by R. E. Vance
And somewhere in the middle are the Compounds.
These gated communities have everything a self-respecting human could need: supermarkets, coffee shops, a small mall where one could buy brand-name clothes and, of course, walls. Big, high walls with sensors and all kinds of anti-Other security apparatus to keep the Others out and the humans in.
To me it felt more like the humans built themselves a prison. Still, so many were readily willing to trade freedom for safety, and even though I hated Compounds and everything they stood for, I couldn’t judge my fellow humans too harshly. Fear is a powerful motivator and Others, with all their abilities and strange looks, could be fearsome. Everyone has the right to feel secure in their own homes—even Otherists. I just wished that one could feel safe because there was nothing to fear and not because they slept behind guarded walls.
One day, maybe. But not today. And judging by the debate on the TV at the Other Place, not for a long time.
Conner and I drove to the south side of the island where the majority of the human-only Compounds were built. You see, Paradise Lot was an island city, with the landmass being the shape of a drop of water—or a tear for those of us who are more romantically inclined. The half where the tear swelled was where the majority of Paradise Lot’s residents lived. In other words, it was where the Others lived.
The tear’s tail, on the other hand—or rather, the human hand—was where the humans lived. To the south, in the more arid part of the island and right next to a big four-lane bridge to the mainland—a.k.a., their escape route.
We drove mostly in silence for a while. But I’d had enough awkward silence for one evening, so I broke the silence with, “You and Miral. That’s a thing.”
Awkward noise—much better.
From the corner of my eye I saw Conner shrug. Hell, he even did that sexily.
“Oh, come on … don’t be all ‘cool’ with me. I know you know you’re a good-looking guy.”
“I’m good looking?”
“Like you didn’t know. Look, I get it. You’ve been around the block, had your share of heart break and breaking hearts. You’re all ‘Rico Suave’ playing it cool, but even you can’t be cool given the circumstances.”
“And what circumstances are those?”
“You’re dating an angel. A friggin’ angel! And not just any angel … we’re talking Miral here. Captain of the Lord’s Army, hot as Hell—”
“Jean-Luc,” Conner admonished. “Behave.”
“Believe me you—I am behaving. I could get a lot worse. Trust me.”
“I know. Miral warned me.”
“Oh, yeah? So you two talk about me? What else did she say?”
“That you want to help but your nature is in conflict. That you've been pushed too far and that even though outwardly you appear to be fine, inside you are drowning with sorrow. That you may do something stupid because you don’t really care about yourself or your own safety. That you might get lost. Again. Like you were when the Others first came.”
Besides being good looking, apparently he was open and direct. Surely another reason why Miral liked him.
“So all happy stuff, huh?” I said.
Conner chuckled. “And that you were a good man.”
“She only says that because she doesn’t know me very well.” This was a lie, of course. Of all the Others in Paradise Lot, I suspected that Miral knew me the best—even better than Penemue, and he’d read the Book of Souls. She was there when I returned from the Army and reunited with Bella. She was there when Bella died. And she was there when I opened the hotel, trying to fulfill Bella’s wish.
She was also there during these past weeks. Miral made up any ridiculous excuse she could come up with to see me. Things like needing my advice on curtains and a copy of my chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie recipe. Pretty flimsy excuses, given that every time I baked those cookies, they came out charred and hard as rocks.
“She thinks you and I could be friends. The GoneGods know I could use one here. Everything is so …”
“Yeah, you’re right. It is all so …” I said. “And you can come to me and I’ll do my best to make so, less so. But you know what else friends do? They dish! So what’s the dish?”
“The dish?”
“You know: the skinny, low-down, the deal?”
“Ahhh, I see.” Conner sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
I shook my head slowly from side to side, grinning. “Uh-uh.”
“It’s … complicated.”
“No shit, it’s complicated. You’re dating an angel.”
“So I’ve noticed. I like her and I believe she likes me back, but I’m not trying to think too far ahead on this one. It would be easy for me to fall head over heels for her, and …”
“Yeah, I get it, but Miral’s no dummy. She knows that, too. She’ll be careful with you.”
“Yep. And that’s part of the problem. Her being careful and me being careful means that we’re two people who are seeing each other and being careful. Not exactly a recipe for progress.”
I nodded.
“Sooner or later, one of us is going to have to stop being careful—and by the GoneGods, that terrifies me.”
“OK,” I said. “So what are you going to do?”
“Stop being careful, I suppose. Valentine’s Day is coming. I’m putting it all on the line. I have a bottle of Champagne if it goes well and bottle of whisky if it doesn’t.”
“I see. Should it go the way of whisky, give me a call. I’ll happily come over to commiserate.”
Conner put a hand on my shoulder and chuckled. “Will do. I could use your comfort. Besides, you think I’m good looking. I’ll need to hear that. A lot.”
“Can do, buddy. Can do.”
