by R. E. Vance
Astarte looked at the ground that crawled past at twenty miles per hour, considered my words and slammed the door shut. “Fine. I’ll kill her when we get home.”
“Could you wait until after the gala?” I asked. “I don’t want a negative review on TripAdvisor.”
“TripAdvisor?”
“You know, that thing called the Internet.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice distant, “I’ve heard of it.” She went silent.
“So,” I said once we were on the main road, headed towards the dock. “You have a sister?”
Astarte snorted—man, even her snorts were sexy—and said, “Sadly, yes. We control much of our own destinies, but have little control over who is in our family.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Before the one called Christ was born,” she said in a completely literal way.
“And …”
“And what, Jean-Luc?” Her voice was angry.
“Well, what happened between you two that made you hold a two-thousand-year-old grudge?”
“Five thousand … and it’s not for mortals to know.”
“Really? I thought we were all mortal now.”
Astarte seemed to consider this before saying, “We all have our roles to play, Human Jean-Luc. And in the early days of faith, there were certain expectations that I did not meet.”
“And?”
“And nothing. We have hated each other ever since.”
“Oh, come on! There has to be something! Not meeting expectations warrants a cold shoulder, maybe a catty remark. It is not acceptable when talking about one of the greatest fights I’ve ever seen.”
Astarte smirked. “We were a sight to behold, were we not?”
“Yes. Oh, by the GoneGods, yes.” I tried to put the images out of my mind. “So … those seven creepy kids are your nephews and nieces.”
Astarte nodded. “You mean Edgar, Maggie, Lily, Judy, Simon, Tommy and Bob.”
“You know their names? I thought you hadn’t spoken in forever?”
“Just because their mother and I are fighting doesn’t mean the children must suffer. Besides, they were born before our troubles. And before you ask—yes, their names were changed post-GrandExodus so they could better fit in. All of them, except Bob. His name seems to be easy for the human tongue to pronounce.”
I couldn’t tell if Astarte was joking or not, and before I could ask, Astarte went stone cold as renewed anger bubbled inside her. “I haven’t seen my sister in thousands of years, and now she waltzes into my home, a guest of The BisMark … and for what? To insult me further? And what am I to do? Nothing? This is The BisMark’s doing. He is still angry at me for what I did, and now he enacts his revenge by mocking me with his silly gala. I must get into that party.” Astarte turned away from the window and looked at me. “You must get me into that party.”
“I can’t. You know that.”
“But you are allowed a date. A plus one …” She leaned over and put a hand on my chest. Even though I knew that she was using me, my heart still skipped a beat. What’s that old Bill Withers song? “Use Me”? I knew exactly what he meant.
Except I wasn’t Bill Withers and I hated being used. I gulped. “The BisMark doesn’t strike me as the dramatic type, but if it is as you say it is, then he’s using you and your sister to add drama to the event. Don’t. Besides, I can’t take you. I have a date.”
Astarte huffed. “Who?” Her voice carried both shock that I had a date and puzzlement that I was capable of denying her. Being a succubus and the figurehead of the largest and oldest sex cult, she was not used to being denied. Hell, I haven’t lived thousands of years as the diva that everyone wanted to please, and I hate to be rejected.
“You know who,” I said.
“Medusa? That serpentine prude? Come now, you can do better than her,” Astarte said, her lips dangerously close to me. I could feel her soft breath on the nape of my neck.
“Prude?” I asked, pulling away. “How can you say that after—you know—what happened?” I was talking about the night the ex-god Dionysus got all of Paradise Lot drunk on magical Ambrosia. One thing had led to another, but before Medusa and I could—you know—engage, Astarte walked in and … well, one thing led to another—for them. I left to try and figure out what was going on, leaving behind two of the most beautiful creatures I have ever known—to engage.
“Hah,” Astarte scoffed. “As soon as you left, she said she could not let me pleasure her because it would be a betrayal to the one she loves. Like I said, prude.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought—”
“Of course you did.”
“But you didn’t say anything to correct me.”
“What does it matter? I figured that’s what held you back—her prudish, inexperienced nature. Certainly, knowing that she has engaged in a night with me … a night where I taught her the true art of lovemaking … would make you more attracted. Was I wrong?”
Astarte was wrong, but not about the attraction part. It was the holding back part that she missed. Turned out not to be true. And here I was, holding on to their little romp as an excuse to turn her down. A kind of “Get out of jail, you slept with the succubus” card—to be played as necessary. I knew it was unfair given what had happened, but I figured it was a tangible enough excuse for Medusa to understand why I didn’t want to date her, and a hell of a lot easier to explain than the truth, at least.
OK, now I felt like a jerk.
“Medusa didn’t say anything either.”
“Would you have believed her?”
“No, probably not. But that doesn’t change anything about the gala. I have a date. And besides,” I said, “even if I didn’t have a date, I wouldn’t take you. I need this to go smoothly. In case you hadn’t noticed, the hotel is struggling.”
“I’ll behave.”
“I can’t risk another outburst like that—no matter what you promise.”
