by Ramy Vance
Well he is Marc Matthias, and although those words were uttered by his other self, they are still his words.
He gestures for them to enter the hotel.
“You will stay here until we find a safe house.”
The three Others breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief as they follow their strange savior into the hotel well known for welcoming Others in need.
Lust Is Enough
Marc enters the hotel. With memories he knows are not his own, he finds keys for the three fugitive Others. They will all stay in one room near an exit; should the authorities come, they will have an escape route. He explains this and watches as they climb the central stairwell outlining the foyer.
As they climb the spiraling stairs, he notes the carving on the first balcony’s guardrail—an intricate portrait depicting a great hunt. Searching Jean’s memories, he tries to find a thought about the mural, but uncovers nothing. Seems Jean never thought much of the stairwell’s carving.
Marc’s thoughts, on the other hand, go to perhaps his greatest battle … the day he took down the Erlking and claimed his hunting sword as his own. Yes, it was Jean’s body that delivered the final blow, but it was Marc’s determination, confidence and willpower that won the day.
Jean’s other self isn’t sure why he thought of that day. Perhaps because he knows that the essence of him is what won that day for Jean. He knows that whatever he is, he represents the relentless warrior residing within Jean’s quirky bones. For Marc is the undoubting, unwavering, sure part of Jean. And the part of the Jean that stayed with his other self—the part that is full of doubt and questioning—isn’t in him. Marc wonders if freedom from such things is a boon or a curse.
And not knowing, he wishes to test himself in renewed battles to see what he is capable of when free of Jean’s doubt.
The Others scamper up to their room, happy to have found a sanctuary. They have deluded themselves into believing they’re safe. They are anything but … and their stay here is only a reprieve from the coming storm. Marc will have to find them another shelter, train them to stay hidden, perhaps find a network that hides the wayward and unjustly pursued.
And what if such a network doesn’t exist?
Marc shakes his head, making his way behind the mahogany desk that acts as a reception. He briefly pauses beside the desk, reminding himself that he may not be Jean, but he is from Jean, which in some strange way grants him ownership of this place.
Walking around the circular reception, he hesitates in front of the chair. It is marred by time and neglect, tears and stains, does not belong in such a grand place. This magnificent desk deserves a regal, plush leather chair. Something with gravitas. Searching his memories, he knows he retrieved this chair from a dumpster, its previous owner abandoning it for reasons only the GoneGods know.
He just hopes it’s not because someone peed on it. Then he remembers scrubbing the damn thing—rather, he remembers Jean scrubbing the damn thing—and sits down.
Shaking his head, Marc wonders how long Jean’s memories will take their toll on him. “Until I create enough of my own,” he muses, confident that in time, the duality of his being will fade. It must … or he will lose his mind.
Letting out a long sigh, he forces his mind to focus on other, more tangible problems. What to do with the fae? They can’t stay here for long, nor can he turn them away. But there is nowhere for them to go, and he considers building them a network.
But a network comprised of different Others from different pantheons will be difficult. For one thing, they do not trust each other. Ironic that the fae are wary of the Norse, when both fae and Norse are hunted by the same enemy.
Too much distrust. Too many simply concerned with their own survival. Marc shudders at the realization that without cohesion—without unity—nothing will improve. And no one will survive.
Well, no Other will survive.
The humans have banded together against a common enemy: mythical creatures created by their once-upon-a-time gods. And even though the humans were created by the same gods as the Others—which, in a way, makes these mythical creatures their brothers and sisters, or at least long-lost cousins—they didn’t care. As far as humans were concerned, this was their Earth and these invaders didn’t belong.
“The one upshot to war,” Marc mutters to himself, “is at least the Others will have to band together.” Then, setting his feet atop the mahogany desk, he adds, “Unity.”
“Unity,” a sultry voice calls from the third-floor landing. “I’m all about unity.”
↔
Marc doesn’t need to look up to know who’s speaking. It’s Astarte, the succubus who lives in his—rather, Jean’s—hotel. She is a creature who, before the gods left, drew her nourishment from sex. Now that the gods are gone, she trades sex for money, which in turn she uses for shelter, food and other amenities.
Not much has changed for her, Marc thinks, rising to his feet.
“Something is different about you, lover,” Astarte says.
Marc starts up the stairs, drawn to the demi-god of lust. She is like a siren, and her presence is her song.
“You walk with more … swagger.”
Marc doesn’t say anything, continuing up the stairs toward Astarte. When he finally makes it to the third-floor landing, he looks into her deep brown eyes and—
How strange, he thinks, I remember her eyes to be blue. Not brown, but …
It takes him a long second to realize what is happening. Astarte is a creature of desire and she takes on the traits most desired by those lusting after her. Bella had blue eyes and so Jean desires that color.
But Marc … Marc’s preference is brown. Why? He’ll have to consider this later, and takes comfort that there are some differences between him and his other self.
Then, seeing her sultry, slender body, her perky, small breasts and her impossibly exquisite lips—all traits he remembers her having—he realizes that his taste in women may not be all that different than Jean’s.
