Paradise Lost Boxed Set

by R. E. Vance

  “Exactly. It begs the question, though. Did the gods leave … or did they simply stop dreaming of us?”

  “You say ‘Potato,’ I say ‘Who cares?’ They left, and in the process made you mortal. They knew that would happen. They chose to let their creations die.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Penemue’s words were cut off by a very sleepy Sinbad. “Mr. Jean,” Sinbad yawned. “What are you doing?”

  I gazed into those big blue, innocent, tired eyes before realizing that I still held onto her shirt.

  “Nothing, kiddo,” I said. “I’m just making sure your costume isn’t stained.”

  “Is it?” she asked.

  “No, it isn’t. Not one little bit.”

  “Good.” She yawned again and turned over, pushing her face into Penemue’s chest.

  ↔

  I waited until Sinbad’s breathing fell into the steady rhythm of sleep before I asked the question that had bothered me since this whole thing began. “OK—created or not,” I said, “someone is using children’s nightmares to build an army. Why?”

  “Why children or why an army?” Penemue asked. “I can answer the former … but as for the latter, I have no idea.”

  “OK. Answer the former.”

  “Children believe.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from Sinbad’s face. The warrior pirate stirred slightly before nestling back into the angel. “Children are not marred by age, they have yet to experience real disappointment, they accept things as they are and it is always good. For something to be bad in the eyes of a child, well, that is something they must be taught.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not buying it. What about getting burned? Or not liking broccoli?”

  “Both taught,” Penemue said. “Fire is beautiful and mysterious and wondrous, until they get burned. In other words, experience teaches them that fire hurts. And as for broccoli … little kids will eat it up until they learn that there are other, tastier foods. It is only when they are able to make that comparison that broccoli starts to taste bad. Believe me. I know.”

  “Oh, yeah? How do you know?” I asked, trying to throw in as much sarcasm in my tone as I could muster. “Let me guess, you were the angel in charge of creating human taste buds?”

  “No … but I did help design innocence.”

  “What?”

  “Come now, dear Human Jean … you didn’t think that humans were born innocent, only to grow and mar themselves in time? If that were true, then all Creation would be the same. Angels, fairies and all manner of Others, too, should start off innocent. After all, they have yet to do anything that might mar them. But that is not the case. Many Others were created out of evil. Or hunger, or anger, or jealousy. Very few of us started completely innocent. But humans were to be different. That was what the gods ordained—a being in this Universe free to choose good or evil or any of the thousand shades in-between. But in order to do so, humans need to start out innocent. Think of it as the white canvas on which their story shall be painted. I helped create that,” Penemue said, neither boastful nor shameful. It was a simple matter of fact. I was sitting with the angel that counseled all humans were to be born innocent.

  “What about nature versus nurture?” I asked.

  “Indeed. Both nature and nurture paint the human’s soul. But neither do so much as to stop a human from choosing right over wrong, evil over good … and every nuance of morality in between. That is the true difference between humans and Others. Humans walk a path of the righteous or the marred. Others start on either path and go against their nature to become something else.”

  “Like you did when you chose to defy divine ordinance?”

  “Yes, exactly like that. I was created good. An angel of Heaven. And when I choose to do something ordained as wrong, I plucked myself off of one path and quite literally fell onto another.”

  “But you taught humanity the secrets of the written word. Surely that was a good thing.”

  Penemue considered this. “Perhaps. But doing so defied my purpose.”

  “A good man doing a bad thing,” I muttered.

  “That is one way to look at it. From another perspective, I was a bad angel doing a good thing. But from my perspective, I was neither good nor bad … I was a creature that did what I believed to be right.”

  I let his words sink into my being. Sitting before me was one of the most tortured souls I’d ever encountered. A twice-fallen angel, a drunk, a scholar, a being who loved his neighbors with more intensity and depth than I could ever grasp … and he was my best friend of many years.

  “OK,” I said. “And the children … they are innocent?”

  “Yes,” Penemue said. “Innocent, and thus free to believe with all their being. As they age, they will start to doubt, but until they grow up, they will continue to believe. Distort that belief, force it into the world of nightmares, and—”

  “And you create monsters that look like broken toys and baby sisters.”

  Penemue gestured to the sleeping Sinbad in his arms. “And indomitable heroes.”

  I smiled. “Indomitable, for sure.”

  Penemue shrugged and shifted his weight. “How did you know the singing would draw them to you?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t. I just knew they were the stuff nightmares were made of … literally. And I did what I always did when facing my own nightmares. I sang.”

  Penemue’s eyes glistened with the soft glow of near-tears. “You, Human Jean, will never cease to amaze me.”

  “As will you,” I said.

  You Had Me at Hello

  The buzzer to the main door cut through the air and the large metal door to our wing of the prison opened up. Conner walked in and slid into the cell with us. Sinbad woke up, looked at him and smiled before falling back to sleep.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “The nursery was a dead end, we were attacked by deadly non-Other monsters and Penemue says he is not male.”

  “I can’t reproduce,” Penemue chimed in.

  Conner frowned. “Yeah, I know. Angels can’t procreate ever since the first Fall. But plenty of males can’t reproduce. Doesn’t make you less of a male.”