“But lover,” she said, a hint of that Parisian accent in her voice. “I haven’t promised you anything … yet.”
I rolled my eyes. “Stop it.”
Astarte huffed and sat back in the passenger seat with a whoop. “As always, human, you resist my touch. I do not understand it. I have had gods fall to their knees before me, and yet you …” Astarte’s voice went shrill. “You have the stink of love on you. That is why you resist me. Tell me, AlwaysMortal, are you in love with the Queen of the Gorgons?”
I shook my head. “We went on one date.”
She sniffed me again. “No, no, no … you definitely have the stink of love on you. Don’t tell me you are still in love with that dead wife of yours.” Astarte’s voice trailed off before she went silent.
“Don’t talk about Bella in that way,” I growled.
“You can’t be! She has been dead seven years now. Even the most sentimental of your kind forgets after seven years.”
“Don’t!” I yelled, jerking the car to the side of the road. “Don’t you ever talk about her like that again!” I stared at the succubus. “Understand? Understand?!” The fury in me rose as I held her gaze, and even her heart-melting freckles and erotic allure did little to put out the flame. I could tell she was trying. The diverted gaze, the suggestive frown that said if I were to take her right here and now, we’d have the greatest angry sex known to man, animal or Other. But I didn’t care. Her callous mention of Bella infuriated me.
Yes, Bella had been dead for seven years, but up until a year ago I had thought she was gone, gone. As in, turn off the lights, goodbye forever, no soul, no afterlife. Nothing. With the gods gone, Heaven and Hell were now closed. But then this creature, this First Law came, and I discovered that Bella wasn’t gone, gone. She was in the void left behind by the gods. Alone forever. And me, I was here on Earth with absolutely no way to get to her.
Astarte’s gaze softened. No, that’s not right … it lessened. The creature that stared back at me was less succubus now and more … human.
Her facade dropped, and I knew that the person in the car with me at that very moment wasn’t the demigoddess of lust, but a being who cared for me. “I’m sorry,” Astarte said. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh. It’s just that you will never see her again. You know that, don’t you?” Despite being a diva and a huge pain in my ass, she was my friend.
There was that word again. “Will.” You will never see her again. You will not be with her again. She will never return. By the GoneGods I knew it to be true, but still, how do you turn it off? Everything I was, am and will be is because of her. Hell, the fact that I even stuck around Paradise Lot to run that GoneGodDamned hotel was because of her and the promise I’d made to her to help Others.
Astarte took my hand in hers, not in a “This is going to lead to sex” kind of way, but more in a “I am your friend” gesture. “You are still young. You are in very good health. Why not enjoy what time you have left? Bella, from everything you have told me about her, will understand. She will even welcome it.”
That was true … her last words to me were, “Live well,” and being with someone like Medusa would be living well. But still. “I can’t,” I said. “I just can’t.”
“Very well,” Astarte said, her lips warm and inviting. “But should the day come when you can, know that Bella will rejoice. As will I. Bella and I do not have much in common, but we both want you to be happy.”
I fumbled the twisty-tie on my necklace. “I know you’re right,” I said. “You’re a good friend. A difficult, troublesome pain in my ass. But a good friend, nonetheless.”
“I am,” Astarte agreed. “A friend who will do much to help you. And a friend who asks for little in return.”
“I’m not taking you to the gala.”
“By the GoneGods!” she said, every ounce of her succubus nature returning with a flood of passion and desire. “All that sentiment wasted for nothing!”
“I like you, too,” I said, putting the car in Drive.
“Human,” Astarte growled, “I shall never understand you.”
Chapter 8
Hairy Men, Fish and Flight … As in, Run Away
We pulled up to the docks just before ten in the evening. The sun had long set, the only light coming from the moon that hung high in the sky. Several barges swayed lazily in the evening tide. Once they were part of a vibrant trade that ran through Paradise Lot, but ever since the Others moved in, the port was rarely used and had an abandoned feel to it.
Across the bay was the Promenade, but whereas once it was lit by the lights of restaurants and the amusement park, the only lights one could see now were the few campfires of homeless Others that spent the night on the beach. It made me sad to see the decline of Paradise Lot, a city so aptly named because it had once served as a beacon of trade and tourism. Now it was a slum, and all because most humans didn’t know how to coexist with creatures that they used to read about in fairy tales.
I guess some of us just couldn’t handle fantasy becoming tangible.
I pulled into a long concrete driveway that paralleled the water. No chains locked the large mesh gate and no guard stopped us from rolling in. I drove slowly along the loading bay area looking for the SakanaSama Mori.
“What are we doing here?” Astarte said, still sulking.
“We’re picking something up for the gala.”
“The gala I can’t go to,” the succubus pouted. Sexily.
The docks curved, and as soon as I turned the bend, I saw a delivery van with a bat-like creature called a popobawa sitting behind the wheel, his little horns sticking out of the sides of his brown cap. Right in front of the van stood a very large and very, very hairy man. He was well-built, about six feet tall, and he wore a leather thong, old Roman-style shin guards and nothing else. Nothing, that is, if you discounted the carpet on his chest. Seriously, the guy’s chest was more Velcro than hair, and I got an image of him falling on a shag rug and getting stuck. He reminded me of Sean Connery in Zardoz.