“Unity,” Marc says. “There are two fae who need to find a sanctuary, and I fear this hotel is not it.”
“ ‘Unity?’ ‘Sanctuary?’ ‘Fear this hotel is not it?’ It seems more than your gait has changed. What happened on that island?” Astarte looks her friend over, her beautiful brown eyes softening with concern, and for a moment Marc doesn’t see her as a creature of desire, but as the friend she is.
Then he notices her tongue ring and his mind is drawn to everything else she can do with her mouth.
“Much happened there,” Marc says simply, seeing no reason to rehash the past. What was done was done. Training his eyes on Astarte, he points to the upper floors. “And all that matters now is helping the fae upstairs. They are wanted by the authorities. Well, they will be wanted as soon as anyone of power realizes what happened.”
Astarte tilts her head in confusion, like someone trying to recall an old memory or place a face not seen for a long, long time. “You still care, so it is still you, but you are so ...” She lets the words trail off into an unspoken oblivion as she pulls out a cigarette and lighter from the GoneGods know where.
Marc notices her hesitation as she strikes the flame and draws its heat toward the exposed tobacco. Then he remembers that in a situation like this, Jean would normally say something like, “No smoking” or, “You know the rules.” But seeing the succubus ignite the cigarette is so sensual that he cannot bring himself to mimic his other self’s pedantic ways.
Astarte, seeing that he will not protest, lights the cigarette before saying, “There are people—well, Others—I know who might be able to protect them. I can ask them, if you like?”
“And they will help in exchange for …?”
“What is due to them.” Astarte curls a lip. “And what is due is always the same when dealing with me.” As if accentuating her words, a moan echoes from inside her room, and Marc knows that there are several people receiving their “due” right now.
Seeing
Marc’s interest, Astarte says, “I owe you rent. I have an envelope of money, as per usual. There is also a bonus payment inside, if you like.” She touches his chest, a nimble finger finding its way beneath the collar of his shirt.
Marc does not draw away. Astarte, surprised by his lack of withdrawal, goads him with, “Unless, of course, you still prefer love over lust?”
“Love?” Marc pronounces the word as though it’s from a foreign tongue. As he does so, he searches his memories—or rather, Jean’s memories—for all the times love has betrayed him. There was Bella, of course, but as different as Marc is from Jean, even he cannot deny the taste of that emotion when it comes to him.
Then there was Medusa. That wasn’t love—not yet, at least. That was the potential of love. The promise of love. And that promise was broken the day she sacrificed herself for the good of others.
Astarte is right, he muses. Love has cost my other self much. Pushing the door a bit wider to see more of the writhing bodies inside, he shakes his head. “I don’t have a problem with lust …”
Astarte raises a curious, igniting eyebrow. “Who are you?”
“I am exactly who I need to be.”
“Then, Human Jean-Luc Matthias, perhaps just this once you will give lust a chance.” Astarte steps closer to the human she still believes to be Jean, allowing her impossibly perfect body to brush up against his. As she does so, she widens the door even more to reveal several bodies in the throes of passion. “Perhaps, just this once, lust is what you need?”
Normally a human—or an Other, even—would be distraught, unsure of who or what to focus on: the demi-goddess of lust or the pile of bodies promising incredible passion? But Marc knows exactly what he wants as he removes his jacket.
With a smile that would stop a charging bull, Marc pushes past the succubus. “Yes, perhaps it is.”
This is a start, he muses as he slowly undresses. The start to me making memories of my own.
Sex Isn’t the Only Game We’ll Play Tonight
When the fucking is done—because that’s exactly what it was—Marc sits up on the bed, looking at the mess of flesh vying for their places on the mattress. Soft snores accompany the bodies that have not fully detached, still exhausted by the evening’s festivities. And although Marc has known these figures, he looks at them for the first time, realizing that not everyone in the mix is human. Rubbing his eyes, he notes that, in fact, only one is. Well, two if Marc is human—something he’s not entirely sure of.
Hints of sunlight stream through the open window as Marc stands. Only he and Astarte are awake. She, because this is her lot in life and such connections only serve to energize her.
But how it is that Marc stands, neither are sure. Certainly no human should be so spry—not after the experiences of the night before.
“Who are you?” Astarte lights another cigarette without hesitation this time.
“I already told you,” Marc says. “I am who I need to be.”
Astarte sways her head back and forth. “I’ve now gotten a taste of what Jean has so often complained about … the cryptic answers of Others.” She points the cherry of her cigarette at Marc, an invitation to continue speaking.
Marc chuckles. It is true that Jean often lamented Others’ propensity for obfuscating their answers. It drove him mad with frustration. But Marc does not find the opaqueness of speech nearly as bothersome. He doesn’t, because he sees something Jean never did: the truth is rarely one thing, and trying to encapsulate it in a single statement is impossible.
Others may speak in riddles, but their turns of phrase carry far more truth than any direct statement could.
Seeing that, he repeats his answer. “I am who I need to be.”
