by Ramy Vance
Immediately, black smoke came billowing out of the angel’s back.
The angel didn’t seem to notice. I knew he was locked in a test of strength against Aldie, but angels are acutely aware of their bodies. He knew he was on fire … and he didn’t care.
So I punched him square in his left temple. That should get his attention. Nothing. If the angel felt it, he made no sign of it. The billowing smoke grew. More and more of the angel’s feathers were catching fire.
“Oche.” Enoch coughed at the effort of saying the angel’s name. “Oche … please.”
In his embrace with Aldie, I heard the angel utter between strained breaths, “I almost have him.”
“Oche, please. They are of little concern. Take care of yourself before something happens to your wings that cannot be repaired.”
“But Enoch,” Oche said.
“I can bear much,” Enoch rasped. “But I cannot bear real harm coming to a beautiful angel such as you. Please.”
Oche stopped fighting Aldie and, standing erect, slammed his back against the wall, patting out the fire.
Aldie didn’t need to be told twice. Panting from his fight, he ran past the angel, and taking my hand, we made our way to the exit.
↔
ON THE OTHER side of the door, I saw we had made our way backstage. “We need to find Deirdre and Egya.”
“Egya?”
“The hyena.”
“Ahh yes, the shapeshifter who can’t shift back.”
“And then we need to regroup and find those two. They have the Soul Jar and—”
Aldie produced a tiny, unassuming jar that hung from an equally innocuous chain. “Is this it?”
I grabbed it out of his hand. “How did you—?”
“During my fight with that horrific angel. He had it on him and, well, a good pickpocket knows he must get close.”
“But how did you know I would stop him?”
“Because a good pickpocket also knows when to trust their partner in crime.” He squeezed my hand as he said the word partner.
A squeeze that sent familiar desire coursing through me.
I shook my head. Thoughts of him … of us … would have to wait.
“We have the jar,” I said, pulling my hand away so I could think straight, if nothing else. “They’ll be after us now. We need to get out of here. We need to find a way to Paradise Lot.”
PART V
INTERMISSION:
Metatron has learned from the Fates that today is the day the gods will leave. And so he prepares, laying out everything he needs. It has been so long since he was human that he can’t quite remember what it takes to kill one. Fire, slitting the throat. Hanging.
Such methods take time. Seems the human body is loath to shake off its mortal coil, and he needs his death to be instant.
The methods he has before him would take far too long. By his estimation, he has exactly three minutes to die.
That is, once he becomes human again.
Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds. An eternity.
He truly wishes he had a bomb or a gun. Such instruments of destruction would grant him the instant death he needs.
But alas, such instruments of destruction are forbidden in Heaven. And that is exactly where he needs to die. In Heaven, and in the moments before the gods leave.
So Metatron decides to hedge his bets by using several tools at once. Placing a rope around his neck, he pulls it taut, allowing himself to hang. In his present form, he feels nothing. He is just hanging from a rope.
But as soon as he becomes human again, as soon as his divinity leaves him … Well then, the rope will cut off his oxygen, and that is how humans die. Lack of oxygen.
“Seems like a design flaw,” he muses.
Next, he lifts the blade to his neck. He plans to plunge it deep into his—what did the angel Penemue call it?—aortic vein. Once his heart resumes beating, it will pump out the red blood that will start to flow in his body again.
That should speed up the process.
But it still might not be fast enough, so Metatron plans to also plunge the blade into his belly and cut out his guts in the fashion performed by so many Japanese warriors. He understands this method to be final and brutal. And fast.
That’s what he needs: fast.
Death should be easier than this, but also, after being an immortal angel for all this time, he has lost touch with what it means to be alive.
Or human.
Metatron hangs in the ready, taking a moment to look out the window of his chamber. He knows that the all-consuming darkness will come from the east, the direction his window faces.
Then, looking at his former study, he smiles as he observes the chest of celestial treasures. He is, after all, its guardian. Within that simple box countless artifacts reside, many given to him by the gods as thanks for his numerous deeds. It is said there is no treasure more valuable that what that chest contains, and Metatron wonders if his soul will be able to pick up the chest so that he may take it with him.
Chuckling to himself, he remembers an old human adage: You can’t take it with you. He suspects those words are true.
Still, he’ll try. No point in leaving behind an immortal lifetime of accomplishments.
As his mind contemplates such things, the fated words he was waiting for—the ones that have played in his head over and over again—finally ring out: “Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.”
When will it come?
As if in answer to his question, a mighty horn sounds.
In an instant, Metatron becomes human again.
The archangel Metatron has reverted back to the mortal once known as Enoch.
↔
Metatron, or rather Enoch, had forgotten what being human is like. For one thing, human bodies are frail, weak. Soft.
For another, the pain these bodies are capable of feeling is incredible. More design flaws.
As soon as his body regains its mortality, the rope bites into his neck, pulling taut and cutting off the oxygen that he forgot how desperately the human body needs.
Instead of stabbing himself in the neck and then carving out his guts, Enoch drops his dagger to the ground as both his hands grab at the rope.
