Highest Order of Angels and Nature,” Michael said, surveying the carnage. All around us were hurt Others. Yara-Uno, ever the leader, was organizing the less hurt to tend to the mortally wounded.
And Michael let him go! Rage overcame me and now it was my turn to poke a finger at the archangel’s chest. “The old oaths don’t matter anymore!” I growled. “Not since they left.”
The archangel dismissed me. He was an angel of the highest order and a little thing like his god abandoning him wasn’t going to stop him from being who he was. I guess I understood. It was all he had left. It was all any of us really ever had. “I upheld my vow and will live with the consequences of doing so. What I have done is to grant us time to prepare and give you an opportunity to run.”
“Run?! I will never—”
But before I could finish the sentence, the great angel dropped to one knee and, breathing heavily, vomited a mixture of food and light. From where I stood, I could see the angel had several broken ribs. I felt my own chest: my insides were crunched together from my time in the sphere. I was sure there was some internal bleeding. I calmed down—the next steps could wait. He was right. We needed time to heal, to regroup.
I sat by the angel, happy to be resting, and said in a soft voice, “What did you say to hi
m?”
“I asked him a question,” Michael said, and as he did, he regained a bit of his majesty.
“What, like a riddle?” I asked.
“In a way … I asked him to solve a mystery for me.”
“A mystery.” I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I mean, really, really laughing. I think I must have broken two more ribs as I keeled over and brayed.
At first, Michael looked at me, confused. Then he joined in. Soldier to soldier, he understood. You laugh now because you might not get a chance tomorrow.
We must have been quite the sight—a human and an archangel sharing a joke no one else got. Eventually our laughter died down, and I asked, “You sent that maniac away with a ‘mystery,’ whatever that means, and what happens when he solves it? Do you tell him a joke?”
Michael went solemn. “When he solves it, Human Jean, he will return, and there is nothing I nor anyOther can do,” the archangel said.
Hellelujah! Way to kill the mood.
Chapter 5
Choices, Choices
When I was a kid, the circus came to town. Everyone gathered to watch the parade of clowns and jugglers, animals and trainers, daredevils and ringleaders march down the street. I was fascinated by all those exotic creatures making their way down the road. Man oh man, I loved every minute of it. I was only ten at the time. Now my mind went back to that day as we walked down the streets of Paradise Lot. We must have looked like a macabre version of that circus, a funeral procession of horns and hooves, humans and Others, misery and pain.
As we walked, Asal informed me that I was the second human to be carried by him. The first was Kvasir, the human responsible for brokering peace between the Aesir of Asgard and the Vanir. And the reward for his good deeds? He was tricked and killed by dwarves, his blood brewed into the Mead of Poetry.
“You know, Human Jean, if you, too, were to meet a similar fate, that would mean that my carrying you now foreshadows your death. How poetic!” Asal was way too excited by the prospect of my death.