by R. E. Vance
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A few more weeks passed, and every day Penemue read aloud, refusing to leave my side. Every night I dreamed of Bella. But unlike before, these dreams were empty, a poor conjuring of a lonely man. And then, one night I did not dream of her at all. She was fading away and all that was left was my promise.
My promise. My godless damned promise … Why did that matter anymore? Why did any of it matter?
But it did. And all the time in the world to wallow in self-pity wasn’t going to change that. What was it the angel had said? We’re all going to die. Might as well die doing something worthwhile.
And there is this girl whom I love very much …
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We packed up the cabin, forgetting to lock it as I had done so many times before. My foot still ached, so Penemue offered to drive, his massive body fitting in the driver’s seat only because he stuck one wingtip out the window, the other encroaching onto the passenger’s side.
Angels are not very good drivers. The car lurched forward as his massive foot hit both the clutch and brake at once. He grinded the gears and, as he did, my heart thumped. He’d burn out the clutch if he wasn’t careful. Hell, he might even blow out the whole transmission.
“Stop,” I said, opening my door. “I’ll drive.” As we switched seats, I could have sworn I saw the bastard smirk.
I hobbled into the driver’s seat and revved the engine with my good foot. It felt good to be behind the wheel. Fine, I thought, I’ll get us home. Perhaps being a dead man pretending to be alive didn’t have to be all bad.
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We drove all the way to the One Spire Hotel. The building was still in tatters, police tape still strung up outside. What did I expect? After all, we were in Paradise Lot. It’s not like the place ceased being a slum because I killed one Fanatical wannabe god.
Penemue sighed, stretched out his wings and said in his baritone voice, “I have been sober far too long. If memory serves me right, there is a fresh bottle of Drambuie in the hay.”
But before leaving, he walked over to me and handed me an effervescent sphere the size of a marble.
The once-great Avatar of Gravity.
“A trophy for you,” he said, and took to the sky.
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I walked in and found the broom. This mess of a room was my front door; even though I didn’t have a hotel anymore, I still had my pride. I’d clean this place up. Start rebuilding it one brick at a time and see what would happen. We all have to pick the hills we’re willing to die on, and this hill was better than most.
The bell above the door rang. I turned to see Newton, a.k.a. EightBall, leader of a gang of HuMans that got their kicks from terrorizing Others.
“If you’re here to cause problems …” I started, but judging by the sheepish way he looked around the place, I doubted he was here to start a fight. His clothes were torn and he looked like he’d just spent the last few nights on the streets. He had bruises and cuts that were a few days old and dry blood was splattered down the front of his shirt.
“This place really had a number done on it,” he said.
“Yeah.” I was exhausted from the drive up and not in the mood for chitchat.
“Do you think you’ll be up and running soon?”
“Given that it’s city ordinance that rented rooms have four walls, I seriously doubt it.”
“Too bad,” he said, not moving from where he stood. He reminded me of, well, me, when I wanted something from PopPop, but was too proud to bring it up.
I stopped sweeping and looked at him for who he was. A kid. Before, he at least had his anger, and that anger gave him purpose. But now … he looked lost. “What happened?” I asked.
“Me and the gang had us a … falling-out over our Other policy, and now that I’m freelance I was thinking maybe you got a job for me.”
“Kid—do I look like I have a hotel, let alone a job for you?”
EightBall didn’t say anything. Just kept staring at me with wanting eyes.
“Fine,” I said, handing him the broom. “You can start by helping clean up. I can’t pay you, but you can sleep in one of the rooms upstairs for free.”
EightBall took the broom with a little too much attitude and started at the floor. He stopped mid-sweep and looked up at me. “Fine, but I don’t do windows,” he said, trying to save face.
“What windows?”
He looked at the broken glass all around us, shrugged and got back to sweeping.
↔
Walking into my bedroom filled me with dread. Although it had survived the chaos of the previous days relatively untouched, it also carried with it the memories of a life now lost. My vintage toys still sat on the shelves, unmoved. Tink’s castle remained empty; the note and candle wax I had left for her were exactly where I had left them. I don’t know why, but I placed what was left of Grinner in the hollowed-out eye of Castle Grayskull, using Hermes’s wax to hold it in place. I figured it was as good a resting place as any. I also put the picture of Bella that Michael gave me on the shelf—my little shrine to remind me how I lost her for a second time.
But the worst part of my intact room was my unmade bed. That was where I used to dream of Bella. It being exactly where I left it and my knowing that she would not be there to greet me filled my heart with a deep, restless sorrow. I wished, with every fiber of my being, that my room had been destroyed and with it some of the memories that haunted me now.
Looking around, I tried to find any change and noted one difference. Someone had been in my room and taken one single item—my collarless black jacket. I was sure I had hung it up before leaving, but the coat hanger was empty.
Frustrated, I looked around the room for it. Truth was, I was mad. It was my connection to the One Spire Hotel, the symbol of my promise. And I looked really good in it. By the GoneGods, I loved that jacket!
I lumbered about my room looking for it. Maybe under the bed? Or in the bathroom?
There was a knock at my door. I opened it to see Astarte standing there, wearing tight red leather.