He is trying to get free. He wants to be loose, to breathe again.
No, that’s not right. The thought finds its way through the hurricane of panic his mind suffers from. He doesn’t want to be free. He doesn’t want to breathe again. He wants to die.
Death is the only way the human soul will leave its body. And the human soul is the only creation that can follow the gods.
He sees the rolling darkness through his window. It approaches far too quickly. He doubts that death will come soon enough for him to follow. Not without a dagger hastening his demise.
They will be gone, and so will he. But his departure will be the finality of nothing.
He’d laugh at the cruelty of it all, if only the rope would let him.
The world begins to blink out as his eyes close, giving into what is soon to come. Death. Nothing. No more.
But death does not come. Instead, he feels powerful arms lift him up as a talon snaps the rope.
He is placed on the ground and a soft, familiar voice asks, “Metatron, what are you doing? What is happening?”
An angel, but one who had no idea of the gods’ plans. She—or is it a he?—must have come here after the gods’ message, seeking Metatron’s wisdom.
The angel’s face is blurred, and he cannot quite make out who it is … But despite his weakened condition, he can feel the angel’s panic.
Still by his side, the angel is no longer looking at him, her attention on the window. “By the power of Heaven, what is that darkness? It is consuming everything.”
“The end,” Enoch tries to say. His voice comes out harsh. Broken. “The end,” he rasps again. “It has come to consume us. We must leave or die.”
Witho
ut hesitation, the angel picks up Enoch’s frail, mortal body. “Wait,” he rasps, his hand reaching out to his artifacts.
But he is too weak to say or do more. Instead, merciful unconsciousness takes him. As he drifts away, he has two thoughts that are ironically at odds.
The first is a prayer that he will never wake.
The second is a hope. He hopes he does wake … so that he may dedicate his life to finding a way back to his God.
REGROUPING THE BREAKOUT GROUPS
We made our way to the upper levels. Enoch and his giant minion, Oche, wouldn’t be far behind. As we ran, I kept expecting a huge, talon-filled hand to grab me. Getting out of the basement was high on my priority list.
Until, that was, we actually did find the closest exit and managed to get to the main floor. The massive conference hall was empty.
“Where is everyone?” Aldie asked. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we’ve been below for hours. It’s the middle of the night. You can’t expect any of your groupies to still be hanging around and—”
A bell rang, and the conference doors opened. Others of all walks of life spilled out into the hall. “What the—?”
“Breakout groups,” Aldie said. “We run hard for three days. No breaks. No sleep. Just a relentless drilling down on the problems of mortality.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as a swarm of Others ran toward Aldie.
↔
ALDIE WAS IMMEDIATELY OVERRUN by adoring fans who didn’t seem to notice that his clothes were stained with green blood. Nor the slash marks on his shirt where Enoch had stabbed him. I guess we see what we need to see, and right now, as they wrestled with their own issues of mortality, the last thing they needed to see was their hero dying.
Just like they didn’t need to know about the tricks he used with the fireballs.
What they wanted was hope. And Aldie, for all that he’d just gone through, delivered that in spades. At first I thought there was no hope for us to get through the crowd. They were all around. But Aldie was a pro. He simply raised his hand and said in a commanding but soft voice, “Fellow Others, hear me now.”
Immediately the crowd went silent. Aldie reverted to his normal voice. “Clear a path so that I may lead you to the next, unscheduled event.”
The Others standing in front of him stepped aside, giving Aldie and me space to move through.
I couldn’t help but stare at Aldie with admiration. He was better than the Pied Piper. “In life—in mortal life—we must always be ready to accept the deviations presented to us. We must always be ready to follow new paths, new directions. That is why I am changing tonight’s activities. Follow me.”
“Is the breakout session on ‘Food: Which Dead Creatures Are Socially Acceptable to Eat’ cancelled?” asked a despondent ghoul.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Ooh, but it’s all so confusing.”
“Such is life. But don’t worry, we’ll email you the PDF guide,” Aldie said with a wink.
“Are humans on the list?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What are you doing?” I whispered to Aldie.
“Getting us out of here. Those maniacs aren’t going to attack us in this crowd. And even if they did, they’d have to face off against all of them.” He turned with those last words so that he was walking backward. “Tell me, what is the harshest thing about being mortal?”
“Headaches,” a three-headed cerberus said. “I get them in all my heads at once. Can’t burn time to make them go away. Must consume something called Tylenol.”
“Bowel movements,” a raijin said. “Never had those before.”
“When can you trample your neighbor to death and when can you not?” brayed a centaur.
“Never,” I said to the centaur. “The answer is never.”
The centaur stomped his hind leg. “So unfair.”
“There are so many rules. Then, all of sudden, there don’t seem to be any rules,” complained a lich.
“Exactly,” Aldie said. “The rules are all over the place because the essence of being mortal is navigating the Charybdis that is chaos, and the Scylla that is order. Humans have a unique ability to live in both. We Others have only ever had to live in one.
