by R. E. Vance
What stopped me cold was that he knew about my past. About leaving the Army and going AWOL. That was supposed to be a secret. A secret that only my inner circle was aware of …
“Don’t worry, Mr. Matthias. Your secret is safe with me.” He stuck out his feather-covered hand. I shook it. “Thank you again. That will be all,” The BisMark said.
I bowed with a scowl that came off more as confusion than anything else and walked out. At the door, I turned to take one last look at the Other. His back was already turned. I wasn’t sure what else to say … if there was anything else to say.
Bella used to say that you could only run from your past for so long before it caught up with you. As I looked at the back of The BisMark’s chair, I wondered if this was the moment mine finally had.
But there was nothing to do about that now. Just get through this evening, I thought. Figure out what is to be done, if anything, after the gala is over. Even as I thought it, I knew my plan was foolish, but at the moment I honestly didn’t know what else to do. As I turned to take my leave, I could have sworn that the satyr statue that stood by The BisMark’s desk winked at me.
Chapter 4
Star Wars Ain’t Just for Humans
Meeting The BisMark completely put me on edge. It was one thing to have the eccentric consultant to the gods throw a party at my hotel. It was another thing altogether that he was the creator of the very creature I’d killed. There was no doubt that he chose my place because he wanted to observe me up close. But did that observation include a lust for revenge?
The BisMark didn’t strike me as the vengeful type. He was far too practical for that. Whatever was going on between us, I didn’t feel like I was in immediate danger. Still, I’d have to be on my guard.
The elevator pinged on the ground floor, and its metal mirror doors opened. I was immediately greeted by EightBall, who grinned as though he just saw something naughty.
“Oh, what now?”
“What else?” he beamed. “Astarte.”
↔
I walked into the foyer of the Millennium Hotel and marveled at the grand entrance. From the outside, the hotel looked like the rook piece of a chess set—that is, if the piece were seven stories high and covered with windows. From the inside, the foyer was an open cylinder with an empty, hollowed out center that was wide enough that someone could fly all the way up or fall all the way down. Others did. Penemue flew to his room on the seventh floor. Judith had been known to float down, and a nihant—a spider the size of a pony—once attached its webbing to the round stained-glass ceiling and lowered itself down.
Each floor of the Millennium Hotel looked out onto the center, separated from the empty middle by a carved copper railing that depicted a lush garden scene, its subject matter getting progressively darker the higher you went. At the beginning of the railing people took hikes, had picnics and danced around maypoles. At the middle stags banged heads and bears fished for salmon or destroyed bee hives. By the time you got to the seventh floor you saw forest fires, unmarked graves and battlefields.
At the center of the foyer was a grand oak circular check-in desk. And to think that a year ago I had used an old fold out poker table for a reception!
The ground floor was marble and made up entirely of the kind of stuff you expected to find in an upscale, once-upon-a-time boutique hotel. Reception, of course, but also seats on the edges where people could look out at the ground floor while waiting for friends to visit them at the hotel, or their travel partners to finally come down after a shower or nap or whatever people did in hotel rooms before going out. And because the hotel was situated on a hill, you got quite the view. The city and ocean beyond. The only functional part of the main floor was near the back, where you’d find the kitchen and a narrow stairwell that went down to three basement levels dug deep into the hill. The first level was a grand ballroom at least two stories in height and, although just beneath the foyer, was actually much bigger. Seems that whoever built the hotel dug into the hill to give it a bit more space. Scratch that—a lot more space. The floor was huge … certainly big enough to host a party filled with mythical creatures of all shapes and sizes. The last two level were a combination of utility rooms, storage and access to Paradise Lot’s massive underground sewer network.
Whatever you had to say about the Millennium Hotel, there was no denying that it was grand—and way, way, waaay out of my league. It was located in the heart of the city. It had next to no value, and because of a certain succubus trading favors, I got to run it rent-free. Of course, rent was one thing, but unless Astarte started courting the whole municipality of Paradise Lot, I was still on the hook for electricity and gas, not to mention general upkeep. Those bills alone were killing me.
But none of that was what I marveled at. What stunned me was that the hotel was actually full—valkyries, jinn, banshees, centaurs and a few dozen other Others strewed about the hotel lobby. Representatives of every pantheon, every religion and every culture, of every heaven, hell or plane of existence in between mingled as they waited for The BisMark’s dinner to start.
↔
I scanned the foyer for Astarte until I finally saw her sitting on one of the couches near the hotel’s entrance. She wore a cherry red blouse and tight leather pants, which for a succubus was akin to wearing a burka. She was quietly typing away on a laptop. There was no moaning or groaning going on anywhere.
“She’s not doing anything,” I muttered to myself.
“It’s not what she is doing—it’s who she is that’s the problem.” I turned to see a short human male with a receding hairline and circular gold-rimmed glasses standing behind me. He wore what I initially mistook as a bathrobe until I took a closer look. It was a Jedi cloak, and not some store knock-off or homemade deal. It looked like the real thing. Well, the movie thing. “That’s Anakin Skywalker’s costume, right?”
