Gone God World Urban Fantasy Series: Box Set: (Books 1-3 plus a Bonus Novella)

by R. E. Vance

  There was a large bang against the window, but despite something being flung at it with the force of a cannonball, the window held. Sally’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “You were saying …?” I prompted Astarte.

  “Yes … the Pool was to be filled with Atargatis’ children. After all, it was she who gave birth to the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky.” Astarte shot me a look. “Less metaphorical than you’d think. We placed the first of her children there and threatened humanity with the End of Days should a single carp be harmed. Appease us before the Seventh Sign, or the last of the plagues will be unleashed. They usually fell to their knees and begged for forgiveness after the earthquake. And they always thanked her for saving them. My sister would arrange an offense to happen about once a generation.”

  So that was it … Control humanity by threatening to destroy them, and when you benevolently didn’t, humanity would thank you by prostrating themselves with even more fervor. A divine Stockholm syndrome—I’m sure the psychologists would have a field day.

  “And if they didn’t appease her?”

  “Then they got this,” Astarte gestured around her. “But she always turned Tiamat back before everything got destroyed. She wanted power, but she wasn’t crazy.”

  “Not before there was some destruction,” Penemue chimed in. “The Great Flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, the Black Death—”

  “Penemue—you’re not helping.” I turned back to Astarte. “So why can’t your sister turn this Tiamat back now?”

  “Because …” she whispered. “Because she ate the fish. She broke her own law. And that’s the thing about divine laws … they applied to everyone, even AlmostGods.” A tear escaped the succubus’s eye. What was that look that Marty gave me? You’re screwed now. He was right. A former goddess accidentally set off her own apocalypse, thus rendering her—the only Other that could have stopped this—useless. And if The BisMark was right, then the only other way to stop it was to offer up the guilty for sacrifice.

  “So let me get this straight. Atargatis can’t stop her own apocalypse?”

  Astarte nodded.

  There was another crash, and the room shook. “Don’t worry,” Sally said. “Those walls are designed to handle three minotaur charges.”

  “Who comes up with that? Three minotaur charges?” I asked.

  “It’s no different than measuring a car’s engine with horsepower.”

  Another crash—this one caused me to lose my balance. “It’s different. Oh, so very, very different. Is there anything we can do?” I asked Astarte. “And don’t say ‘Offer ourselves up.’ I’d like to leave that option as our last resort.”

  Astarte shook her head, her gaze distant. “Nothing. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Don’t give me that,” I said. “We could fight the monster.”

  “Yeah,” EightBall said with misplaced enthusiasm. Everyone looked at him, and he shrunk back to the computer.

  “Ever seen Godzilla?” Penemue said. “Think bigger.”

  “Then, no,” EightBall muttered.

  “ ‘No’ is right,” Penemue concurred.

  Another three crashes shook the room. One after another. Boom, boom. Boom! They were getting more zealous with their effort. “Fine,” I said over the explosions of body on steel, “but we have jets and missiles and—” My words were cut off, not from another explosion, but from the absence of noise.

  The world outside was quiet. We heard no scuffling or scraping. No cries from angry Others. No slamming against the walls or banging against the doors. Just silence … silence that was cut by a trumpet’s blast.

  It reverberated through the air, electrifying it with a commanding presence that demanded attention. It didn’t come from a single source, but rather shimmied the air all around us, like a thousand trumpets sounding in a thousand places at once. The announcement of the apocalypse, in surround sound. “Is that it?” I asked Penemue.

  The angel shook his head. “No, it’s not Michael’s trumpet—” And then Penemue said a word I had never once heard him utter in the seven years I’d known him. “Shit.” Shit …?

  The world went quiet. Too quiet.

  EightBall, still shaking from the sound of the trumpet, looked at me with hopeful eyes and asked, “I don’t suppose they went away?” He was terrified, and I had to remind myself that EightBall was still a kid. A scared kid who no more wanted to be caught up in this end-of-the-Earth crap than any of us. “We’re going to be OK now, aren’t we?” He was looking for reassurance. Reassurance I couldn’t give him.

