GoneGod World: A Paradise Lot Urban Fantasy

by R. E. Vance

  Angels say that your soul leaves your body like a waft of smoke floating away from a recently extinguished candle, but that is not true. Like the tearing of fabric or the sheering of skin, your soul rips away from you. It is solid and hard and unmistakable. There is no confusion, no questioning. When you die, you know it. And on that day, just outside my PopPop’s cabin in the woods, I died; my soul, although it did not possess eyes with which to see or ears with which to hear, ascended to Heaven and to Bella. I guess I didn’t need the box after all.

  I could sense Bella drawing close to me as I was carried up in the mists and toward the Void. She was only a few feet away. Only a little farther and I would be with her. Soon, my soul screamed, soon!

  But before I could be with her again, I was drawn back into my body like dust being sucked into the mouth of a vacuum. I was no longer separate, but one with my corporeal self, and the window—oh, the window—it was all but gone.

  I looked at the fading portal where Bella watched, staring down at me, her smile widening until it touched her eyes. Live well, she mouthed as she touched the barrier between our worlds one last time.

  And then she was gone.

  “What? What did you do?” I said to Grinner, whose hand rested on my body, knowing that it was him who brought me back—the scorpion’s strike taking its final revenge.

  But Grinner’s eyes held no malice. No hate. With a calm voice told from straight lips, he said, “At the dawn of time, the gods spoke to me once, requesting only one thing from me. Do you know what it was?”

  I shook my head, pain reverberating through my body.

  “ ‘When it ends, keep them all together.’ I wonder if they knew the weight of the burden they bestowed upon me.”

  “Oh,” I said, because I could think of nothing else to say.

  “Human Jean-Luc, my brothers and sisters … they are coming, and they are far worse than I,” Grinner said. Then with a raspy chuckle, his maniacal, now toothless grin returned. “Now it is for you to keep them all together.” His body started to shrink faster, all parts of him being pulled into the core that was his center. Gravity was imploding, and like a balloon being deflated, he withered, his features flattening and contracting, becoming less human, then less alive. Then less of anything.

  All that remained was a tiny effervescent sphere, no larger than a marble, on the ground next to me.

  As my body convulsed and quivered, I did not have time to contemplate what his final words meant. Exhaustion and the weight of grief for having truly lost Bella overcame me.

  “In this life and the next,” I said one last time as my own darkness flowed over me and I faded away into an oblivion of my own.

  Epilogue

  True pain is so much worse than death. True pain is the destruction of all that you are and the belief that no matter how much time passes, no matter how many pills are consumed, Band-Aids applied, counseling sessions attended, nothing will make you completely you again. True pain is living without hope. And the night Bella did not save me in my dreams was the night I learned what true pain truly was.

  I would have died after that. Just shut down. Refused to think, to feel, because to do either would be to think of Bella. To feel Bella. I would have died after that. A passive death that can only be achieved from not moving, not eating, not sleeping. The slow suicide of a broken heart. I would have died after that. And I would have been happy.

  But I didn’t because of the damned angel who never left my side, forcing me to eat and to drink. Taking care of me every waking minute of every waking day as my mind slowly restarted. I have vague memories of strong hands gently spoon feeding me soup and water trickling down my throat. Of being lifted and cleaned, of being put to bed, of being woken up. Oh how I hated the angel who would not let me die.

  ↔

  I don’t know how long that went on for. Days, perhaps weeks. But it was some time later—much later—when the Sun shone through my cabin window and onto my face that I finally woke from my catatonic spell. My first words were an echo of what my soul demanded. My voice came out hoarse and dry, weak from lack of use.

  “I want to die.”

  Penemue grunted as he looked up from his book. He had been reading to me. Then, as if he hadn’t heard me, he continued reading, his voice coming out slow and deep:

  “O Progeny of Heav'n, Empyreal Thrones,

  With reason hath deep silence and demurr

  Seis'd us, though undismaid: long is the way

  And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”

  Milton in baritone. Looking up from the text, Penemue said in a soft tone, his voice lost in some distant memory, “Surprisingly accurate for one who has never lost as we have.”