“And who you need to be is one separate from Jean?” Astarte answers. She is the demigoddess of lust, and this is not her first riddle.
“Separating from Jean. He and I are still one, but with every experience, every breath, every evening like this”—he points at the mattress littered with sleeping bodies—“I am becoming something else. I …” He smiles as he thinks about Penemue, the fallen drunk of an angel. What would he say about Marc’s constantly changing state? Ahh, yes, that’s right … “I keep evolving,” Marc says with a grin.
Astarte nods. “And where is Jean now?”
Marc shrugs. “Still on the island, I suspect. Still questioning every move he makes as he desperately tries to do what’s right.”
“And you? Do you struggle? Are you desperate to do what’s right?”
“Partly. I’m just as compelled to do what’s right, but I have yet to understand why. But as for the struggle, the desperation … I feel none of that.”
“No,” Astarte says, dropping her cigarette in a half-drunk glass of wine. The cherry hisses to silence and with a final puff of smoke, turns to ash. “You are not conflicted, are you? You are—”
But before she can finish her thought, the world goes dark.
The rising sun is no more.
↔
“What the …?” Marc starts as his instincts—or rather, Jean’s instincts—kick in. There is no way this is natural.
Gazing over the bodies on the bed, the creatures passed out, Marc considers if any of them could have done this. Perhaps as some playful ploy to enhance round two. Darken this room so that the participants must feel their way around the room. But everyone is so exhausted that the possibility of another round is impossible to fathom, even for Marc, who has never felt better in his—albeit short—life.
No, whatever has caused this is not coming from this room. It is coming from elsewhere.
Astarte and Marc stand in the pitch black of her room. All he can hear is Astarte fumbling for something before he hears a spark followed by a flame that illuminates her face.
A face, Marc notes, painted with concern. She, too, must have sensed the unnaturalness of this and drawn the same conclusion.
They are under attack.
The other thing Marc notices is that although Astarte’s lighter shows her face, it does so in a dampened, almost muted fashion. What’s more, it shows little else, the rest of the room just as dark as before she was able to create a light source. Whatever magic dampens the light of the rising sun, it also stops any other light from shining bright or reaching far.
“What is happening?” Astarte says. She adds, “Whoever is doing this is burning through a hell of lot of time. They have to be, because darkness magic like this is costly.”
Marc nods in agreement—not that Astarte can see this—as he searches his mind, or rather Jean’s, for some clue as to what this is. Already he feels his connection with his other self severing; drawing upon the other’s memories is becoming harder and harder to do.
But some things are hard to forget. Marc recalls a single, terrifying memory of a time Jean encountered this kind of magic. It was during a hunt.
No, not a hunt, for that implies Jean was the hunter. It was when he was being hunted by a creature so fearsome that the gods themselves once tried to lock him away. But that is another story. What Marc recalls is the fear that Jean felt as the creature—the … Erlking—cast similar magic to impede Jean’s attempts to escape.
But how did that battle end? With Jean victorious. Of that much Marc is certain. Jean defeated the Erlking, taking his hunting sword as a trophy. So whoever is casting this magic is either using a trick out of his playbook, or the Erlking wasn’t as dead as Jean thought him to be.
Either way, Marc cannot indulge in any more recollections, for the room fills with the low bass hum of growling dogs.
Hounds, Huntresses and Hate
Marc may be blind, but he is far from helpless. He listens for the coming attack.
He hears the soft padding of the laelaps’s feet as it moves along the hotel room’s carpet. Then there is an almost imperceptible crouching sound, followed by nothing. Marc knows the creature is in the air, leaping at one of its intended targets, but he cannot tell who …
Wil
l the beast attack him or Astarte? Or perhaps someone on the bed? There is no way to tell, but rather than be paralyzed by doubt or second-guessing, Marc charges toward Astarte. Pushing her down, he simultaneously kicks behind him while throwing his arm into a backhanded swing.
His foot flies wildly through empty air, but his hand connects with fur and teeth, knocking the doglike creature to the side.
No longer seeing Astarte, Marc says, “Get on the bed, form a perimeter and get ready.”
She doesn’t speak, but the rustling movement tells him that Astarte is doing exactly that. As soon as she is on the bed, several of the once writhing bodies begin to stir. A deep, baritone voice that Marc only heard grunt the night before asks, “What’s going on?”
In response, a howl sounds as two more clawed feet enter the room. He also hears the first laelaps stir. Marc’s blow was heavy enough to stun it, but from the way it growled, he knows that the creature is not out of the fight.
Three of them, he thinks. Three. And from the way they move, he doubts they are as blind as him. Or if they are, then the dark doesn’t hinder them.
Closing his eyes—as useless as they are now—Marc crouches, trying to determine which way the door is. He knows that if his back is to the bed, the door is to his left. He is sure that this is the Erlking or one of his many followers attacking. Or perhaps it is another Other wishing to claim the Erlking’s status as the greatest hunter of all by felling the one who killed the Elf King.
But I’m not the one who killed him, he thinks, knowing such a pathetic defense will not serve him in this battle.