  Penemue put an arm around the boy and shook his head. “No, they are there, planning their next move. But I promise you this. Whatever happens this night, you will be safe. I owe you that much.”

  EightBall let out a sigh of relief, before his expression changed and he looked up at Penemue. “ ‘Owe’ me?”

  “Penemue … Now is not the time for paved roads and good intentions …” I started, as a thought dawned on me. Michael didn’t stop us from escaping, but he also didn’t stop the Others from chasing us. He was stuck between the metaphorical rock of human law and the hard place of celestial ways. For Michael, everything fell in a hierarchy, but every now and then, he faced a conflict he couldn’t resolve. In this case it was arresting us on suspicion of committing a terrorist act—or an apocalyptic one. Celestial law demanded the divine offenders to be brought to Others’ justice.

  “EightBall … Any updates from Brian?”

  EightBall was standing by Sally’s fancy iPad that acted as the shop’s register. “Here—look for yourself.”

  “You can do that?” I asked, walking over.

  “Man—there’s almost nothing you can’t do with a little bit of Wi-Fi and an iPad.”

  “Magic,” Astarte said.

  “No … Wozniak the Wizard,” I said. Astarte eyed me as if we were saying the same thing, and I conceded with a nod. “Sure … magic.”

  I stared at the iPad. The screen flashed the hotel foyer—empty, save for the damaged floor and the destroyed desk that would cost me a fortune to replace. It went to the kitchen, showed a still-boiling pot that some gargoyle forgot to turn off. Then it flashed to the banquet hall. Again—empty, with only the carnage of the broken tables and chairs remaining. Even the stage was empty. Wherever The BisMark was, he’d taken his decor with him. “OK,” I said, “they’re not there. Then where is he blowing the trumpet from?”

  “I don’t know.” Brian’s face appeared, against a backdrop of hanging leather outfits, garter belts and lingerie. He adjusted his glasses. “But no one has been in the common areas for some time now.”

  The screen blacked out before calling up the penthouse. It was still over-decorated by vases, paintings and artifacts that I’d seen when I was up there earlier today. Everything was just as before. Everything except the statue of the satyr that was standing behind The BisMark’s desk. That was the only thing missing. “OK—so wherever he is, he left in a hurry and only took the statue. Are you sure you didn’t hear or see anything as to where they went?”

  The screen flickered back on Brian, who was shaking his head. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “That’s—” I started, when the trumpet blew for a second time.

  “Citizens of the world,” The BisMark’s voice said, booming over the speakers that were installed at the hotel. Even though his voice was distant, it sounded confident and serious. “I address you today because a great calamity is approaching the shores of Paradise Lot.” The BisMark’s face appeared on the screen, his peacock feathers no longer the audacious greens and blues, but rather more sombre charcoal grays. The center strip between his lapels was a powerful shade of red, and his posture was very … Presidential. I don’t have another word to describe it. He looked like he was giving the State of the Union Address.

  “This event has many names,” The BisMark continued. “Ragnarök, Kali Yuga, the coming of Tzitzimitl … Revelation.”

  “Holy crap,” Brian’s
voice cracked in. “This guy is everywhere. Look.” The screen flickered to every major network. CNN, BBC, FOX, NHK … All of them were broadcasting the same feed of The BisMark speaking.

  “The gods didn’t see it fit to take their weapons of mass destruction with them, nor did they switch them off so that they could no longer harm us after their departure. Rather, they chose to irresponsibly leave them—or her—behind.

  “It started with an earthquake—the one you felt this evening—and it will end with this.” The BisMark extended his hand outward, and an image of massive amounts of water being disturbed filled the screen. Four aircraft carriers struggled to keep up with the disturbance. In the wake of the parting water they looked tiny, their combined length less than half of the ripples. A single tentacle rose from the water and swatted at the carriers, smashing the first one in half and capsizing the second one. The other two immediately slowed down.