  And with those words I understood. He saw us as one and the same. I may not have fallen, but like the angel who now nursed me back to health, I had also rejected Heaven and lost everything.

  Not that any of that mattered.

  “I said, I want to die.” I spoke with more force now, my body slowly waking up. I knew what I was saying was filled with self-pity, but I didn’t care. I wanted to die and, by the GoneGods, I was in a sharing mood.

  Penemue, having returned to the epic poem, did not look up, merely countering in a low voice, “We all want to die when the light that once warmed us is taken away. Now, do you mind?” His words lacked sympathy, while at the same time expressed a depth of empathy beyond anything I had felt before.

  Penemue continued reading.

  ↔

  On the fifth morning since my first words, I tried to stand, careful to hop on my good foot. That was when I first noticed that the ball of powdered bone that once was my right foot was whole and filled out. But I had seen Grinner flatten it, had hopped with it, had felt the pain, even after he brought me back. I looked up at Penemue, who sat there smirking, Drambuie in one hand, book in the other.

  “Did you …” I started.

  “Indeed, Human Jean-Luc, I couldn’t have my charge continue the rest of his miserable life as a hobbled wretch of a man. Misery, I find, is so much better spent when you can pace.”

  I put my foot down to test it and it hurt like the blue blazes of Tartarus as it touched the ground.

  “I conserved some time by healing you up to the point where your own biology could do the rest. I recommend ice, elevation and rest.”

  “This doesn’t change anything,” I said.

  “All I do is waste time.” Penemue put down his book, leaning forward in the chair. “After the Fall, I spent all my time reading and brooding, barely a sober moment in between. Since the GrandExodus, I have spent all my time reading and brooding, barely a sober moment in between. And now, I wait for you to heal so that we can return to Paradise Lot, where I may continue to spend my time reading and brooding, with barely a sober moment in between.”

  “What’s your point?”

  The fallen angel rolled his eyes. “My point, dear Human Jean-Luc, is that you are wasting my time by not letting me read and brood. Now, if you don’t mind,” Penemue said, taking a long drag of his Drambuie. “Besides, you have a promise to keep.”

  My promise. By the GoneGods, why did that matter anymore? Why did anything matter anymore? I would never see my Bella again. I would never dream of her or touch her, share a secret or joke. I would never see her again, and it was all my choice. My promise was made to a woman just as gone as the gods. It wasn’t like any of the Others kept their once-sacred covenants. Why should I be held to higher standards?

  “I’ll never see her again,” I said, hoping the fallen angel was smart enough to connect the dots.

  “Probably not,” Penemue agreed. “But then again, it has been my experience that there is rarely only one way to get to a destination. After all, one could walk, run or fly.” He gave his wings a little flap at the last word. “Bella is still there.”

  I gave him a blank look, to which Penemue sighed with a false patience. “My point, dear Human Jean-Luc, is that she got there using a
n entirely different method than the First Law did. My point is that if there are two ways to Heaven, then perhaps there is a third. My point is that if there is a will, there is a way.”

  He showed me the book he was reading: An Advanced Understanding of Quantum Physics.

  “But really, my point is that if I am ever going to find a way back into Heaven before my body is old and brittle, I must have time to concentrate.”

  Penemue, like everyone else, was looking for Heaven. Why? To be a god? To get his immortality back? To help me? Why? Why?

  “Why?” I asked him.

  “Why what?” he said, looking at me from his book.

  “Why are you searching for Heaven?”

  He must have sensed my cynicism and, dismissing it with a gesture, said, “We’re all going to die. Might as well die doing something worthwhile.”

  ↔

  A few more weeks passed and everyday Penemue read aloud, refusing to leave my side. Every night I dreamed of Bella. But unlike before, these dreams were empty, a poor conjuring of a lonely man. And then, one night I did not dream of her at all. She was fading away and all that was left was my promise.

