by R. E. Vance
Medusa looked up immediately, and my heart fluttered in fear as our eyes connected.
I did not turn to stone.
And really looking at her for the first time, I noted that the Medusa of legend had a bad rep. She wasn’t hideous—hell, she wasn’t even plain. High cheekbones housed perfect little dimples on a kind face.
Unused to eye contact, she turned away with a bashful flutter—and that’s when I noticed she possessed a more than ample, perfectly formed bosom that heaved seductively with every breath.
Medusa was hot!
Hot enough that any serious suitor would consider a bath of snakes just to get used to scaly skin crawling all over them. Plus, Astarte, the succubus who lived in my hotel, had informed me that between the sheets, the snakes were quite the erotic apparatus—for both parties.
“Oooh,” Medusa said, shivering at my touch, “Marty likes you.”
“Marty?” I asked, retracting my hand. “You named him?”
“Only the mains,” she said. “This is Johnny, Alfie, Rocky, Jimmy, Cory, Georgie, and you’ve already met Marty. What, don’t you name yours?” she asked.
“What? My hair?”
“No, silly,” she said, her eyes sliding down my torso.
“Oh! Oh … ahh, I suppose I did, once. Well, not me, but my wife. I mean …” I stuttered, feeling my face burn red.
Medusa broke my awkward stammering by touching my sleeve. “I like your jacket,” she said.
There was something about my jacket. It existed in that sweet spot of representing different things for different people. It was black and collarless. To some, I looked like a hipster priest, my white T-shirt acting as the clerical collar. Others saw me as a sort of fashionable monk, back from years in the mountains. Astarte said the jacket reminded her of an ancient demon called the Judge who separated the righteous from the wicked—and then burned the righteous. Sounded like a great guy.
Medusa looked at me expectantly. Oh, hell … I suddenly felt like I was back in junior high. What should I do? Maybe I should compliment something about her? Perhaps one of her snakes? If so, which one? And if I picked one, would the others be offended? And would they be venomous?
The switchboard beeped—and I was literally saved by the bell. Her snakes hissed at the computer as she buzzed me through to the back.
“Officer Steve will meet you through there,” she said, disappointed.
Just before entering, I turned to say goodbye. I was met by a head full of snakes, all of which simultaneously winked at me.
Hellelujah!
↔
Officer Steve met me at the door, shifting from four legs to two and standing erect before me with an ease that implied every creature could do so. Being one of the Billy Goat Gruff brothers, Officer Steve had a cubicle shaped more like a stable than an office space.
Serious, efficient, smart and diligent, the Gruff brothers made perfect cops, despite looking like your typical—albeit very large—goat. Officer Steve was the youngest and thus smallest Gruff, which meant he was the size of a lion.
“Hi, Steve,” I started, but he lifted a hoof, indicating that he needed a minute. Then his hoof fanned out into fingerlike appendages, which he put into his overcoat to search for a pen in pockets not designed for hooves.
As he fumbled in his pockets, I surveyed the room and was greeted by the hustle and bustle of Paradise Lot Police Station. Just like any human station, this one was filled with angry cops and even angrier cops. Except here, the average beat cop had fangs. An annoyed valkyrie led a cuffed dark elf to an interrogation room, and a despondent three-headed cerberus booked several stoned fairies. A minotaur detective with a pinstriped tie sat in his nipple-high fuzzy cubicle, filling out paperwork. Several broken pencils littered his desk, all destroyed by powerful hands more used to war hammers than No. 2 lead pencils.
When the gods left with only a “Thank you for believing in us, but it’s not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck,” Others were forced from their homes to live on the mortal plane. Some fought this change, but most Others accepted their new lot in life, trying to make the best out of a bad situation. Paradise Lot Police Station was an example of them trying. The station was filled with legends attempting to fix the problem created by our mutual gods. But even legends have limitations, and these guys had been utterly defeated, not by mortal combat but by a far more formidable foe—human bureaucracy.
