Penemue's Inferno

by Ramy Vance

  But Judith? All this time I thought she was just an ignorant, head-in-the-sand, judgmental mother-in-law who hated the new order of things. Now I had to upgrade her to a knowledgeable, judgmental mother-in-law who hated the new order of things.

  Still, judging by the way the gods diverted their gazes, looking at the ground and kicking their feet in the dirt in the collective shame of all the times they’d broken the rules for their own gain, Judith’s chiding was working. Good Judith!

  And from the way her lips slightly curled at the edges, she knew it, too. And then she did the classic mistake when trying to save yourself from an ass-whooping: she pushed it too far. “So if none of you follow the rules, why should we?”

  I didn’t immediately see the mistake in those words until Athena’s eyes perked up. Up until that point, she had been folding her arms across her chest as her head hung low, but as soon as Judith’s last rebuke left her lips, the damn Goddess of Wisdom looked up at us and said the three words that changed everything. “Because we’re gods.”

  That was the only excuse they needed, and as soon as those words left her lips, the gaggle of kids all ceased being ashamed as crackles of power coursed through them.

  So much for “Go Judith.”

  ↔

  The little gang of pint-sized gods charged us as one, each of their undersized bodies sizzling with magic far too great to come in such small packages. I pulled out my sword, Bella readied Thor’s hammer and Marty hissed. Judith glared at the charging gods, lifting her fist to the ready.

  This was it—we were going to go down swinging (and scowling). As far as ends go, this wasn’t horrible … I mean, how many of us get to check out fighting a god? Or even a group of ankle-biter gods?

  That was respectable, too.

  And just as they were about to descend on us, I heard several swooshes followed by childish exclamations of “Ow!” as several of them slapped their necks like swatting at flies. Not that I knew what happened, or cared. Right now, I was considering cutting off one of Shiva’s arms.

  But just as Shiva was about to swing down on me, she face-planted on the ground and—fell asleep?

  “What the—?” I started when Zeus, Baldr, Anguta, Nanook and Eve all simultaneously dropped. Their sudden fall was followed by another mighty swing of Thor’s hammer that sent Enlil and Chinnamasta flying.

  “No fair, no fair, no fair! You are—” Athena yelled before slapping her own neck and promptly passing out.

  The other gods, seeing their friends drop like flies, stopped their advance and began slowly backing away. Then Anubis growled, “What kind of magic is this?”

  “Whatever it is,” Adam said, “we better get out of here.”

  “Isis,” Odin said, “take us home.”

  The Egyptian god nodded as whirlwinds of energy emanated from the ground, lifting the slumbering gods and whisking them away from where they were to … to, well, presumably their home. And in a flash, we were alone.

  I didn’t know what happened. We had been saved by a miracle or divine intervention or karma or whatever else you call it when the impossible happens.

  But the trouble with miracles, divine intervention and karma is that they were principles in short supply these days. And we were in Hell, which made them particularly rare. Whatever had saved us was something else. Something more ethereal, something—

  Marty hissed. Looking behind me for the first time since the gods had tucked their tails between their legs and ran, I saw exactly what had saved us.

  It wasn’t divine intervention or karma, but it was a miracle of sorts. For standing in a grotto in the cliff face’s wall stood Medusa, her bow at the ready. She had what I was sure was a poison-tipped arrow pointed right at us.

  Well, not us. Following the tip to its intended target, I saw exactly who Medusa meant to fell with her next arrow. Bella.

  Part III

  Earth

  Conner returns from the prison island with the children. Their ship is guided into the harbor by three myarids who guard the vessel with all their power. There isn’t a force on Earth that can hurt them as long as they are on the ship.

  But the same isn’t true once they dock. On land, so much can harm them. So Conner does something that he knows will cost him his badge: he calls the Paradise Lot Police Station and summons every officer he can find to the dock.

  On arrival, they are greeted by the archangel Michael, the Billy Goats Gruff, valkyrie, centaurs and troll officers. Human officers, too.

  Miral, the angel of Heaven-turned-doctor, stands on the boat’s deck holding Conner’s hand. His grip is warm, and given the great ordeal she has gone through, his hand shouldn’t be as comforting as it is. But holding him and standing next to him brings her peace, and it is at that moment she finally admits something to herself she has longed denied. She loves Conner. She loves him in the only way an angel knows how—completely, utterly, with every fiber of her being.

  One by one the children are taken off the boat, and one by one, Miral treats the children. Yes, she is hurt, but she is also a doctor who took a solemn oath to aid those in need. She will put aside her own pain until the last of the children are treated.

  The process is long and arduous, but none of the children are seriously hurt. Their wounds run deeper than any cut, for all these children now know that there are monsters in the world. So many horrible monsters.

  One by one, the parents are called. And one by one, Miral is there to reunite the children with their families.

  Each embrace is different, and each embrace is the same.

  Different words are used, different tears cried. The tightness of the hugs vary, and the number of kisses.

  But they are all the same; each parent is overcome with relief and love.