“Hello, lover,” she said with that subtle Parisian accent. “Aren’t you going to invite an old friend in?”
I opened the door wide.
She surveyed the room like one might look around their childhood home years later. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said.
“It’s exactly the same as when you saw it last.” I walked over to my chair, noticing that my foot still ached. “How did you know I was back?”
“Do you honestly think a god-killer could come back into Paradise Lot without everyone talking about it? You are somewhat of a celebrity now.”
“So, what?” I said, pouring two whiskeys. Penemue wasn’t the only one who had a stash. “Are you moving back in?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, the words trickling off her tongue. “I am not moving in. You are moving out.”
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It took some persuading on Astarte’s part to get me out. But Astarte, being a mistress of lust and desire, eventually wore out my resistance. Truth be told, I never stood a chance. I doubt Astarte was ever denied anything she had her heart set on.
“Come now, it is not even the witching hour and all I ask for is an escort,” she said, leaning against my door. “I won’t bite. Not unless you ask.”
↔
We walked to the East End, past churches, temples and shrines that eventually gave way to taverns, bars and the seedier clubs that offered many off-menu items. I doubt there was a single vice in Heaven or Hell that wasn’t on tap here.
At the heart of Paradise Lot is a hill and on that hill is the Millennium Hotel, a once-upon-a-time castle–turned–chic boutique guest house that used to charge an entrance fee just to walk into the foyer. The building was circular, looking more like a rook from a chessboard than a hotel. It stood at the crossroads of Paradise Lot, a small courtyard surrounding the five-story building like a moat.
Astarte started up the stairs and I stopped her. �
�Hold up, the building will be filled with squatters and—”
“Oh, pishposh,” she interrupted. “The building is empty and has been for some days now. No one in Paradise Lot would dare disturb it.” She pulled out a key and unlocked the turnstile door at the front.
“How do you know?” I asked.
Astarte ignored my question, leading me inside. She walked to a side door that apparently acted as the utility room. She pulled down on a heavy metal breaker and the inside of the hotel lit up, dusty lamps casting soft embers in a room misty with dust motes.
↔
The Millennium Hotel had an incredible reception, its central dominance huge and inviting, with a large circular desk sitting in the middle. I followed Astarte’s eyes, looking up, and saw that the interior was empty, each floor landing looking out into the epicenter of the building. There was an elegantly crafted wrought-iron guardrail on each floor that depicted the scene of an elaborate copper garden. From these guardrails, one could look all the way down to the reception area or all the way up the giant stained-glass window that made up the Millennium Hotel’s roof. The window depicted an unfolding lily, each pane white, yellow or clear, and it reminded me of the flowers on Bella’s sundress.
The hollowed center was large enough for Penemue to spread his wings and fly to the seventh floor unhindered. And for those without wings, a stairwell zigzagged along the floors, leading all the way to the top.
“We didn’t have time to clean it all up, and dwarves make the most appalling maids. All they wanted to do was polish the marble and stone.”
I looked down and noted that, indeed, the marble floors were immaculately clean, even if the rest of the place could have used some work.
“But it’s a start,” she said, walking into the center of the foyer and pointing up.
“A start for what?” I asked.
“For a second chance.” She handed me my collarless black jacket. It had been dry-cleaned and was still covered in its cellophane wrap. “Remember the humans you saved that night in your hotel?”
I nodded. “The naked ones.”
She smiled. “They are my … ah … most loyal customers. I told them that if they wanted to continue our little romps, they had to come back to the One Spire Hotel. And since that place blew up, we needed somewhere new. Well, voilà. Somewhere new.”
“Hah,” I said, looking at the succubus with marvel and awe. “But you’re forgetting one thing. You’re my only paying tenant. I couldn’t possibly afford the rent.”
“Humans will do so much for pleasure. I will take care of rent. And you take care of this place. It is a fair exchange, don’t you think?”
“This place is huge. I’ll never—”
“I hear you have an employee. Given that your line of business is helping Others, I’m not sure I approve of your choice, but who am I to judge?”
“What, you mean EightBall? How do you know about that?”
The succubus smiled again. “I have my ways.”
“Penemue.”
“As I said—my ways.”
I looked over the hotel and thought to myself that there was no way I could ever manage such a grand place. Astarte was a succubus of near-godlike status. She had temples, shrines and luxurious brothels built in her name. She also had minions. Thousands of them. All I had was a drunken angel, a prima-donna succubus, a poltergeist mother-in-law and a former gangbanger human. There was no way. I couldn’t do this. I just couldn’t.
“I can’t—” I started.
“It’s too late. The lease is already in your name.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Jean-Luc,” Astarte said, coming in close to me. “It is done. The lease is in your name, the hotel will need work, but right now you have so much goodwill in the Other communities that I’m sure they will help for a fraction of their normal price. Besides, how expensive is glitter anyway?” She winked at me.
“How did you manage this, Astarte?” I asked in wonder, looking around.