Officer Steve finally managed to pull out his pen. Clicking it awake, he asked, “Jean-Luc Matthias?”
“Oh, come on, Steve, we spoke less than an hour ago on the phone. What’s more, we’ve met over a dozen times before.”
The Gruff gave me a blank look, his pen hovering over his clipboard as he waited for my answer.
“Yes, yes—I’m Jean-Luc Matthias,” I said, annoyed, doing my best to iron out my frustration as I reminded myself that the Gruffs were just doing their best in the GoneGod World.
The Gruffs, more diligent than most, studied human customs, determined to fit in as best they could. But since they were creatures of story, they preferred tales to dry explanation, finding particular comfort in the legends of Sherlock Holmes. Hence the London Fog overcoats, heavy wool hats and smokeless pipes. At least they were trying.
Officer Steve ticked a box and handed me a form to fill out.
“What happened this time?” I asked as I printed my information on the sheet.
“Fighting, I’m afraid,” the Gruff brayed in a British accent. Damn Sherlock.
“Again?” I said, surprised—Penemue was an arrogant pain in the ass, but a fighter he was not.
“Indeed, but this time it is a bit more serious. You see, your feathered friend was engaging in fisticuffs outside the Palisade.”
“What?” I said. “What the hell was he doing there?”
“Not a clue. But he’s been roughed up pretty bad. When we arrived on the scene, three HuMans were pinning him to the ground like a butterfly on display. They’re all locked up now.”
Damn—this was far more serious than his usual drunk antics. The HuMans were a gang of Other-hating wannabe badasses. If you imagined the illegitimate children of Nazis and nutbar survivalists, you’d just be scratching the surface of the kind of scum these guys were. And the Palisade served as their headquarters. No sane Other would come within five blocks of the place. But then again, Penemue was suffering from something he called “Mortal Madness.” I guess in that way he wasn’t really so different from the rest of us.
I shook my head. “Damn,” I said aloud. “Where is he?”
“This way, sir,” the Gruff brayed, reverting to four legs.
We took four steps before an ominous voice bellowed, “Hold—I wish to speak with the human.” Only one creature possessed a voice made from thunder—the archangel Michael.
Hellelujah … it had to be him!
Chapter 2
Even Angels Have Their Wicked Schemes
After the GrandExodus and the initial years of fighting subsided, Michael retired from his role as archangel, Advocate of Man, Slayer of the Great Dragon and Leader of the Host of God, to begin his career as a police officer in Paradise Lot. We’d had our run-ins in the past, and he didn’t like how I ran the One Spire Hotel. He didn’t approve of the kind of Others I let in and how willing I was to ignore some of their more questionable ways. There was a time, early on, when he visited the hotel daily, citing some violation or other that I was ignoring. It wasn’t until I countered with “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” that I finally got the archangel to leave me alone. Since then, he only came around when there was a complaint.
Still, despite him being such a hard-ass, I had to hand it to the archangel. He could have been a demigod here—what with all the denominations of Christianity vying for him to be the head of their various churches—but instead he chose to enter the police force in one of the slummiest, dirtiest parts of the world, insisting on starting as a beat cop before quickly working his way up the rank
s. For that, if nothing else, I could respect him.
The archangel strode into the main area, each movement exuding strength, each gesture demanding respect. By the GoneGods, he was power incarnate. “Human Jean-Luc,” he didn’t so much as say, but rather boomed. He was addressing me with my species, which meant that whatever he had to show me mattered—using one’s species as a prefix put a formal twist to any conversation. It was like using “Mister” or “Missus,” and was a habit employed by many Others. I, for one, welcomed the habit, finding it useful in avoiding embarrassing situations like confusing gnomes for dwarves, harpies for valkyries or elves for vulcans—not that I’d ever met a vulcan … yet.
“Look, if it has to do with Penemue, I—”
“No, Human Jean-Luc. My business with you this evening has nothing to do with the fallen angel or his debauched ways,” the archangel bellowed, each word landing like a hammer. “Come. Follow me and all shall be made clear.”