  My promise. My godless damned promise … Why did that matter anymore? Why did any of it matter?

  But it did. And all the time in the world to wallow in self-pity wasn’t going to change that. What was it the angel said? “We’re all going to die. Might as well die doing something worthwhile.”

  And there is this girl whom I love very much …

  ↔

  We packed up the cabin, forgetting to lock it as I had done so many times before. My foot still ached, so Penemue offered to drive, his massive body only fitting in the driver’s seat because he stuck one wing tip out the window, the other encroaching onto the passenger’s side.

  Angels are not very good drivers. The car lurched forward as his massive foot hit both the clutch and brake at once. He grinded the gears and as he did, my heart thumped. He’d burn out the clutch if he wasn’t careful. Hell, he might even blow out the whole transmission.

  “Stop,” I said, opening my door. “I’ll drive.” As we switched seats I could have sworn I saw the bastard smirk.

  I hobbled into the driver’s seat and revved the engine with my good foot. It felt good to be behind the wheel. Fine, I thought, I’ll get us home. Perhaps being a dead man pretending to be alive didn’t have to be all bad.

  ↔

  We drove all the way to the One Spire Hotel. The building was still in tatters, police tape still on the outside. What did I expect? After all, we were in Paradise Lot. It’s not like the place ceased being a slum because I killed one Fanatical wannabe god.

  Penemue sighed, stretched out his wings and said in his baritone voice, “I have been sober far too long. If memory serves me right, there is a fresh bottle of Drambuie in the hay.”

  But before leaving, he walked over to me and handed me an effervescent sphere the size of a marble.

  The once-great Avatar of Gravity.

  “A trophy for you,” he said, and took to the sky.

  ↔

  I walked in and found the broom. This mess of a room was my front door; even though I didn’t have a hotel anymore, I still had my pride. I’d clean this place up. Start rebuilding it one brick at a time and see what would happen. We all have to pick the hills we’re willing to die on, and this hill was better than most.

  The bell above the door rang. I turned to see Newton, a.k.a. EightBall, leader of a gang of HuMans that got their kicks from terrorizing Others.

  “If you’re here to cause problems …” I started, but judging by the sheepish way he looked around the place, I doubted he was here to start a fight. His clothes were torn and he looked like he’d just spent the last few nights on the streets. He had bruises and cuts that were a few days old and dry blood was splattered down the front of his shirt.

  “This place really had a number done on it,” he said.

  “Yeah.” I was exhausted from the drive up and not in the mood for chitchat.

  “Do you think you’ll be up and running soon?”

  “Given that it’s city ordinance that rented rooms have four walls, I seriously doubt it.”

  “Too bad,” he said, not moving from where he stood. He reminded me of, well, me, when I wanted something from PopPop, but was too proud to bring it up.

  I stopped sweeping and looked at him for who he was. A kid. Before, he at least had his anger, and that anger gave him purpose. But now … he looked lost. “What happened?” I asked.

  “Me and the gang had us a … falling out over our Other policy, and now that I’m freelance I was thinking maybe you got a job for me.”

  “Kid—do I look like I have a hotel, let alone a job for you?”

  EightBall didn’t say anything. Just kept staring at me with wanting eyes.

  “Fine,” I said, handing him the broom. “You can start by helping clean up. I can’t pay you, but you can sleep in one of the rooms upstairs for free.”

  EightBall took the broom with a little too much attitude and started at the floor. He stopped mid-sweep and looked up at me. “Fine, but I don’t do windows,” he said, trying to save face.

  “What windows?”

  He looked at the broken glass that was all around us, shrugged and got to sweeping.