  The scene turned back to The BisMark. “The creature that approaches will end the world, starting with Paradise Lot.” He paused, letting the magnitude of his words sink in. “But it can be stopped … I can stop it. I was there when the gods created the protocols, and I know how to access the safety switches. They’re switches that I built in myself, at the dawn of time, to avoid such an event as this.

  “Tiamat will arrive at dawn. It will be then that I will send her back to the deep. That I swear to you all. Until then, I ask one thing of you. Be patient, be brave, be diligent. The gods tried to end the world before and failed. This will be no different.

  “Life will go on.

  “Life will always go on.

  “Thank you!”

  And with that, the screen went blank. There was a moment of calm as we absorbed everything we just saw and heard. Then there was a screech outside, and the Others resumed their attack on Sally’s salon.

  END OF PART 2

  Part 3

  Prologue

  Ten Years Later—

  Astarte sits on her throne.

  Before her there are entwined bodies pulsating with the rush of passion. Gods and humans, Others and mortals are equal in Astarte’s temple; for equality can be measured by ambition, and everyone here has but one: pleasure.

  Their ambition is fulfilled. This much is made obvious by the smells of sweat and lust that overpower the temple.

  Astarte ignores the carnage of pleasure around her. Usually she would be leading the festivities, but today her mind is elsewhere, distracted by memories of lovers past.

  She shakes her head. It is not like her to think of before when now is so tantalizing. She needs to do something special to bring her mind to the present. Extra spice for her lustful endeavors.

  As if the First Laws of Nature and Chaos hear her, an attendant approaches with news of visitors. It seems the three gorgon sisters stand at the temple door.

  Mmmm, gorgons … with all those appendages … This will be a wonderful night, indeed.

  Astarte claps her hands in three rapid successions and her attendants begin the preparations for an exquisite orgy.

  Rising from her throne, she goes to the temple gates to greet her visitors.

  ↔

  Medusa slithers into the temple with her two sisters, Stheno and Euryale, and from the fury in their eyes, Astarte knows why they are here. Jealousy. This is the second most common reason why people come.

  The first is desire.

  They are here because one of them has a lover visiting Astarte’s temple without them. From the rage in her eyes, Astarte knows that it is Medusa who was wronged. And her anger is focused on Astarte. The problem is, Astarte has been with so many humans, Others and gods, that she doesn’t know who they are jealous of. Nor does she care. She will deal with them as she has dealt with so many—by turning their anger into desire …

  “You.” Medusa points at Astarte. The succubus prepares for the usual tirade of You thief, you whore, how dare you tempt him, how dare you take him away from me. But the gorgon says none of those things. Instead she hisses, “He doesn’t love you.”

  “He loves her,” says Stheno, Medusa’s eldest sister.

  “He has always loved her,” hisses Euryale.

  Love? What does love have to do with a place like this? For reasons that Astarte cannot place, her mind immediately goes to Gilgamesh. It has been ten years since the young king left her temple, and in that time no amount of exquisite, multiple and crescendo-reaching orgasms have erased the memory of him. She hears that his kingdom is growing. She also hears that although he reigns over the most enlightened kingdom ever devised, he is a cruel, petty man, treating all those who oppose him with brutal finality.

  Medusa’s snakes hiss in unison as she repeats, “He doesn’t love you. He loves me. Me! You’re an interim wife to be used and disposed of. Nothing more. He’ll come back to me, you’ll see. And when I’m elevated to godhood, I’ll devote all my time and power to destroying you.”

  Oh, Astarte thinks, this is about Poseidon. “No need for that,” the succubus says. “Have him.”

  The gorgon’s eyes narrow in confusion as several of her snakes turn their heads to see her reaction. Before she can say anything, Astarte speaks. “I don’t want him. Never did, and based on the company he keeps, I doubt I ever will. So please, take him.” She lets the words sink in before offering her final blow. “If, that is, he’ll have you.”