↔
Michael led me to his office, its door widened to accommodate his massive size. Head to toe, the chief of police was eleven feet tall and built as if Mr. Olympia were carved out of granite. He walked in, sat on the steel frame that acted as his chair and gestured for me to take the seat opposite him. He started fumbling with his desk drawers, his massive fingers struggling to flip through files.
As I waited for Police Chief Michael to find whatever it was he wanted to show me, I noted that on his office wall hung various awards and one framed newspaper clipping from the local rag. The clipping showed an unimpressed Michael accepting a plaque—the headline reading, “Archangel Climbs Police Ranks at Record Speed.” Well, with such a colorful résumé, there wasn’t ever really any doubt, was there, that he’d shoot up the ranks of the local PD.
Still, to display so many awards was quite prideful and very unangelic. I pointed to the awards and said, “Pride cometh before a fall.”
Michael stopped fiddling and looked behind him. “Indeed,” he sighed with recognition. He raised the tips of one of his multiple pairs of wings so I could no longer see the display from where I sat. “But I have been told they make me more … more … human.”
“A worthy quality?” I asked, knowing how he felt.
“A useful one,” he said, finally getting out the folder and slamming shut his drawers. He settled on the steel-frame chair, then, looking past me and out of the window, he said, “Your car registration will soon expire. Be sure to renew it lest I be forced to impound it.”
I looked behind me and through the window at my 1969 Plymouth Road Runner. He could read the registration sticker although it sat a hundred feet away in a dimly lit parking lot at night? Hellelujah.
“Did you really call me in here to talk about my car?” I asked. In my mind I debated the possibility of that being the case. After all, he was an Other cop and registrations were exactly the kind of bureaucratic plight they took very seriously. Right up there with sorting the recycling and paying overdue library book fines.
“No, human, there is this … ahh … poster I wish to show you,” he said, the word poster stumbling out of his lips. He fumbled with a folder before his angelic dexterity won the day and he managed to pull out a flyer. On it I read:
In today’s confusing mortal world,
Others of all species are welcome to attend
COPING WITH MORTALITY
We’ll answer pestering questions like:
“Why Is Sleep Important?”
and
“Headaches—Biological Inconvenience or Wrath of an Angry Demon?”
and many, many more!
“So?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. I looked over at the clock ticking on the wall. Three-thirty a.m. If I could get home in an hour, I could hang out with Bella for another three hours before my day started. “What does that have to do with me?”
“The address,” Michael answered.
I looked down at the address—One Spire Hotel, followed by a date and time. I did a double take, rubbing my eyes again. Damn, Jean-Luc, wake up. “Holy crap,” I said, my brain finally confirming what I had read. “This is for tomorrow. I mean, tonight. This is supposed to start in like fifteen hours.” I failed to hide my surprise.
“Indeed,” Michael muttered. “And crap is anything but holy,” he added, folding his arms over his chest as he waited for my explanation.
“Well, hell—it’s a seminar to help Others cope with mortality. It’s a good thing. The kind of service that Paradise Lot needs. And if you’re going to stop it from happening because of some ridiculous minor infraction, you’re being … being … really anal,” I said. What I failed to add was that I had no idea such things happened in Paradise Lot, let alone in my hotel. That was exactly the kind of thing the archangel would latch on to.
Michael waved his hands dismissively. “Where would one get a flyer such as this?”
“I don’t know.” I really didn’t. “Various help centers, the hospital—anywhere public service announcements are made. Hell, a police station should be handing out stacks of them.” My voice dripped with sarcasm, which I hoped sufficiently hid the fact that I honestly didn’t know.
