GoneGod World: A Paradise Lot Urban Fantasy

by R. E. Vance

  “Miral,” I said, chasing after her, “I need to speak to you.”

  She did not turn around as she headed to her office. “Need, Jean, is very much a matter of perspective. Is your need greater than theirs?” she asked, pointing to the overrun waiting room. Her voice came out even and steady, her every word spoken with a refinement that mirrored her grace of movement.

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” Miral said, extending her hand so that the sickly pixie could rest on it. “My experience is that need is often mistaken for want. What I want is more time. What I need is more help.” And with that Miral turned on her heel and left the waiting room to examine the pixie, and me to reflect on my shame. Damn, the angel was good.

  ↔

  After being shamed by Miral, I decided that I would give her a bit of what she needed by helping. I clicked a pen and ,standing in the middle of the waiting room, announced, “OK, I’ll fill out forms.” For the briefest of moments I felt what it must be like to be Mick Jagger. The Others didn’t just come over—they rushed me, each one of them shoving their form in my face, begging that they be first. I literally had to stand on a chair to get out of the crowd. Then, summoning my most commanding voice, I said, “One at a time.”

  That had as much effect as telling a group of seagulls not to eat the discarded bread. The rush only got more overwhelming, and it didn’t stop until I yelled, “I will only help those who are quiet! … And sitting!” For good measure I pushed through the crowd and went over to the only Other that had not rushed me—a satyr with a nasty gash on his head.

  The Others obeyed. Literally. Every one of them went quiet, sitting down not on an empty chair but exactly where they had been standing.

  “On the chairs.”

  A whirlwind of wings, feet and hooves filled the room as the Others played a version of musical chairs.

  Hellelujah!

  When they were quiet and somewhat patient, I went around filling out forms. Most of them were complaining about stomach cramps and headaches. Some complained of fatigue. Truth was, most of these Others weren’t really sick, they were just bad at being mortal. They still tried to live by the same rules that governed them for thousands of years before, and this new world was so cumbersome with all the things they had to remember. Things like eating, hydrating, sleeping. Shitting. You’d be surprised how many Others suffered from self-imposed constipation pains simply because they couldn’t live with the daily indignity of a morning poo.

  I must have filled out two dozen forms when Miral walked in and announced, “Fellow Fallen—those of you who have swollen stomachs and aching heads, please follow my associate to the mess hall and bathrooms.” Half of the Others left. “Those of you with dry tongues, please head over to the water fountain and drink. And those of you with blurry vision, go home and sleep.”

  The room cleared out, leaving behind the nymph with the broken arms and the satyr with the nasty head wound. Both of whom went off with other doctors, leaving me alone with Miral.

  “I do that twice a night,” she said with a cunning smile, and led me to her office.

  ↔

  For the second time today, I sat across a desk from an angel. “Thanks, Miral,” I started. “I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to ask you—”

  “Jean, what would you say if I told you I have a way to solve all your problems?”

  I blinked twice. “I’d probably tell you that you’re spending way too much time watching infomercials.”

  “No, silly,” she said, pulling out a flyer with the words Keep Evolving on it. It was the same damn flyer they found from the crime scene.

  “Aha! I knew you were behind this!” I cried out, proud of my detective skills, then remembered it was really Tink who figured it out. Still, Miral didn’t have to know that.

  Miral rolled her eyes, pulling out a manila folder and opening it in front of me. I was hesitant to look. The last time an angel gave me a manila anything, I didn’t like what I saw. This was no different. In it was a bunch of empty boxes to be filled out for the OIF—the Other Integration Fund.

  “Oh, great. More forms,” I said, closing the folder.

  She opened it up again. “They are accepting another round of applications. And I know that your bills are mounting up. This will save you.”

  The OIF was a government-run initiative. A human government initiative, which meant a lot of hoops to jump through, a lot of paperwork to fill out with a shit-ton of measurables and deliverables. Not to mention milestones and action plans. I danced with them once before and all I got in the end was sore feet. Miral, like so many Others, didn’t get human bureaucracy. It seems that Heaven didn’t really have paperwork.

  “I told you, I already tried with the OIF. They pulled the funding as soon as Bella … you know …”

  “Yes, because all you did was offer Others a place to sleep. Bella, she offered seminars, talks, classes. You barely offer clean sheets.”

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Don’t you see?” Miral continued. “This is a second chance. If the One Spire combines forces with St. Mercy Hospital, throwing weekly seminars on coping with mortality, the OIF will reinstate your funding.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. It would be great to get a bit of cash coming in. As it stood I was barely making ends meet. I shook my head. “I’ve been down this path before and—”

  “You’re already doing it. I’ve called the OIF. They said that all you need to do is throw one seminar a week. That will be enough to gain access to the funding.” She pointed at the flyer. “We got a full house.”

  “Resistance is futile,” I said in my best Borg voice.

  “Resistance is pointless,” she said, evidently not a Star Trek fan. “I’ve taken care of everything. All you have to do is set up and—”

  “Don’t say it,” I said.

  “Bake cookies.”