“Yeah, one of the originals used in Episode III—resized for me. It cost me an arm and a leg, but worth it, don’t you think?” He blushed, stuck out his hand and said, “I’m the, ahhh, I’m a minister in the Jedi faith. A Jedi Master, actually. It’s an online thing. Really, all I do is manage the newsletter.” He looked around and leaned in close. “They asked me to represent the Jedi faith. I tried to explain to them that being a Jedi wasn’t a real religion, but the guy on the phone said that worshipping the Force was what all religions did. He also said that he admired the way my faith had modernized itself by updating painted murals and stained-glass windows to movies.”
I held in a laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” the short man shook his head. “I wish I was. Also, I think they’re happy with me because I’m the only human religious figure that actually showed up. Apparently, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Pope and the Dalai Lama all turned down the event due to religious differences. I guess most religions kind of fall apart without Heaven or Hell.”
It was true. Fourteen years later many religious leaders were still scrambling to consolidate their doctrine with the absence of the gods. On the one hand, they had irrefutable proof that they were right, that the gods did exist and that their worship was necessary. On the other hand, what was religion without gods to actually worship? Most religions spent their time ignoring Others and pretending the gods never left, or insisting that if they engaged in deeper religious fervor they could pray the gods back. Either way, I could see how coming to The BisMark’s gala sent mixed messages to their followers.
Whatever the case, there was a Jedi minister in my hotel. Yippie! “Man, oh, man …” I said, bowing reverently. “It’s good to have you, Master …”
“Greg. Just Greg.”
“Not tonight. Master Greg—how may I be of service?” I bowed slightly as I put a fist over my heart in a Jedi salute.
Greg looked at the front door nervously and said, “It’s not me that needs help. Actually, I wanted to warn you. It’s about Astarte. She is—I mean, was—an Assyrian goddess.”
“Godde
ss?”
“Well, kind of … A long time ago she was worshiped as a goddess, even though she never quite made the cut. And before you ask, I have no idea what the cut-off point was. But that’s not why I’m here … it’s about Atargatis.” He paused as if all was clear. My blank look showed him that I had no idea what he was talking about. I hadn’t looked at the guest list, and even if I had, the name did not ring a bell. “They’re sisters,” he added.
“I know who Atargatis is,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “She’s the ancient Assyrian goddess of fertility—well, demigoddess now. She is the Other who cradled civilization until it was mature enough to survive on its own. But I didn’t know she was coming …”
“Oh, yeah!” Greg said with an enthusiastic nod. “She’s the guest of honor. After the Pope said no, The BisMark invited Atargatis.”
“Are you sure she is Astarte’s sister? Same pantheon, yes, but does that make them sisters? I mean, can a succubus have a sibling?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “They are of the same pantheon from the old world. A religion that declined four centuries before Christ … there are references to them being sisters.”
“References?”
He looked around sheepishly. “Ever heard of the Grimoire of Metatron? Not to be confused with the Book of Enoch.”
I shook my head.
“It was written by the angel Metatron.”
“Megatron?”
Greg let out a giggle. “Ahem …” he blushed, “Metatron—the great watcher. He created this chart of the gods. It has all the gods in it and their relationships with each other, as well as their relationships with certain mortals of significance. You know … like Hercules and Jesus. I have a copy at my apartment and I’m trying to make it more user-friendly. You know, so that humans can use it. It’s kind of a passion project of mine.”
“Oh …” I said. I liked this guy. Star Wars fan, Jedi Master and Other historian—what wasn’t to like?
“So, if you live in Paradise Lot, how come I’ve never seen you around before?”
“I live in the Ladder.” His tone went reverent, almost embarrassed. “I’m pretty much the only person living there, now that the humans are mostly gone.”
The Ladder was the only skyscraper in Paradise Lot. Once-upon-a-time it was premium real estate. I’d have to add filthy rich to Greg’s list. “So you didn’t head for the hills like most humans?”
“No way,” Greg said. “And leave all this? How awesome is it to be living amongst all these magical creatures? If I wasn’t living here already, I would have moved here in a heartbeat.”
I really, really liked this Greg. “OK … so Astarte and Atargatis are mortal enemies?”
“Immortal enemies,” Greg snickered.
“And you think they’re going to have a big fight unless I can keep them apart.”
“I don’t think. I know, because that big diamond-looking guy asked for my help.”
“Really? How?”
Greg turned beet-red. “He asked me to use the Force.”
“You’re kidding.”
Greg shook his head. “I know! They think it’s a real thing. And what’s more, he thinks I don’t have to burn time to do it.”
“Well,” I laughed. “He’s half right.”
“Again—I know!” Greg adjusted his glasses. “I tried to explain to him that it wasn’t a real thing, but he insisted. Talked about how the ancient Greeks used pneumatics and how the Tibetan Buddhist monks cultivated rLung. Besides, the Jedi Church believes that there is one all-powerful force that binds all things in the universe together. We also accept people from all walks of life, from all over the universe as members of our religion. That includes Others.”