  “Oh, brother,” I said, hitting my forehead. “Can we move on, please?”

  Conner looked at us, then Sinbad, then back at us. “Ahhh, I see. I think you would be called Dad, too.”

  Penemue snapped his fingers and pointed at the Adonis-shaped cop. “I can honestly say I completely understand what Miral sees in you. Quick-witted, empathetic and kind. Damn near perfect. You don’t happen to have a vice or two, hidden away, do you? You know, to make you more approachable? That would graduate you from damn near perfect to fully fledged perfect.”

  At that, Conner snorted. “Only one vice I can think of.” He gave the guard at the door a thumbs up. Another buzzer sounded, this one waking up Sinbad, and the steel bar door slid open. “I’m a sucker when it comes to helping my friends, no matter how stupid they are.”

  ↔

  Conner led us out into the main area of the station which, unlike the Paradise Lot PD, was solely comprised of humans. He waved at the two cops who arrested us, a friendly motion that simultaneously said Thank you and I owe you one. The two cops nodded back, a professional gesture that said, You owe us a lot more than one, and eyed us suspiciously—Penemue in particular—as we left the very Homo Sapien precinct.

  Outside, Conner nodded toward an old camper van, complete with wood side paneling, a tiny single element cooker and extra antenna to pick up the local TV stations. “Get in,” he said, sliding the door open.

  “Hold on,” I said. “We have a lot to cover and the police are exactly who we need to—”

  Conner gave me a look that would have made Astarte hold her breath. “Not now. Not here. Get in.”

  We piled in the van that he got from only the GoneGods kn
ew where and took off into the streets.

  ↔

  As soon as we were on the road, I looked around the interior. The old camper van had shag carpet and a bobble head bulldog stuck to the dashboard control panel—a dashboard control panel mostly for show rather than actual use, such as controlling the non-existent air-conditioning. In-between the driver and passenger seats was a large doll that looked like the elephant version of a Pound Puppy.

  In the back where Penemue and Sinbad sat was a tiny kitchenette, an old black-and-white travel TV—complete with rabbit-ear antenna, two bucket seats and a short mattress that even I would have to hug my knees to fit.

  “Nice ride,” I said, pulling down the sun visor. A bunch of sticker books slid from where they had been precariously sitting.

  “Put those back,” Conner snapped.

  I gathered up the half-used sticker sheets and did my best to put them back, pushing the visor up as high as I could to hold them all in.

  Conner sighed. “Sorry. This is the old family camper van and those stickers were my kid’s prized possession. For some reason he thought they were hidden up there and, well, I’ve never had the heart to move them.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “I shouldn’t have been snooping.”

  Conner downshifted on a hill and groaned. “I haven’t used this thing in years. It took quite a bit of coaxing to get it to start up. I guess this old thing still has a bit of life left in her after all.”

  “I like it,” Sinbad called from the mattress where she was sitting cross-legged.

  “As do I.” Penemue swayed in a seat too small for his ample frame as the old van bounced around on frail suspension not used to carrying the angel’s weight. “But it does beg the question … where are we going and why are we in this van?”

  “We’re going home,” Conner said. “Back to Paradise Lot.”

  “Like hell we are,” I said. “Those maniacs are still on the loose. I had them—”

  “We’ve been recalled.”

  “By who?” I asked.

  “Michael.”

  I audibly rolled my eyes—which is to say, I rolled them and groaned.

  Conner took the meaning. “If it was just Michael, I’d ignore him. But things have changed. It’s way too dangerous for us to stay—”

  “Dangerous? For who?”

  “For Penemue,” Conner said. “And for your ‘cousin.’ I heard all about what she can and cannot do.”

  “What are you talking about? Look, we need a day, maybe two. I drew them out once and—”

  “You have no idea, do you?” Conner cut in. He adjusted his mirror to get a look at Penemue and then Sinbad. When he saw that none of us had any clue as to what he was talking about, he groaned. “OK … Penemue, can you turn on the little TV?”

  Penemue reached for the old rotary-style controls. “Indeed … but which channel?”

  “Any of them.”

  Penemue hit the switch. A raspy voice filled the van that gradually came into audible focus as Penemue fine-tuned into the station. As he did, Conner put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  I got into the back, where the little ten-inch TV showed a chaotic scene of cops bursting into a house. It only took a second before the cameras focused on a kid’s bedroom with a giant pirate’s poster hanging above the bed.

  “Hey, that’s a pirate,” Sinbad cooed, “like me!”

  Penemue and I watched in horror as the cops tore through the darkened room until they pulled out a very frightened monster-under-your-bed using heavy duty flashlights. The scene cut to a SWAT team who had trapped a hill troll using a net made of cables. Then I watched a very frightened pixie—“Hey, that’s Mable!” I exclaimed—carried into a police station inside a birdcage. With each arrest, the headline that flashed across the bottom of the screen read the same thing:

  KIDNAPPING RING OF OTHERS BROUGHT DOWN BY POLICE

  Another cut and we were in Paradise Lot where a team of cops—led by none other than O’D Baldy himself—burst through an apartment door, where they were met by Aau the jackal-guard. But unlike the previous arrests, Aau did not stand there and let the police take him in. Instead, he picked up and threw one cop across the room before grabbing O’D by the neck and tossing him into the cameraman.