  “I hate baking,” I protested.

  “Think of it as penance. Now, tell me—what did you want to see me about?”

  Chapter 8

  Blessed Be He

  I told Miral about Michael and finding the flyer. I also found myself telling her about Penemue and the HuMans, about Judith and Astarte and the damn headache I’d had since waking up that morning. Hell, there must be something about women with wings; they can always get me talking. Once I started, I opened up to the angel, telling her about every pain, problem and pathetic thought that rattled around in that empty canister I called my skull. It felt good to get it all off my chest, and with every word I spoke, I felt my burdens lifting.

  I told her everything except about my dreams of Bella. Some things were private, damn it, and angel of mercy or not, she did not have full reign over all that occupied my mind.

  After I finished unburdening myself, I went silent, expecting, hoping, praying for some kind of ancient divine wisdom that would cure all. But she didn’t say a word. She just stared at me for a long, long time before finally standing up and walking over to her cupboard and offering me a Tylenol.

  “This is for your headache,” she said.

  I took the pill and said, “The murders? Any thoughts on that?”

  “Either it is a Fanatic, or her killer returns. Only time will reveal which it is.”

  “Time. You’re the once-captain of God’s army and a being older than solid objects, and all you can tell me is ‘Be patient’?”

  “Indeed. And it gets better than that. For the rest of your problems I recommend faith,” Miral said as she ushered me out her door.

  “Faith in what?” I said. “They’re gone, remember.”

  “Even when they were here, faith was never about them. It was always about having faith in yourself,” Miral said, giving me a knowing smile.

  “So that’s it? Faith and patience.”

  “Yes.” Then, as if as an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and let the cookie dough sit for at least half an hour. That way the cookies will come out all the m
ore fluffy.”

  ↔

  I left Miral’s office, annoyed at having no more answers to any of my problems, and headed into the reception where I was greeted by a low, reverent murmuring.

  “It is he—the Form Filler.”

  “Do you think he will come to our aid?”

  “Approach with caution.”

  “Do not make eye contact.”

  “Beware his mighty pen.”

  “Be humble. And remember to SIT!”

  Several Others approached, heads hanging low, eyes averted, clipboards outstretched. Hellelujah!

  A blue-tinged jinni at the head of the line rushed over. He knelt before me and said in a reverent voice, “O wise and wondrous Form Filler, if you should bless us this early summer morning, we would ever be in your debt. I shall whisper your name in seashells and cast them in the ocean so that all the creatures of the beneath will know your name.”

  A garden gnome no taller than six inches scurried up the wall, his tiny climbing spikes dotting the wall. When he was eye level he said, “And I shall enter the beehive in the central park and slay the pollen lovers’ queen in thy name.”

  And with that, all the Others offered me various honors. It wasn’t until an ahuizotl barked “And I shall offer a human sacrifice!” that I intervened.

  “No, no, no! There’ll be no seashell throwing, no bee slaying, and certainly no human sacrifices.” I pointed at the Aztec demon dog to emphasize how serious I was about not killing people. The dog lowered his head in embarrassment and frustration, partly because I refused his gift, but mostly because he didn’t have an excuse to rip apart a human.

  I looked at my watch—seven a.m. I was exhausted, overworked and in desperate need to bake four dozen chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookies. I simply didn’t have time for this. “Hellelujah,” I muttered, grabbing the jinni’s clipboard.

  ↔

  I must have gotten through eight more clipboards when the lights flickered. Just outside the sliding glass doors of the reception, I saw an Other standing there, staring at me with an uncomfortable intensity. His arms were longer than normal, as were his neck, fingers and teeth. Hell, everything was just a bit too big, too long, too prominent for what could have passed as an otherwise normal human frame.

  Our eyes met. He smiled, the edges of his lips almost literally touching his eyes. Massive, blocky teeth reflected the hospital’s fluorescent lights, and I got an eerie The-better-to-eat-you-with sense from this Other.

  A popobawa hung upside down from the ceiling and I noticed it was writing its own name in the correct place. “You,” I said, looking into the horizontal slits it called eyes. The thing focused on me and the horizontal slits rotated until they were vertical. I shuddered. “Can you write?” I asked.

  “Yes,” it clicked.

  “English, I mean.”

  “Yes.” It blinked. Well, not blinked so much as rotated the slits that were its eyes another three hundred and sixty degrees.

  “Good, you are the new … Master Form Filler.” I handed over the clipboard in an exaggerated, ceremonial passing-of-the-mantle that resembled a half-hearted signing of the cross followed by what probably looked like me chasing away an invisible bee. The creature beamed. I don’t mean “smiled,” “danced with joy,” or “clicked in glorious triumph.” I mean it actually emanated light like a firefly.

  “I shall not fail thee, O Great Master of Master Form Filler.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, handing him my pen. “May the ink flow ever freely.”

