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

by R. E. Vance

  Then it was Astarte’s turn. The succubus pulled Gilgamesh’s pendant from her pocket as she stumbled to her once-upon-a-time friend, and placed it on the pedestal. As soon as the pendant left her hand she collapsed to her knees, letting out a mournful cry that broke all the hearts that heard it. Atargatis helped her up, gently guiding her back to where Penemue, EightBall and I stood. As soon as she was next to me, she reached out for my hands, not with the usual sexual overtone, but for comfort. I squeezed her hands in mine, watching the entirety of Paradise Lot pay respects to once alive, always wonderful Medusa.

  What commenced after was a cacophony of Other religious fever.

  Prayers, chants, incense, drumming, dancing and lamenting filled the beach with mayhem. And yet it all blended together into something truly beautiful and special, like overlapping children’s games independent in practice but harmonious in nature. An aura of meaning rose from this unhappy event.

  At least that’s how I saw it. The gaggle of human reporters that trained their cameras on the event would probably have their own, fear-mongering interpretation.

  Eventually the crowd thinned, and still Marty and I hung back. I couldn’t go to her. Not now, not with all these Others around. It was too much—getting any closer would break me. I was sure she’d understand. I hoped she would.

  ↔↔

  I returned to the Millennium Hotel, walked into its grand foyer, said goodnight to my sad entourage and walked upstairs, thinking about the next stage of my life—a life of simplicity up in the wilderness. I considered leaving in the night. Why wait for the morning? If I left right now, I’d get to my PopPop’s cabin by dawn.

  I opened my door. The soft light from the hall illuminated my suitcase. Maybe, I thought, a little earlier if I hurry.

  “Hello, Jean-Luc. It’s been awhile.” The voice sounded like fingernails scraping across a blackboard.

  I didn’t look to see who spoke. I didn’t need to. I would’ve recognized that raspy voice anywhere. “Turn on the light,” I said, walking in, berating myself for being so naïve. The Army may not have known I still lived, but she would.

  “No need for the light.”

  “Not everyone is as comfortable with the dark as you,” I said.

  “True.” I heard a click of the tongue against the palate, and the bedside lamp turned on. What sat next to the lamp was an aigamuchab, one of the aigamuxa Others from the Okavango River region. She looked like a human female except for one startling detail—she had no eyes, her forehead fused with her cheeks. Her eyes were instead on the soles of her feet. Not that she needed eyes to see—she relied on clicking and echolocation.

  This aigamuchab wasn’t any typical Other. She was General Shouf, the first Other to join the humans in their war against Others before we settled into this uneasy peace.

  She was a fierce warrior, ruthless against all life, be it once-upon-a-time mythical or AlwaysMortal. And she was my former commander.

  Her hand rested on the light switch and, now illuminated, I could see her eyeless face cocked in my direction. “It’s been too long, Jean-Luc,” she rasped.

  “That depends on your perspective. How did you—”

  “One word. One simple word: ‘Enough.’ Seems the Other who protects you has also failed you.”

  “And, what? You’re here to arrest me?” I asked.

  “No,” Shouf shook her head, the lamp light running across her smooth forehead. “I’m here to imprison you.”

  “I don’t hunt Others. Not anymore.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “And after the events of the past week, I’m finished helping them, too.”

  “Always so dramatic, Jean-Luc,” her words scraped out of her.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I’m finished.”

  “You’re not finished.”

  “Yes, I am. Arrest me if you want, either way … I’m done.”

  “I’m not going to arrest you. As for being done,” she leaned forward, her eyeless face reflecting the lamplight. “You’re just getting started.”

  CRYSTALDREAMS

  Prologue—

  Monsters are real.

  Little Sarah has known that monsters are real ever since two of them stole her from her bed and took her to this place.

  Now she lays on a metal bunk bed with a mattress that doesn’t even have a sheet. The mattress is stained and old and she can feel its springs on her back, her arms, her legs. Even her head.