My gambit seemed to work. Michael announced to no one in particular, “I am satisfied with your answer.” He opened a second folder and removed a single photograph. Then he threw the folder’s remains in front of me, scattering photographs that displayed scenes of carnage in a glossy finish. I hadn’t seen this kind of gore since I left the Army. The photos were of three humanoid creatures impaled into the side of a building, pressed so forcefully against the wall that they hung to it like macabre graffiti. Bits of bone stuck out where the flesh could not stretch enough to accommodate their new form. If it hadn’t been so horrific, I might have thought this some comical rendition of a three-dimensional creature being flattened by a rolling pin. Their bodies were mangled so badly it was impossible for me to tell what kind of creatures they were, but given that their blood was bright yellow, I ruled out human.
I leafed through the photos, one after another. Something about them bugged me. Sure, there were the mangled bodies, but whatever had killed them did so by slamming them against a wall with such force that it flattened them, though the redbrick structure on which they hung was completely unaffected. You’d think there would be some cracks in the wall, some crumbled stone—anything.
“What could have done this?” I asked.
Michael shook his head. “We are not sure. All we do know is that time was burned to do it, which means that either this was some ancient grudge settled or we have a—”
“Fanatic on our hands,” I finished.
The archangel nodded.
“How much time?” I asked.
“Again, it is hard to tell. If I were to use such force, I would burn through a month, perhaps six weeks.”
“A month!” I said in surprise. When the gods had left, ejecting their OnceImmortal subjects to the mortal plane, they effectively cut them off from their source of magic. Every Other had only a certain amount of time to live. Others could trade in some of that time to tap into their once-upon-a-time limitless magic. The more powerful you were, the more time you had, but still … rational Others didn’t use magic, choosing to preserve the precious little time they had left. Can you blame them? Eighty years, for a creature that has known thousands of years of life, is precious little time indeed.
But then there were the Fanatics, Others so unhinged by mortality that they burned through time in a suicidal rampage without consideration or care. The result was catastrophic. During the Nine-Year War, a Fanatic valkyrie took on an entire platoon on her own, aging with every swing of her golden ax. The result? Seventy human soldiers slain before she was too old to lift her weapon.
“A month is not a ‘grudge,’ ancient or not,” I said. “Why give your enemy the satisfaction of knowing they took so much time from you? No, this has Fanatic written all over it.”
Michael nodded. “Still, of all the tortures I have witnessed, not
even the Devil killed with such brutality.”
“The Devil doesn’t exist. Not anymore,” I said, handing him back the photographs.
“So you keep telling me,” Michael boomed. “But I’ve met the demon, and I can assure you he’s real. Anyway, the victims were cynocephaly. In your travels, have you ever met any?”
“Humanoid bodies, dogs’ heads,” I confirmed. Michael nodded. “Yeah, I knew a few just after the war. They served as guards when Bella and I … you know. But I haven’t seen a cynocephalus in years. Why?”
“Because we also found this at the crime scene,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He handed me the photo he had removed.
This one wasn’t of a crime scene. It was an old black-and-white photo of Bella, standing with the Ambassador. They were both smiling and so filled with hope that their mission of peace would work. Although I had never seen this photograph before, I knew when and where it had been taken. They were standing in front of old machinery that would have made a 1950s Frankenstein set director drool with envy. Ancient lab equipment that was more alchemy than scientific, clunky mechanical gears meshed together and sparks of electrical current jumping from antenna to antenna—not that you could see the electricity move in the photo. I just knew because I’d been there once, helplessly watching Bella’s death from behind a steel door.
Hellelujah—I wanted to be reminded of that place as much as I wanted to be drawn and quartered. Actually, I would have preferred the drawn-and-quartered option. At least that one included a foreseeable end to the pain.
Instinctively I reached up and grabbed the fake-silver chain with a twist tie wrapped around it. I rubbed the plastic between my fingers as I held the image for a long time, staring at the unwavering smile she wore no matter how bad it got. I guess that’s why the Ambassador chose her—he needed a human counterpart to help his mission to broker peace between humans and Others, and Bella was, well … Let’s just say that few humans were as kind and as good as she was.