This was rich—but oddly believable. In my years of dealing with Others, they gave into every kind of questionable practice: crystals, ch’i, feng shui, numerology, miracles … and now the Force. And why not? After an eternity of seeing all those things work in the various heavens and hells, why wouldn’t they also work on Earth?
Besides, a religion that preaches that everyone is equal and welcome … that’s a beautiful thing.
I burst out laughing.
“So, I figured,” Greg said in between chuckles, “since I don’t have the Force, what I could do was warn you.”
“OK,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll try, but she’s not very good at following instructions. And she’s already pretty annoyed for not having been invited.”
Greg gave me a look that said, “What choice do you have?” Then Greg pulled out his phone, which looked more like the tricorder from Star Trek. “You better hurry. Atargatis’ flight just landed.”
“How do you know?”
“How else?” he chuckled, showing me his phone. “Twitter.”
Hellelujah! Tweeting Others—I’d seen it all. “Alright,” I sighed, “I’ll go up and talk to her.”
Chapter 5
Yes, the Internet is Just for Porn
Before the GrandExodus, Astarte was nearly a goddess, her followers granting her power and sustenance through sexual worship. Now that the gods were gone and Astarte was mortal, she had to find her sustenance from other, more mundane sources. Anyone with a 101 understanding of economics could tell you that you could exchange money for food, water and shelter. Astarte traded sex for money, which in turn she used to buy food, water and shelter. Of all the Others I have met after the gods left, few have adjusted as well as Astarte.
The succubus was on a laptop, staring at the screen with the intensity of one in deep, deep concentration. “Astarte,” I said.
She ignored me, but her companion, an overweight human in light blue khakis and a plaid short-sleeved button-up shirt looked up. “Hi,” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m Brian.”
I ignored him. “Astarte,” I repeated, and again she ignored me. Astarte had lived in my hotel for six years, and over that time I’d gotten to know her quite well. When she ignored you, she did so to tantalize you. Like telling someone you have a secret and then going silent. Except with nipples.
So what do you do when you can’t get a succubus to speak? Ignore her back. “Brian,” I said. “What are you two doing?”
Before he could say anything, Astarte raised a finger, pointed at Brian, then held it up to her lips. The man went silent.
I leaned in close, blocking his view of Astarte. “Brian, stay with me. What are you two doing?”
“Ahhh …” Brian started.
He tried to lean to the left to look at Astarte. I also leaned to the left to block his view, and then I snapped my fingers in his face. “She might be able to give you all the pleasure in the world. I, on the other hand, am more about pain. Spill it. What are you two doing?”
Brian gulped. “She’s, ummm, watching something.” From the way the word “something” lingered on his lips, I knew that whatever she was watching was probably inappropriate behind closed doors, let alone in the crowded lobby of a boutique hotel.
“Great,” I sighed, “and how exactly do you know Astarte?” I knew exactly how he knew Astarte.
“Ahhh,” he said, his cheeks turning rosy red, “I work for WordPress. She was having trouble with her website, and …”
“So you came down to personally service her?”
Brian blushed. “It was only a bus ride away.”
“Jean-Luc,” Astarte said.
“Ah, ah, ah … I’m not talking to you,” I said, not taking my eyes off of Brian.
“Servant,” Astarte said, “get back to work.”
“Hey, I already told you, I’m not your servant.”
“Really?” Astarte moaned. By the GoneGods, she was good.
Brian gulped. “I’ll get back to work.”
“Good,” she said. “Now, Jean-Luc, answer me this: Why do you disturb my servant?” Her voice had a hint of a Parisian accent. Astarte had never been to Paris, or anywhere in France for that matter, but nonetheless spoke with an accent because once I told her that French women were se
xy.
“So you’re talking to me now?” I turned to Astarte. “I tell you what—I’ll stop disturbing you if you tell me what you’re up to.”
“Have you heard of this?” She tilted the screen to reveal a Google search bar.
“Google? Yes, I’ve heard of it,” I said. I glanced over at Greg who pointed at his phone and mouthed, “She’s in a taxi.”
“This is power—this is knowledge, and to have it so readily available …”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice draining. “The gala is about to start, and all non-gala guests should really be in their rooms.”
Astarte ignored me as she continued to marvel at her laptop’s screen. “You know, back in ancient Assyria we used oracles, but they were rarely accurate. There was a legend of a book whose pages knew all. All you had to do was ask. The ritual of asking was terribly complex and fraught with peril—”
“Astarte—”
“—one mispronounced ‘Om’ or unlit candle, and then—boom!” She looked up at me as she mouthed an explosion, and I immediately thought of an orgasm. Everything about Astarte made me think about orgasms and bodies and getting wet and steamy. And let’s not forget sticky. She stretched out her leg, her skirt falling away to reveal skin that went all the way up to her … Ahem … Jean-Luc, get a hold of yourself. I looked at that perfect skin and reminded myself that those legs did not necessarily end where I thought they did. You see, there was no evidence that Astarte was a “she.” I only thought of her as that because, well … that’s what I like. I reminded myself that there were many humans and Others out there who saw her as a “she,” “he,” “it” and everything in between. Still, knowing that did little to tame my raging libido.