  Static snow filled the screen.

  The anchor woman returned to the screen and told us the “DogMan” had escaped. I cringed at the term DogMan, wondering if she any concept at how degrading such a title was for a creature who, once-upon-a-time, protected the friggin’ Sun from being extinguished by the enemies of light. Fugitive or no, Aau saved the world from extinction more times than the total sum of days that human anchorwoman had lived.

  I watched in growing horror as the screen played its symphony of mothers crying and arrested Others, as the news reported about more and more missing children. Kids, not only from Paradise Lot or the nearby mainland, but all over the world. Each kidnapped child connected by one thing: they all were friendly with Others.

  Talk about the boogieman getting airtime.

  The news praised the police while condemning the Others. They talked about vigils that would be held until the children were safely returned. Fear-mongers cried that it was too late, while the hopefuls insisted that Others were more inclined to enslave and abuse than actually kill. And the cacophony of anger and outrage was accented by sound bites from Mr. Yew and his proposed tagging policies on Others. He also praised Mr. Cain and the timely opening of his prison. To his credit, Mr. Cain noted that all the Others associated with the disappearances would be held in the prison and that he and his team of expert interrogators would continue to interview the suspects. I had to hand it to him—he was the only person in the forty-minute horror show that did not assume the Others were guilty. A lone voice of near reason.

  The other thing I noted was that not one Other was interviewed and, besides cautiously worded interviews by Mr. Cain, no alternative views offered.

  Others—as in all of them—were guilty.

  Such were the sounds of humans preparing for war.

  “And it gets worse,” Conner said as he drove the van. “There are Other beatings, hate crimes, happening all over the country. Hell, the world. I’ve never seen it so bad. It’s like everyone was waiting for an excuse and as soon as the kidnapping story broke, humans pointed their sticks and guns at Others without a second thought.”

  “Ego non baptizo te in nómine Patris, et in nomine Diaboli,” Penemue muttered.

  Sinbad and I gave the twice-fallen angel a blank look. Even Conner shrugged and said, “Excusez-moi?”

  “ ‘I baptize you, not in the name of the Father, but in the name of the Devil.’ Such is the fate of those who wish to purify themselves from what they fear, instead of making peace with it. It is what Captain Ahab did before his rage and desire to destroy those whom he blamed for his woes consumed him. Except that the white whale never hurt him. It was his fear. And now the humans are doing the same thing, seeking to eradicate what they fear rather than trying to understand it.” Penemue sighed and did something I have never seen him do before. He crossed himself. “I must get back to Paradise Lot.”

  “We all do,” Conner agreed. “It will be safest there.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” Penemue said. “This could very well be the beginning of the end, and I must tell EightBall of what I did to his parents before—”

  “Penemue,” I growled. “Now is not the time.”

  “I fear that you are wrong. Now may be the only time,” Penemue said, adjusting the TV’s rabbit ears so that we got a clearer image of two cops violently shoving a terrified wendigo into a police van. The human onlookers cheered the cops on. A single tear escaped the angel’s eye. “It is so much easier to destroy than to understand.”

  Sinbad went over to Penemue and hugged him. “It will be OK, Mr. Penemue. You just wait and see, everything will turn out just fine in the end.”

  Penemue hugged
that little warrior pirate for all he was worth.

  I knew I shouldn’t have done so, but I let the EightBall comment alone. There were bigger things to deal with at that moment. I turned to Conner and asked, “The plan? Assuming you have one.”

  Conner put on his blinker and turned down a narrow alleyway. “Right now, those two are in real danger. We need to get them home. At least on Paradise Lot, they’ll blend in.”

  “It’s kind of like taking a chicken away from the den of wolves and placing him in a slaughter house,” I said.

  “But won’t everyone be happy when all the bad guys are caught?” Sinbad asked.

  I shook my head. “They’re not arresting the bad guys, kiddo. We all know the monster, troll and pixie have nothing to do with the disappearances. And besides, it will only be a matter of time until everyone starts thinking, 'If it happened once, it can happen again.’ Even if we caught the kidnappers red-handed, it wouldn’t stop what’s coming. Hell, even if the kidnappers turned out to be humans who were hell-bent on framing Others and we had irrefutable evidence to that effect—even that wouldn’t stop ’em. No … war is coming. We just have to brace ourselves for it and hope that we’re still in one piece when the dust settles.”

  Penemue reached into the feathery folds of a wing, fishing for a bottle of Drambuie, but his hand came back empty. He had destroyed the last of his bottles in the park. He sighed. “Human Jean … always the optimist.”

  “That’s not all,” Conner said.

  “What?” Penemue asked. “More good news?”

  “Miral. She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean she’s with Colel Cab and she won’t answer my calls, return my texts … even her email has an auto responder that says, ‘I will be away from my desk for an indeterminate amount of time and cannot be reached.’ She’s gone.” Conner slammed his fist against the wheel. “If there was ever a time that you needed to tell me what’s up, Matthias, it’s now.”