↔
We drove to the south side of Paradise Lot, about a forty-minute drive from the hospital. Paradise Lot had two bridges leading to the mainland. When the gods left, a disproportionate number of Others emerged from their various heavens or hells onto this island, so it was only natural that they wound up settling here. And given how most of the world treated Others, it was also only natural that Paradise Lot became a beacon, beckoning for Others to immigrate.
No one knows what made Paradise Lot special—not that that stopped the hundreds of theories printed in academic periodicals, published in books or written up in magazines spanning from the prestigious New Yorker all the way down to the smut National Enquirer. Some of my favorite ones claimed that Paradise Lot was a way point, a kind of inter-dimensional bus station where all the planes of existence met up. Another is that all the prophets throughout mankind visited Paradise Lot at least once in their lives. Other theories prescribe historical and mythical significant to the island, claiming it to be the Garden of Eden, Irim Emad and Stonehenge all wrapped into one.
One thing that contributed to the theories was that the southern half was nearly a desert. I don’t mean “desert” like rolling sand dunes or an oceanless beach. I mean that kind of desert where the ground was hard and stony and dry—when it shouldn’t be. We got rain. Hell, we even got the occasional white Christmas (but mostly we celebrated brown Christmases). Still, we weren’t a dry island, nor were we close enough to the equator to be a desert. And yet the southern half of the island was. Geologists and meteorologists say it’s because of a hard bedrock layer about eight feet beneath the surface. The bed of rocks prevents underground springs from nourishing the land and stops rain water from seeping in so that any significant plants can grow.
But the conspiracy theories ignore geologists and meteorologists. The conspiracy theorists take Paradise Lot’s odd geography as further evidence for their What-makes-this-island-special theories.
Personally, I doubted any of the theories were right. And even if one of them was, so what? Did it change the fact that Paradise Lot was the only place on Earth in which Others were the majority population? No—it didn’t.
We reached a point on the road in which
turning left took us south and going straight would loop us back up north. We were going to turn south—except a military checkpoint had been set up at the T-intersection. I slowed the car down and some grunt in a uniform tapped the window with the back of his flashlight.
I counted to three and then lowered my window.
“License and ID,” the grunt said.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me: license and ID.” He flashed his light into the car, first on my face then Conner’s. Then he held out a Time Burned and Magic Counter (TBM for short) and examined its little screen, checking if time was being burned. Once-upon-a-time, Others were immortal, and as such had access to infinite wells of magic. But when the gods left, one thing happened to all the mythical creatures that showed up on Earth: they became mortal. In other words, they had a finite amount of time to live. They weren't, however, stripped of their magic. Others could still use those GoneGodGiven talents, but whenever they did, they lost a little life.
Think of it as trading time for magic. A fireball might cost an Other a day of life; a guise, two. And something really big like stopping time or armoring yourself with impenetrable skin—that could cost months, if not years.
Funny side effect of burning time: it makes any nearby clock go faster. And that was exactly what the TBMs checked for—sped-up time.
My guess was that the grunt was checking if an invisible Other hid in the backseat or if we were a pair of minotaurs or banshees in disguise. As I pulled out my wallet to show him the deputy badge that Michael had given me, a dog sniffed the car and another grunt walked around us with a TBM of his own.
“We’re here on police business,” I said.
The grunt ignored me, holding the counter steady while his buddy did the rounds. After what felt like five minutes, the other grunt gave the all-clear and the first grunt gave me the biggest, friendliest smile you could imagine. A complete one-eighty from how he was a second ago.
“You can never be too careful,” he said, visibly breathing a sigh of relief. “With all their magic and crap … you never know what you’re going to have to deal with.”
“I guess not,” I growled. “You just never know.”
Conner put a calming hand on my forearm and leaned in to get a better look at the grunt. “What’s going on here? You’re not with the police, are you?”
“Us?” He used the back of his flashlight to push up his helmet. “Heck no. We’re Army, just helping out. Given what’s happened, the communities down yonder are understandably on edge; we thought we’d set up here and give them a little extra peace of mind. Not that you can have that, given the circumstances. You heard about the little girl?”
“We did,” Conner confirmed. “We’re here to investigate.”
“That’s good. Real good. Way we figure it, some friggin’ Other is roleplaying some ancient kidnapping myth. You know they used to do that. Kidnap children.”
The grunt was right, unfortunately. There were plenty of myths that involved some monster or demon kidnapping children. Most of that stuff was lies, but some of the legends were true. Changlings and popobawas did steal children. But I couldn’t believe that any Other in his or her right mind would try something like that these days, given the current political climate and their new mortality.
I decided to go the diplomatic route on this debate. “You know, humans kidnap children, too.” I put as much sarcasm as I could in my voice. There—diplomacy at its best.
The grunt narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, maybe. But not like this. No way.”
“Like what?”
He turned to the south before turning back. “When you get there, you’ll see exactly what I mean. No human could do that. No way, no how and no sir.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, putting the Road Runner back into Drive.