“Never underestimate the power of lust.” She strolled over to me as she spoke, her lips dangerously close to mine. I could feel my own lust stirring in me and she knew it. Before I could turn away, Astarte walked over to the reception desk—a real desk, unlike the IKEA marvel I had at the One Spire Hotel. “Speaking of lust, I hear you have a date with a certain snake lady.”
“What?”
“Medusa. She knows you’re back in town. You better call her.”
“But—”
“Again with the ‘but’ … But nothing, Jean-Luc. You better call, lest she do to you what she did to her last boyfriend.”
“I’m not her boyfriend.”
“I know, lover—just let her down easy, OK? Medusa and I are old friends and I would hate to see her hurt.”
“I’ll do my best.” I was still surveying the massive room. There was much potential, so much good we could do for Paradise Lot. “Thank you,” I said to Astarte.
The succubus nodded. “You have quite the reputation, Jean-Luc. The Others know what you did for Joseph and how you killed the Avatar of Gravity. Already your story is being turned from current event into legend. This will both aid and hinder you in the days to come. Play your hand wisely and— Where did this come from?” she interrupted herself, showing me a framed picture resting on the reception desk. “I didn’t order this.”
I picked it up, removing the fabric covering from its square frame. Underneath was an image of two silhouetted figures watching the sunrise from atop a hill. The larger figure was an undefined, hulking man, the other a three-inch-tall fairy that sat on the first’s shoulders. And although you couldn’t see their faces, you just knew those two were very happy, having found companionship and joy in each other.
CaCa and TinkerBelle! I guessed the pile of poo survived after all. And why not? When you live in the very substance you were made of, regeneration must be pretty much a matter of course.
I was so happy I actually did a little dance right there in the foyer.
“Get a hold of yourself,” a voice said from behind. “There’s a lot of work still to be done.”
Miral walked in with her characteristic grace, examining the hotel entrance. “This place is much nicer than One Spire Hotel. What will you call it?” Behind her hovered Judith, surveying her new surroundings with her typical judgmental look.
“The Two Spire Hotel,” I said.
Judith snorted. “You must be joking.”
I just shrugged in response.
“Oh, Human Jean-Luc,” tutted Miral, “you are nothing if not—”
“Tenacious?”
“I was going to say static. Anyway, how do you plan on paying for this place?”
“The rent’s free,” I said, pointing at a sultry Astarte, who eyed the angel with a lustful, predatory gaze. By the GoneGods, Miral and Astarte together would be a sight erotic enough to coax the gods themselves to return.
“Rent may be free,” Miral said, “but bills are not. Keeping this place open will cost you four times what it cost for the One Spire Hotel.”
Damn, everything was happening so fast that I hadn’t considered that. The angel was right: electricity, gas, heat—this place was so huge, it would cost a small fortune to run. I had a sudden urge to go around and turn off all the lights.
Miral gave me an uncharacteristically devilish smile and said, “Don’t worry. I have a solution for all your problems. Funding is still open, and in a place like this we can throw twice as many seminars. Three times, even. We can do this. If, that is, you are willing to—”
“Don’t say it!”
“—bake.”
“Arrgh!”
I hated baking, but I loved Bella more.
Before I could answer, a baritone voice bellowed in from the stairwell, “Of course he will.”
Penemue walked into the foyer, taking Miral’s hand in his. “Ahhh, Miral … of all the unFallen, you, my dear, are the only one I can stomach.” He kissed her hand in an exag
gerated motion. “Dear Human Jean-Luc will bake your cookies, conduct your seminars and take in our lost brethren without a peep of protest from his lips or a hint of grumble in his heart.”
“How can you be so sure?” Miral asked, her smile touching her eyes.
“Because he has motivations compelling him to do distasteful tasks that stem from the most base and vile of human emotions … love.”
At that, Astarte rolled her eyes.
I looked around and saw the picture of Tink and CaCa again, back where I had placed it. I thought about Bella and how proud she would be of this place, and I nodded. Why fight it? Penemue was right, might as well die doing something worthwhile.
“And why will you do it?” Penemue said, pressing the issue.
“You know why,” I said.
“I do, but they do not. Please indulge us. Why will you do it?”
“Because I made a promise,” I said, the words catching in my throat.
“And what promise was that?” Penemue asked, a hand cupped behind his ear.
I cleared my throat. “I made a promise to help Others.”
“That’s not a promise,” Penemue bellowed, his hands flaring out in an arch. “You would never hear Hamlet merely say, ‘I need to get that guy who killed my father,’ or Othello say, ‘I’m jealous!’ A true promise requires flair, theatrics. Passion!”
“Really?” I said. “And how does one make a good promise?”
Penemue gave me a dismissing gesture as if he were bored by the whole thing. “You choose your words. Ye, thee, vow, sweareth …”
“Fine,” I said, unwrapping my collarless black jacket and putting it on. It felt good. Right. Then, not wanting to disappoint my audience, I walked into the middle of the large room and summoned all my high-school Shakespeare training—which was none—by raising my hand before me.
In a deep and resolute voice, I declared, “My name is Jean-Luc Matthias and my doors shall forever be open to the lost and frightened, the poor and homeless. And as for those with evil in their hearts? Beware! For the Human Jean-Luc stands watch.