  She’s locked in a room with only three solid walls—the fourth is made of metal bars and a metal door. There is a toilet in the room, too, that isn’t private at all. And that’s a problem, because there are eight kids in the room with her, and they all stare when she goes. Sarah hates to be watched when she goes.

  But her bed and the terrible room that’s not really a room isn’t the worst thing about this place—not even the other kids watching her when she goes. Not by a long shot.

  The worst thing is the missing wall that has bars that stops her from getting out. She doesn’t know the word for the kind of room she’s in … why would she? She’s only six. If she were older, she’d know she is in a prison cell. She’d also know that it’s normal for the prison cell to look out into the central area, which in this case is a courtyard.

  And, lastly, if she were just a bit older, she’d know that the monsters lurking in the courtyard are anything but normal.

  Monsters … yuk!

  When Sarah was really little, she used to be afraid of monsters that weren’t real. You know—the ones that live under your bed or in your closet. Those monsters aren’t really scary, because as soon as Daddy turned on the lights they would disappear.

  But these monsters are different—nothing chases them away. Instead they lurk about in plain view—big and hairy, fierce and loud—and every time you forgot they were there, they would screech or moan or growl or bang.

  No two monsters are the same. Some have big bodies with small heads. Others have big heads and small bodies. Some don’t have heads at all. Then there are the horns, claws, arms, legs, wings and tails.

  The monsters scare her—and Sarah doesn’t scare easily. So if she’s scared … the other kids must really, really, really be scared.

  ↔

  Across the courtyard there are other three-walled rooms with more children. From her own cell she can see at least twenty other rooms, each with—what?—four or five kids. Every day new children arrive; in the three days she has been in this place, she’s counted at least eleven new kids.

  Her own cell had eight kids, but now it has nine. A new kid arrived this morning.

  He’s three, maybe four, and he’s the youngest child that she’s seen here. He’s holding a doll. A dog’s head on a human body … no, that’s not quite right. Dogs have shorter snouts, smaller ears. The doll’s head is something that looks like a dog, but isn’t. Sarah knows this because she’s been to the zoo many times with her mommy and daddy, and seen many things that looked like dogs but weren’t. Hyenas, wolves … jackals.

  The new boy sits on the floor and cries. He’s terrified, Sarah can tell. The only thing he’s said since he arrived is his name.

  Something big and fierce howls and the boy cries louder, almost mimicking the monster.

  Sarah shakes her head. If he doesn’t calm down soon, he’ll be in full tantrum mode.

  “It’ll be OK, Ewwiot,” she says. His name is Elliot, but ever since Sarah lost her top two baby teeth, she’s had trouble pronouncing certain words. Elliot comes out as Ewwiot and Sarah really wishes her grown-up teeth would hurry up and come out. “You’ll be OK. I promise.”

  But Elliot—Ewwiot—will not be consoled. He’s doing that crying thing where he holds his breath for so long that Sarah actually thinks he might pass out. Then the breath comes, followed by a wail so loud that even the monsters stop their clamoring and clanking.

  Sarah looks around at the other kids. None of them move to help the newcomer. Fine, she thinks.

 
Jumping down from the bunk bed, she grabs Ewwiot and pulls him under the metal slate that juts out of the wall and acts as their bed. Underneath its canopy, she holds him tight and, whispering, she tells little Ewwiot the story her mother always told her when she was scared. A story about a hero—her hero, Sarah’s hero—who is always brave, no matter how many monsters howl in the night.

  Her hero is a sailor. A warrior. A fierce being whom Sarah dreamed about a thousand times before the BadThings took her here, and a million times since she arrived. She knows her hero isn’t some made-up story. Her hero—Sinbad—is real. And Sinbad hears her anguish. Sinbad knows where she is.

  Sinbad will save her.

  She tells the story of Sinbad exactly as her mother told her so many times before. When she is done, Ewwiot is calm, drifting off into his own dreams of Sinbad, resting his little head on her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Ewwiot,” she soothes. “Sinbad is coming. I promise.”