  ↔

  Walking into my bedroom filled me with dread. Although it had survived the chaos of the previous days relatively untouched, it also carried with it the memories of a life now lost. My vintage toys still sat on the shelves, unmoved. Tink’s castle was still empty; the note and candle wax I had left for her were exactly where I had left them. I don’t know why, but I placed what was left of Grinner in the hollowed-out eye of Castle Grayskull, using Hermes’s wax to hold it in place. I figured it was as good a resting place as any. I also put the picture of Bella that Michael gave me on the shelf—my little shrine to remind me how I lost her for a second time.

  But the worst part of my intact room was my unmade bed. That was where I used to dream of Bella. It being exactly where I left it and my knowing that she would not be there to greet me filled my heart with a deep, restless sorrow. I wished, with every fiber of my being, that my room had been destroyed and with it some of the memories that haunted me now.

  Looking around, I tried to find any change and noted one difference. Someone had been in my room and taken one single item—my black collarless jacket. I was sure I had hung it up before leaving, but the coat hanger was empty.

  Frustrated, I looked around the room for it. Truth was, I was mad. It was my connection to the One Spire Hotel, the symbol of my promise. And I looked really good in it. By the GoneGods, I loved that jacket!

  I lumbered about my room looking for it. Maybe under the bed? Or in the bathroom?

  There was a knock at my door. I opened it to see Astarte standing there, wearing a tight red leather.

  “Hello, lover,” she said with that subtle Parisian accent. “Aren’t you going to invite an old friend in?”

  I opened the door wide.

  She surveyed the room like one might look around their childhood home years later. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said.

  “It’s exactly the same as it was when you saw it last.” I walked over to my chair, noticing that my foot still ached. “How did you know I was back?”

  “Do you honestly think that a god-killer could come back into Paradise Lot without everyone talking about it? You are somewhat of a celebrity now.”

  “So, what?” I said, pouring two whiskys. Penemue wasn’t the only one who had a stash. “Are you moving back in?”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, the words trickling off her tongue. “I am not moving in. You are moving out.”

  ↔

  It took some persuading on Astarte’s part to get me out. But Astarte, being a mistress of lust and desire, eventually wore out my resistance. Truth be told, I never stood a chance. I doubt Astarte was ever denied anything when she had
her heart set on it.

  “Come now, it is not even the witching hour and all I ask for is an escort,” she said, leaning against my door. “I won’t bite. Not unless you ask.”

  ↔

  We walked to the East End, past churches, temples and shrines that eventually gave way to taverns, bars and the seedier clubs that offered many off-menu items. I doubt that there was a single vice in Heaven or Hell that wasn’t on tap here.

  At the heart of Paradise Lot is a hill and on that hill is the Millennium Hotel, a once-upon-a-time castle–turned–chic boutique guest house that used to charge an entrance fee just to walk into the foyer. The building was circular, looking more like a rook chess piece than a hotel. It stood at the crossroads of Paradise Lot, a small courtyard surrounding the five-story building like a moat.

  Astarte started up the stairs and I stopped her. “Hold up, the building will be filled with squatters and—”

  “Oh, pish-posh,” she interrupted, “the building is empty and has been for some days now. No one in Paradise Lot would dare disturb it.” She pulled out a key and unlocked the turnstile door at the front.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  Astarte ignored my question, leading me inside. She walked to a side door that apparently acted as the utility room. She pulled down on a heavy metal breaker and the inside of the hotel lit up, dusty lamps casting soft embers in a room misty with dust motes.

  ↔

  The Millennium Hotel had an incredible reception, its central dominance huge and inviting, with a large circular reception desk sitting in the middle. I followed Astarte’s eyes, looking up, and saw that the interior was empty, each floor landing looking out into the epicenter of the building. There was an elegantly crafted wrought-iron guardrail on each floor that depicted the scene of an elaborate copper garden. From the guardrails, one could look all the way down to the reception area or all the way up the giant stained glass window that made up the Millennium Hotel’s roof. The window depicted an unfolding lily, each pane white, yellow or clear, and it reminded me of the flowers on Bella’s sundress.