  Miral watches the humans with their offspring, and she rubs her own belly. At that moment, she does not feel joy. Another, much uglier emotion fills her heart—jealousy.

  The gods … her God … denied Others the ability to have offspring of their own. This was part of the gift bestowed upon her kind when the gods departed.

  Mortality and infertility.

  In other words, a slow and final death.

  Miral sends off the last of the children. As she closes her office, she wonders how it is that the gods were so cruel.

  ↔

  But Miral is an angel. What’s more, she is a soldier of Heaven. Her self-pity is short-lived, and with the last of the children reunited with their parents, she turns to the archangel Michael to discuss more immediate issues.

  Michael was her commander when they were soldiers in Heaven. Now that Heaven is closed and they are both mortal, Michael has become something else to Miral. He has become a friend.

  “My archangel Michael,” Miral says in her formal manner reserved for the gravest matters.

  “My angel Miral,” Michael responds.

  “The kidnapping of the human children will not go unanswered, and our greatest fear is upon us. War is here.”

  Michael nods.

  “We are faced with a choice: fight for the humans or fight for the Others.” She looks at Conner as she speaks. The human stands on the dock, wrapped in a blanket. She knows that if she has to choose, she will choose him. Not the Others. Not the humans. Only him.

  Michael sighs. “True, but the advent of war will be slow. We have time.”

  “We have time,” Miral agrees. “But the choice will remain the same. Humans or Others?”

  Michael clenches his fists before unfurling his wings, the angel’s way of expressing great frustration. Miral watches with envy as his magnificent wings span several yards in each direction. She has been hobbled; without significant care, she will never fly again.

  Not that Michael knows this. All he knows is his own anger. After several seconds with his wings outstretched, he wraps them around himself. “Both. We fight for both.”

  “How?”

  “By following His word.”

  “He is gone. So is
His word.”

  Michael growls. “Our God may no longer be with us, but His word lives on. We fight for both with love in our hearts for both humans and Others. Equally. And that love will guide us in every decision we make.”

  “You wait for love to guide you. See where that gets you. I, on the other hand, would rather prepare.”

  Michael growls again, his voice like the rolling thunder of a thousand lightning strikes. “Careful.”

  “No, I will not be admonished by you for speaking my mind. Such lofty principles may have once guided us, but they do not now. Now we must follow another tenant, another set of laws—our own. I will prepare for what is coming. So should you. And when the drums of war finally beat at our doorstep, I will fight. But I will not fight for both humans or Others. I will not fight for both. I will fight for myself.”

  Michael watches as Miral turns on her heel, walking away before he can answer. She is angel. And angels do what their hearts dictate. And few hearts are purer than hers.

  As soon as her anger is tempered by time and rest and a chance to heal, she will change her mind. Of this Michael is sure.

  But seeing her walk away, his uncertainty wavers and is replaced by cautious hope.

  ↔

  That night, Conner washes Miral, dabbing her wounded wings with hot, wet towels and disinfectant. He dresses her wounds as best he can, and when she asks how deep Jean’s blade went, he lies, telling her that it’s little more than a flesh wound.

  The truth is, Conner can see bone. He knows that nothing short of a miracle will let her fly again.

  She knows he is lying, too, and she loves him all the more for it.

  As exhausted as they both are, that night they make love for the first time. They have known each other before, but this is the first time Miral envelops him with everything in her heart. Completely, totally, entirely.

  After their lovemaking is complete, they lie together, holding one another in silent joy. She knows that she shouldn’t be so happy. War is coming. Her wings are now a useless carcass that she is condemned to carry (We all have our crosses to bear, she silently mocks). Tomorrow is not filled with hope. Tomorrow is filled with dread.

  Still, she is joyous. She is happy. She is at peace.

  Because of him. Because of her Conner.

  As sleep takes them both, Miral thinks of the love that those parents and children shared on the dock. She rubs her belly, silently wishing that she and Conner could be blessed, too.

  To be so would be Heaven.

  Marc’s Story—Part 1

  The three forms of Hecate watch as the human who killed their husband lands a helicopter on the field in front of his lair. They lurk as the fiend helps two fae creatures depart from the metal dragon before walking into a castle lacking a moat, a drawbridge—even lacking turrets manned by archers or mages. Rather, his castle has a glass door that turns around and around, letting anyone inside, be they friend or enemy.

  Such arrogance. The thought imbues all three of their minds at once, for even though Hecate is of three bodies, she is of one mind, one soul … one heart.

  Once upon a time, Hecate was the goddess of the hunt. The protector, the predator of night. Each of her forms represents a different phase of the moon, and thus a different kind of hunt.

  Her first form—the physical representation of the new moon—is a woman of impossible brightness, whose very shape is hidden within the shifting light of her being. She is the youngest of the three, and perhaps the most innocent. Pointing at this fiend’s castle (what did the human who helped them find the fiend call it … a hotel?) she says to her other selves, “Such bravado. Does this human truly believe himself so strong, so invulnerable that he needs no walls of stone to keep his enemies out?”

  The laelapses by her side growl, exposing teeth far too sharp and long for their otherwise doglike appearance.