And I really hoped we would.
Chapter 8
The Monster Under Your Bed
There were a half dozen Compounds on the south side of the island, each named after something that was meant to help you forget that we were in a desert only a handful of miles away from a city filled with creatures once-upon-a-time only seen in picture books. Names like Miami Park, Tropical Escape, The Palm Grove, to name a few.
The Compound we were going to was called Northern Lights. Not that one could ever see the actual Northern Lights from here.
Driving up was surreal, even for me: like approaching a super-max prison, built in the future and on another planet. The homes were surrounded by fifty-foot-high walls (tall enough to keep out most giants), with nets that extended another thirty feet above that. The nets leaned inward, forming a mesh dome designed to let sunlight in and keep flyers—like angels, valkyrie and dragons—out. Turrets and cameras were spread out every sixty feet, complete with night vision, sonar, motion and heat detectors.
And that was just the security in plain sight. Herbs, metals, incantations and symbols of power also lined the walls, each designed to counter offensive and illusionary magic. There was no screwing around here, and any Other that wanted in would have to be crazy or super powerful to try.
We pulled up to the gate and showed the attendant our badges. He examined them closely and gestured for us to drive in, his only words to us being, “Last house on the right, about three miles down that way.” He pointed down a long empty road.
“Thanks,” I said.
↔
We rolled in at a whopping speed of ten miles an hour, driving over speed bumps and past street signs that read Children at Play. We drove past an Olympic-size pool and tennis courts and a gym, a bowling alley and a cinema—even a friggin’ Starbucks.
They had everything they could possibly need, right behind impossibly high walls with security apparatus intended to keep Others out. Apparatus, might I add, designed and built by Mr. Cain and his Memnock Securities Company. Hellelujah!
“Woo … so this is how the other half lives?” Conner whistled.
“More like the half a percent,” I said.
The Compound was completely empty, which wasn’t surprising given it was ten in the evening on a Wednesday. Family tended to sleep early in places like this. Early to bed, early to rise—with parents taking on their kids’ rhythms just to stay on top of everything.
We rolled on, past houses three stories high and filled with more bedrooms that a Scottish clan would need for a reunion, until we got to the house we were looking for.
A mailbox out front read The Logans, and on the front lawn were mainland cops and forensic experts in white plastic coveralls.
“Great,” I said. “When was this called in?”
“Three hours ago, but like Michael said, the mainland cops were on it almost immediately.”
“How? It takes an hour or so just to get here.”
Conner pursed his lips.
“Come on, Conner. What are you not telling me?”
“They’re not mainland cops.”
“But Michael said—”
“Yeah, that’s what Michael thinks, because that’s what he was told. I was up on the mainland myself, at the bar with some old cop buddies, and they told me that they had a special unit to deal with … you know.”
“Others?”
Conner nodded. “They’re set up here, operating out of a couple of these houses.”
“In this Compound?”
“No. They’re set up in another Compound. The Igloo.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “OK, let’s see what we can find out.”
↔
As soon as I got out, I could see that they weren’t just a special unit. They were special units—complete with their own mobile labs, dogs, investigators and just about every toy found in a CSI wet dream. We were immediately greeted by a little balding man in a sports jacket and khakis whose body language told us in no uncertain terms that we weren't to cross onto the lawn's threshold.
“ID,” he said, holding his palm out.
We pulled out our badges.
From where we were standing I could see Mr. and Mrs. Logan hanging out in blankets, talking to two plain-clothed officers who were diligently taking notes.
“Mr. Matthias, Mr. Conner, your assistance is appreciated, but unnecessary. We got this covered.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said.
He handed our badges back to us. “Thank you, but no thank you.”
“Listen, I have a lot of experience with Others. I could determine if an Other is behind this or not.”
“An Other is,” he said with a blank expression.
“How do you know?”
“We know.”
“And what about the Logans? What did they see?”
“Enough.”
“Security cameras?” I asked.
“I can’t answer that.”
“But—”
“Please, Mr. Matthias, it’s been a long night and it’s only going to get longer. Like I said, we don’t—”
“Yeah, yeah, but could we at least interview the Logans?”
“No.”
I glared down at the little man, but he held neither anger nor hate in his eyes. He was just a professional doing his job—and right now his job meant keeping us away from the scene.
“But—”
“Again: no.”
Now I could see the Logans being escorted to a car.
“Where are you taking them?” I asked.
“To an undisclosed location that is under our protection.”
“Just two questions. That’s all I need.”
“No.”
“Look, I didn’t want to do this, but we have jurisdiction here. We’re part of the Paradise Lot police. And since we’re in Paradise Lot … well, you’re a detective. Draw your own conclusions.”
He smirked at that. “Good one,” he said in a tone that made me actually think he meant it. “But still, no. Your jurisdiction is based on district compliance. This district and all the surrounding Compounds unanimously voted to be placed under mainland jurisdiction. Or didn’t you get the memo?”