  ↔

  I approached the sliding doors. Up-close I noticed that it wasn’t just this new Other’s physical features that made him odd—it was his smell, too. Over the years, I’ve learned that humans as a species have a distinct smell. The same is true of Others. Each species has its unique scent; to describe a human smell over an Other without experiencing it is like explaining color to the blind. Humans, with our pheromones and sweat glands, our stomach acids and diets, smell human. Which is to say, mortal. Others, although thirteen years mortal, had yet to have those biological processes permeate them on a cellular level. There was no mistaking an angel’s smell. Or any other Other for that matter.

  But this Other—this “Grinner”—he didn’t just smell human. He smelled very human. As if he over-sweat, over-ate, over-shat. His pheromones were double-timing to get maximum effect. More didn’t mean better or worse. He just smelled wrong.

  The automatic doors didn’t slide open, which could only mean one thing. This grinning Other was burning time. The thing about magic is that it doesn’t play nicely with modern technology. Burn time in front of a computer and it will shut down. Lights will flicker and TVs will go on the fritz. And automatic doors won’t open. You know how the old pacemakers couldn’t be near microwaves? Same concept here. And the stronger the magic, the more time burned, the bigger the problem for the electronics. I’ve seen airplane navigation systems fail, hospital main and backup generators cease and radios shut off.

  I gripped at the sliding doors and tried to force them apart. They wouldn’t budge.

  “Human,” this Grinner guy hissed, his voice holding a serpentlike quality.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said, pulling at the door.

  He sniffed through the glass and grinned so wide that his eyes actually moved inwards to make room for the edges of his smile. “Yes … Indeed,” he said, backing away from the door. When he got about three meters away the automatic doors finally budged, opening at a maddeningly slow pace.

  I pulled at them, squeezing through, and said, “Hey, you … I want to ask you something.” But in the moment I took my eyes off him to squeeze through the door, he vanished. As in, into thin air. And in the early morning light I could have sworn I saw the half-moon crescent of a Cheshire Cat smile fade away.

  Chapter 9

  Being Human Is Easy … If You Have the Cash

  I didn’t like what happened in the parking lot with that strange Other so willing to burn time, but what was I going to do? Using magic wasn’t a crime. Yet. I guess I could call Michael and tell him I saw someone suspicious, but even then, what would I say? “That Cheshire Cat gave me the heebie-jeebies”? I had no idea if this guy was related to the homicides or not, but something in my guts said he was. As I walked home, I imagined what that conversation with Michael would go like:

  “Human Jean-Luc, what did you see?”

  “An Other.”

  “An Other?”

  “Yes, an Other …”

  Awkward silence.

  “And?”

  “And, ahhh, he looked menacing.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, he smiled.”

  “Smiled?”

  “Yeah, but it was a really, really creepy smile.”

  “Oh, a creepy smile you say. Well then, that does it! Guilty! Thank you, Human Jean-Luc. Once again you have saved the day. Oh, by the way, here is the Key to the City.”

  No way was I going through that. And what’s more, it was racial profiling—rather, Other profiling—assuming that this guy was guilty of some crime simply because of the way he looked. It was like arresting a guy because he had a beard. There was enough of that going around with everyone assuming vampires were evil, ogres stupid and angels good, and I wasn’t going to be a part of it.

  Luckily, I had two Others older than most mountains living in my hotel. If one of them told me an Other like that was not to be trusted, well then …

  My thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks by the sight of an old man who was standing right next to my 1969 Plymouth RoadRunner. He was eying Penemue’s taloned feet with unnatural concern. He looked at the feet, as if trying to glean something about the essence of the being to whom they belonged, before nodding in approval and then touching their soles, causing the slumbering angel to stir and withdraw his feet into the backseat of the car. Either the old man possessed an unhealthy foot fetish or he was of the gutsiest pranksters in the world to dare tickle the fee
t of a sleeping fallen angel.

  Either way, I couldn’t just stand there. “Hey,” I said walking up to him. “Leave him alone.”

  The old man caught my gaze with his hazel eyes, and what hit me next was something that I struggled to understand. Warmth. Comfort. Peace. But even that was an oversimplification of what happened, because warmth implies temperature; it was so much more than that. I read somewhere the best sleep of our entire lives happens when we are in the womb. Growing in the belly of our mothers was where we experienced the deepest, most all-encompassing sleep that we will ever have. Think about it—we’re in a perfectly dark room that is at the ideal temperature for our developing body. We are constantly being fed while we rest, in blissful ignorance of all the troubles of the world. The soft heartbeat of the person who loves us more than life itself is constantly beating in the background, reassuring us that all is well. All is safe.

  And that was what I felt standing before the old man. Or rather, I should say—the old Other.

  My military training kicked in as I reminded myself that this creature was manipulating my emotions with some serious kind of mojo. Hell, if this Other kept it up—given how old he already was—he’d turn to dust before my very eyes. If, that was, I still stood to witness it. Summoning all my will, I did what I was trained to do in such situations—counter whatever was happening with the opposite. In the once-upon-a-time world of magic, opposites negated one another, and it was a matter of whoever had the stronger will that won. I flooded my mind with images of PopPop’s funeral, the horrors I’d seen while being a soldier in the war and of Bella’s body being ripped apart.