“For us fae, order was our lives. Everything was dictated by our gods. Protocol was paramount. And not just fae—angels, dwarves, gnomes. Our gods demanded order. For other Others, chaos reigned supreme. Dragons, orcs and demons of all manners swam in the unguided pools of their existence. But the human world is something else.
“And so, let me tell you the secret to being mortal. It’s knowing when to walk the straight line of order and when to dance the hurricane of chaos. That’s it. Figure that out, and you will live the rest of your years happy, secure and joyous.”
As Aldie spoke, I saw that he was slowly guiding the crowd out of the conference hall, where the sphinx who had originally taken me backstage was standing. You could tell that she was taking Aldie’s new events program in stride. I guess she was embracing the chaos of the situation.
“You haven’t seen my hyena and his, ahhh, changeling handler?” I asked.
“Changeling? No. The hyena, however, is tied up outside. We can’t have a wild animal running about.”
The sphinx was about to launch into a rant about being more responsible with my animals when I saw Egya tied up to a bicycle rack outside.
I ran over to him and hugged the big, hairy lug with all my might. “Oh, thank the GoneGods you’re OK.”
I looked around, expecting to see Deirdre, but she was nowhere in sight. “Where is she?” I turned to see that Aldie was now outside, the crowd slowly pouring out of the conference hall behind him.
Egya yelped.
“Where is she?” I repeated.
Another yelp.
“Great,” I said. “I spend most of my time begging you to shut up, and the one time I need you to speak, you can’t.”
Egya cackled with genuine mirth.
Bless him … he’d find a way to laugh being tortured in Hell.
DUMPSTERS, DARK ELVES AND PRIVATE PLANES
I unhooked Egya and immediately he grabbed my hand in his mouth, pulling me toward the outside of the conference hall.
“No,” I said. “It’s too dangerous. Safety in numbers.” I nodded toward Aldie and the hodge-podge of adoring Others. “Where do you need that crowd to go?”
Another yelp, and Egya pointed his paw to the corner.
“Aldie,” I said, getting the dark elf’s attention. I pointed to where Egya had. Aldie nodded in understanding, and we made our incredibly slow progression to behind the hall, where I found Deirdre clutching her chest. She was bleeding, barely conscious, and I suddenly understood what had happened.
Egya and Deirdre were trying to leave when the angel attacked. A fight ensued. The Soul Jar was taken, and when Egya went to find help, the stupid sphinx tied him up.
Deirdre’s eyes opened. “Milady. I … I failed you. He has it in his …” A cough cut off her words.
She’d been hurt very badly by that angel. Rage filled me as I went to my friend, helping her to her feet. I don’t make many promises, but I made one then and there.
I was going to pay the angel back for what he did.
“Shuush.” I wiped her forehead. “No, Deirdre—you did great. We have it. You did great.”
If Deirdre heard me, she made no indication of it. Instead, she closed her eyes, her breathing becoming very shallow. I’d been around enough of the dying to know that she wasn’t going to make it. Not without help.
↔
“LOOK HERE. Another example of mortal chaos,” Aldie said. “What do we do when such chaos presents itself?”
The crowd said nothing, and I looked at them with utter disgust. “Seriously. Isn’t this obvious? You help her,” I screamed, dabbing her wounds with the sleeve of my blouse. Green blood oozed out of the wound in her forehead, and she
groaned as her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She was hurting pretty damn bad, and everyone just stood around watching her.
Including Aldie.
Through tears of frustration, I whispered, “You help her. If I had magic, if I could burn time, I’d give whatever I had to help her. I’d burn it all.”
“Why?” Aldie asked, still not moving to help.
“Because she doesn’t deserve this. She is so good. Better than me.”
“Again, why?” There was a tenderness in his voice.
I thought back to everything I’d gone through with Deirdre. All the fights, the talks, the hanging out … She was a royal pain in my ass, and completely oblivious as to how to live in the mortal world, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Really trying.
“Once,” I said through tear-strained eyes, “she burnt over a month of her life to save three rat pups. No human I know would have even stopped to look at the rats, let alone helped them. Whenever I’ve needed her, she’s been by my side. And whenever she saw an injustice, she was always the first to get involved. The world needs more like her. Not like me. As a vampire, I was selfish and vain. Am no better as a human. And the shit I’ve done as both an immortal and a mortal automatically makes me ugly.”
“Perhaps,” Aldie said, putting his hand on Deirdre’s forehead. “Perhaps not.” The dark elf closed his eyes and whispered a short elvish incantation. The wound on her forehead closed. It didn’t wake her up, but at least she was no longer bleeding from that gash. “I give her three minutes of my time,” he said.
“And I give her two minutes of mine,” the cerberus said, pointing a clawed hand at her.
“Three of mine,” announced a troll.
“One of mine.”
I watched as, one by one, members of Aldie’s crowd sacrificed precious minutes of their lives to save my friend, and as each did so, another wound closed, another bruise disappeared. She was going to make it.