  As if to debate little Sarah’s reassurance, a monster shrieks, waking up Ewwiot. In his sleep he forgot his surroundings, and when it dawns on him that he is not home, safe in his own bed, he starts to cry again.

  Sarah curses the monsters and issues a silent howl of her own.

  Yes, monsters are real.

  But so are heroes.

  And her hero is coming.

  Sinbad is coming.

  Chapter 1

  Not All Entrepreneurs Are Created Equal

  “Jean-Luc,” the voice on the other end of my mobile phone shattered. “Are you listening?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I half-lied. Truth was I was staring at the TV over the bar, half-listening to that as well.

  “There is an unidentified Other lurking about in the Compounds,” the voice shattered. I don’t know how this creature did it, but her voice sounded like she was pulverizing porcelain every time she uttered a word. “I need you to investigate. Can you handle that?”

  I nodded, forgetting that the person on the other end of the phone couldn’t hear a nod. Not that I really cared. If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t be on the phone with this creature. Not ever. I wouldn’t be coerced into going to the Compounds—a human-only suburb of Paradise Lot—no matter how frightened the locals claimed to be at one thing or the other. In fact, if I really had any druthers at all, I wouldn’t be on the phone at this bar waiting for an Other I had no interest in speaking with and a man I had no business meeting with. But here I was, druthers-less and miserable.

  “Jean-Luc … the unidentified Other? Will you take care of it?” The voice on the other end sounded more like nails scraping against a chalkboard than actual words, and I had to hold my phone a few inches from my ear. But I had spoken to this particular Other, with that shattering voice of hers, plenty of times. I understood her loud and clear.

  Still, I didn’t answer.

  “I own you, Jean-Luc,” the creature said. “Comply and stay free. Obstruct and I will happily escort you to the stockade myself.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Do you understand?”

  I understood perfectly. But still, I said nothing.

  When the gods left, forcing their denizens—the Others—onto Earth, the world was thrown into chaos. Initially humans hunted Others, and me being a hot-headed young man at the time, I was one of the first to enlist in the fight. And I was good. Very good. Killing came naturally to me, and killing Others was my specialty. During my time in the Army I garnered a reputation for being one of the humans’ most fearsome soldiers.

  But the trouble with anger is that it is usually built on a house of cards. It can’t stand up on its own for very long. Eventually I learned that the Others no more asked to come to Earth than we invited them. They were forced on us, just as we were forced on them. Eventually I lost the heart to keep fighting. During a mission where my squad was wiped out by a fire-breathing dragon, I went AWOL, choosing absence without leave. The Army assumed I was charcoaled and I was declared KIA—killed in action. For six years I was dead to them, until the world was almost consumed by an apocalypse.

  Long story short, I got involved, General Shouf caught wind that I was still alive and here we were: she was blackmailing me into being part of her covert operations.

  Hellelujah!

  “Do you understand?” she repeated.

  I grunted in the affirmative.

  “I need a clear answer, soldier.”

  “I’m no soldier,” I said.

  “You’re my soldier until I say otherwise. Will you take care of it, soldier?”

  I hesitated, but a person’s dignity can only hold out for so long. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, General. I will take care of it.”

  “And what will you be taking care of?”

  I took a sip of my beer, but now the taste felt flat. “Some rampaging Other is disturbing the villagers. You want me to deal with it.”

  “Unidentified Other,” General Shouf groaned. “Not rampaging, as of yet.”

  “Whatever. Why not send some of the Diamond Dogs out for a hunt? Ever since the war dried up, they must be dying for action.” The Diamond Dogs were her elite squad of hunters, a group of humans and Others alike. There were some bad dudes in there, a group I wouldn’t want to tangle with—not even if the fate of the world depended on it. And that’s a lot, coming from a guy who stared down the friggin’ Kraken.

  “No Diamond Dogs on this one. You know why. Some things must be unofficial,” her voice cracked. “Very well, then. The next time the Unidentified Other is sighted, I will contact you. I expect your immediate response.”