  Hecate’s second form, who represents the half-moon, lifts her sword, its crescent blade’s tip following the human as he walks inside. “Careful, his frail form is deceiving. He is, after all, the one who dispatched our Erlking.”

  As soon as the words leave her lips, the three forms remember what this human did to their king, their husband. They recall how he engaged in one-on-one battle with the Erlking and how, with a stroke of impossible will, managed to fell the demigod.

  Perhaps his arrogance is well deserved, they think. For one capable of ending one such as the Erlking is certainly a creature of great power.

  But then they recall the battle and know that the human defeated the Erlking partly with skill, partly with power … but mostly with luck. Their king—their husband—underestimated this human, believing the talking monkeys to be weak and easy prey. He let the human get close, let his guard down. It wasn’t the human who defeated the Erlking … the Erlking defeated himself, allowing his arrogance and pride to dictate the course of battle.

  “You old fool,” the third form whispers. She is the spirit of the fading moon, a creature of impossible darkness whose form is hidden by the shadows that ebb and flow around her.

  Hecate, in all her forms, is a spirit now lost in this GoneGod World. Once a goddess, they were worshipped as the protectors of the home. They were the deity of the wild hunt, a spirit as revered and powerful as Athena herself. But then they did something foolish, something that has ended many lives and, in truth, will eventually be the end of them.

  They fell in love.

  Not with a god, but with a lesser creature of great power. The King of Elves, the Lord of the Hunt … the Erlking.

  Oh, if only it had been lust or passion, instead of the burning altar of love, things would have been easier. Better. But Hecate’s heart yearned for this immortal elf and, sacrificing their godhood, they became creatures of the hunt, forever destined to stand by his side on the Wild Hunt.

  But then the gods left, and they were all four made mortal. What’s more, this human monster ended their husband’s life before his allotted time in this GoneGod World had expired, denying them a mortal lifetime together.

  “You old fool,” she repeats, and as the words escape her lips, so does a single tear.

  Lifting her finger to her cheek, she captures the tear before flicking it away in disgust.

  “You old fool,” she repeats a third time, her voice no longer sad, but filled with enough rage to rival a hurricane. “You allowed this lesser being to kill you. And this night, my three forms shall avenge you. For this night, the hunt begins.”

  The three forms look at each other, nodding in unison, before the fading moon lifts her hands in the air. “Let the hunt begin with darkness.”

  OtherMe Is Yummy

  Marc flies the Apache helicopter into Paradise Lot and is amazed when no one says or does anything. The military helicopter’s radio is silent. Nor does any Other take to the sky to see who or what is flying the damn thing. Silence is all that greets him.

  Silence and apathy.

  “This is a contradiction I will never understand,” he mutters to himself.

  Over the rushing of the helicopter blades, he hears someone cry out the words, “Excuse me?”

  Turning, he looks at the Others he is ferrying—a changeling, a pixie and a monster-under-your-bed. Searching Jean’s memories, he knows all three to be innocent victims in the little drama that just unfolded. He also knows that even though they have been rescued from the prison, their troubles are just beginning.

  “What did you say?” repeats the changeling.

  Marc shakes his head. “I was simply commenting on the contradiction that is common to all life—humans and Others alike.”

  “And what’s that?” the changeling asks.

  “The fact that we are on the brink of war. And despite that, I fly a warbird here and no one seems to care.”

  The three Others look around, confirming Marc’s observation. No Others in the sky, no human squawks on the radio. “Why do you think that is?” the changeling asks.

  “Because everyone
thinks it’s someone else’s responsibility to investigate. Worse, they convince themselves that someone else is investigating. But when it’s always someone else’s responsibility, then it becomes no one’s responsibility.” As the words come out of him, he remembers his Popup— No, that isn’t right. Jean’s PopPop said the same words. He said the same expression over and over again throughout their—Jean’s—childhood. Maybe that is why Jean … and now Marc … will always investigate. They were raised never to trust that others would take responsibility. Marc shakes his head in disgust. “I will never understand such apathy.”

  “I don’t know,” the changeling beams, “I’m kind of grateful that no one is pursuing us. It’s a change of pace.” She sighs in the exaggerated way common to the fae.

  “I disagree,” Marc says, quiet enough that the rush of the helicopter blades buries his words. “For it is apathy that led us here. The apathy of humans, of Others … and of the gods.”

  ↔

  Marc pilots the Apache to the only field he can think of that is large enough to house such a monstrous metal bird: the gardens of the Millennium Hotel. He lands the bird and once the blades settle, he exits the cockpit.

  The Others are already standing on the field. They look at him with expectant eyes. He knows that they believe him to be their guardian (yet more shirking of responsibility), and so they stand around like mindless drones, awaiting their next order.

  Marc would like nothing more than to set them free so that he may—what? Start living a life that isn’t his? Forge ahead as Marc Matthias, anomaly-cum-human? He isn’t sure what that future would look like for him.

  So, he follows the old script of his upbringing. He also remembers the words he—rather, Jean—once uttered: “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.”