  Medusa’s face turns red with rage, then green with envy as she screams so loud that the temple shakes under her power. Gorgons are not to be taken lightly. If they had the mind for it, they could turn Astarte and everyone else in the temple into stone. Astarte is fairly confident that she will not do so. After all, it would displease Poseidon.

  But Astarte is only fairly confident, so she turns her gaze to the ground. Seeing her fear, Medusa’s lips curl upward. “You’re right,” she says. “He doesn’t want me now. But that will change. You’ll see. Come, sisters … let’s leave this loveless shell to her pathetic followers.”

  Astarte watches as the three gorgons leave. This is yet another example of how love blinds you, she thinks, before her mind returns to Gilgamesh.

  ↔

  Uruk is a great city. Magnificent ziggurats accentuate the city streets; temple towers reach for the clouds as if they are little hands trying to catch smoke. The city is protected by the highest and strongest wall the world has ever known, while the orchards and fields that surround the wall pronounce the peace and the goodwill other kingdoms have toward them.

  But that is not what makes the city great.

  Uruk is great for much less tangible and progressive reasons. Agriculture is sustained through the regular crop rotations to ensure that the land is always fertile. Gaming is regulated so that the animals have time to replenish their populations. The streets are kept clean to prevent the spread of disease. Trade is carefully monitored to avoid monopolies.

  It is said that Uruk is impervious to drought or famine, that neither disease nor war can shake its foundation. It is the closest thing the humans have to immortality; as long as the gods leave the Kingdom of Uruk to its ways, it shall last forever.

  Its secret is education. The Uruk schools and universities have amassed all the knowledge the human world has to offer, and they impart that knowledge to all the artisans and philosophers, teachers and doctors that pass through their halls. The best and the brightest are cultivated here, and once matured, they use their knowledge for the betterment of the city.

  There is no doubt that this kingdom is the greatest the mortal world has ever seen.

  At the heart of it: Gilgamesh, Uruk’s wise ruler.

  But wisdom does not mean benevolence, and Gilgamesh is feared by his people. His quest for knowledge carries with it the burden of a cold and unreasonable justice.

  Astarte walks into the gated city. She sees mortals going about their daily life with downtrodden eyes. They are constantly moving, lest they draw the attention of Gilgamesh’s elite guard.

  Astarte feels guilt over
these people’s suffering. If only she had not tortured Gilgamesh so, perhaps he would have done what he has done with peace in his heart.

  She walks along the city’s pristine streets and is drawn to a small back alleyway, where several men and women are burning incense and praying. They are praying to her sister, begging Atargatis to save them from Gilgamesh. This is dangerous. There is a chance her sister will hear. After all, if Astarte was drawn to them, her sister will be too.

  Atargatis does not come. It is Gilgamesh’s feared guards that enter. Seeing the icons and smelling the incense, they act swiftly and without mercy, cutting down every one of the zealots without so much as a thought.

  This is bad, Astarte knows, for to spill blood on sacred ground is to ensure the gods will hear you, and Astarte knows that her sister will answer their prayers.

  Gilgamesh has never been in greater danger than he is now.

  ↔

  Astarte wonders if she should help the wayward king. After all, his own people prayed for his death. Perhaps she should remain neutral. But she hasn’t so far, has she? Was it not her cruelty that made him the monster he is today? Perhaps, if she had not been who she is, she could have guided the king, helped him become something more, something good.

  Astarte does not know what to do. It has been so many years since she has seen him. Maybe she does not desire the man, but rather the memory of the man. She must know. Reaching into the well of unlimited magic, Astarte summons Gilgamesh. It takes several minutes, but in the distance Astarte can hear a horse-drawn carriage approach.

  They are speeding towards the city center. Astarte turns herself into a little girl and stands in the road. The horses nearly trample her as they pass. A voice from within the carriage calls for a halt. Astarte watches as the door swings out, and from it emerges Gilgamesh. But he is not the doe-eyed, naïve boy Astarte once knew and loved, but rather a man with premature crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and deep thought wrinkles across his brow. Although he is older, he is not old. This man, this king, stands stronger than ever.