  The phone line clicked off.

  “I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” I said to the dead line.

  I needed another drink. Or four. I put the phone down and pointed at the TV. “Can you turn that up?” The cyclops, who wore a stained sleeveless undershirt he must have sown from a super king–size bed sheet, picked up the remote and upped the volume without turning around. Cyclopes—they may only have one eye, but in my experience, there is very little they don’t see.

  On the screen, a debate raged between three bigwigs. In the aftermath of the near apocalypse, there were a lot of debates as to what to do about the “Other problem.” I might not have taken notice, except the three debating were some of the loudest voices on the issue. And the one at the center of it all was the very man I was at the bar to meet: Mr. Cain. That’s right, Cain, as in the first murderer of man, brother of Abel, first son of Adam … and currently one of the biggest and richest businessmen in the world. Seems that the powers-that-be accidently cursed him with immortality—because even though he supposedly died at the ripe old age of 730, Death still would not take him, fearing that the Mark of Cain would fall upon her sevenfold. Rather than risking getting cursed herself, Death granted Cain immortality and he used his thousands upon thousands of years of experience to develop weapons that were particularly effective against Others. He founded Memnock Securities, and anyone who bought stock in them when the gods left would be very rich today.

  I checked my Mickey Mouse watch again. “Man, I really hope this isn’t a live broadcast,” I muttered.

  “Fear,” Mr. Cain said from the TV, “lets evil men control good people. And fear clouds our judgment, human and Other alike. We must take fear out of the equation if we are to have any meaningful discussions.”

  The Other sitting next to Mr. Cain rolled her eyes—all six of them—but before she could say anything, Mr. Cain raised a hand and said, “Let me finish … I’ve lived for a long, long time and I know enough about humans and Others to know that you must take fear off the table before you can have a conversation. That’s what my weapons do—they even the field for humans who do not have claws or wings or the ability to burn time. A level field means less fear on the humans’ part. Less fear on the humans’ part increases their willingness to have a conversation.”

  The six-eyed Other beside Mr. Cain finally broke in. “And what about incre
asing Others’ fear?” This was none other than Colel Cab, a centipede-like creature the size a Highland coo. Of all the Others to be banished to Earth when the gods left, Colel Cab was amongst the strangest. Colel Cab was technically a god—to insects. Apparently there is even a bit of divinity in bees, ants and silverfish.

  Still, despite Colel Cab being the insects’ god, she was not invited to leave with the rest of the gods during the GrandExodus. I guess the other gods saw the god of insects as still being an insect. And why would you want to take a mosquito or cockroach with you to your new home?

  You’d think Colel Cab would have a grudge on her shoulder, but amongst all the Others on Earth, she was one of the greatest advocates to equality and smooth integration. She was a fierce advocate of something she called Living Rights—the lofty idea that any sentient being deserved to be treated with respect and given the opportunity to thrive. It was her version of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness—and my fellow humans hated her for throwing our own ideologies in our face. Go us!

  “We Others did not ask for this to happen,” Colel Cab continued. “We did not wish for the gods to leave. Nor did we request that they abandon us on Earth as helpless refugees.”

  “Helpless? Give me a break,” chimed in Mr. Yew, the current frontrunner for the next presidential election. “What do Others like you have to be afraid of? Let me remind you that one of your Other ‘friends’ almost destroyed life as we know it. Something has to be done to bring these wayward creatures under control.”

  For dramatic effect, the TV switched to an image of Tiamat, that behemoth Kraken, that apocalyptic monster from the Assyrian pantheon that almost destroyed the world three weeks ago. Tiamat was the kind of menacingly huge that made Godzilla look like a pacified Chihuahua—and there she was on the TV, lumbering toward Paradise Lot’s beach front in full HD. She almost destroyed the world. Almost. But because of the efforts and sacrifices of many brave Others, she failed. Not that Mr. Yew would mention that, of course. Such facts do not garner applause or play well on the local news.