Apparently, when Stewart said they had a human problem, he was being quite literal. Whoever that man was, he didn’t want the van to leave the dock. I’d seen this before—well, not this exactly. I’d never seen a grown man in a thong snarling at a van like a hyped-up Doberman Pinscher, but I’d seen human beings challenge Others because they fit some preconceived notion as to what a demon looked like. Racial profiling—or rather, Other profiling. If I had a penny for every beating that humans justified because poor creatures had horns like the Devil, I’d vacation in a penny arcade. Just because a satyr has cloven feet, or an ooak has antlers, or a fire dragon has red skin, doesn’t mean they are devils. But humans are humans, and we are quick to judge you by the color of your skin or the bone protruding from your skull.
Thing was, I knew the popobawa. I met him at the St. Mercy Hospital when I was helping Others complete check-in forms. Most Others are not illiterate, they just don’t speak a language you could input in Microsoft Office, and dealing with hospital bureaucracy can be overwhelming. I’d helped fill out countless forms until I met the popobawa and, in a moment of inspired genius, declared him the Master Form Filler. Miral tells me he’s in twice a week, helping conquer human bureaucracy one form at a time. I knew this creature to be kind and good-natured. Given that, I suspected that the hairy man was picking on the popobawa because the Other reminded him of something that once-upon-a-time slighted him in some way or other.
He was bullying the popobawa, and the one thing I hate more than anything else is a bully.
“Stay here,” I said as I got out of the car, slamming the door behind me.
Astarte didn’t move as she stared at the man with an expression that was an equal mix of shock and desire.
“You! Zardoz reject!” I cried out. The crazed man did not turn around, just continued crouching before the van, growling. “Leave him alone. He’s just trying to do his job.”
The popobawa rolled down his window a crack. “Master of Master Form Filler. You’re here to save me?” he gulped as he held out the simple Bic pen I gave him all that time ago.
“Yes,” I said.
“Thank you, Master of Master Form Filler. Thank you!” he yelped, and closed his window.
“You,” I repeated, putting a hand on his shoulder, “you leave him—”
I’d trained in the Army, I’d done several tours with a special forces unit created to deal with unruly Others of all shapes and sizes … In my killing days, I’d taken down everything from a dust of rebel pixies armed with box cutters to a bona fide, fully grown fire-breathing dragon. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m fast, strong and experienced.
Not that any of that helped me on the dock.
The second my hand touched his shoulder, and before I even knew what was happening, he threw me in the ocean.
↔
Getting dunked in the cold, bottomless ocean without warning sucks. I don’t recommend it. Luckily for me, there were several large tires used as boat bumpers that I was able to use to climb back onto the dock. Of course, it meant dragging myself up over algae-covered rubber, but that was preferable to freezing to death. Still, as I felt the mushy green sea slime cover my clothes, I cringed. I was wearing my collarless jacket, my hotelier jacket. My favorite jacket. Hell, my only jacket.
As my head cleared the dock, I saw Astarte standing five feet away from the hairy man. “Why are you here?” she asked.
He gave the succubus a taunting sneer as he held out his hand. A golden necklace hung from his fingers, a little pendant bobbing at the end. When Astarte saw it, she fell to her knees, hands covering her lips as she held back her shock. “How did you get that?” she asked.
He stood still, the necklace dangling from his outstretched hand.
“You shouldn’t have it,” Astarte said, her tone a mixture of anger and misery. “It’s not yours.”
The hairy man did nothing.
“It’s not yours,” she repeated, this time her tone pure anger. “IT’S NOT YOURS!” Astarte leapt at the man, h
er hand snatching the necklace with preternatural speed. As soon as she had the necklace, he slammed down his massive fist, aiming to crush her under its weight. She tumbled out of the way, and he followed her with a backhanded swing. The succubus ducked and, with gymnastic agility, somersaulted away.
She was about ten feet away from him, and I thought she would take the distance between them to flee. Instead, she stood, put on the necklace and rolled the pendant between thumb and finger. “You shouldn’t have taken this,” she said, and I noted a slight glow behind her eyes. She was burning time. She started to hum before leaping towards him. For a moment I thought she was going to match strength for strength, but at the last second she slid between his legs and kicked the back of his knees. He went down, bellowing in agony. For any normal human that would have been a broken knee followed by months of physiotherapy and years of getting used to a cane … but this guy just shook it off and attacked her again. Astarte did a backflip that would have put a Cirque du Soleil acrobat to shame, and as she arched back, her foot connected with his chin. Again—a devastating blow, but he took it like it was a playful slap between lovers. With lightning-fast reflexes, he grabbed her ankle and lifted her up. Upside down, Astarte punched at his groin. The man doubled over. Hell, every man within a thousand miles would’ve doubled over. But this guy had the highest tolerance for pain I’d ever seen. The hairy man reached down with his other hand to grab her arm and pulled, wringing her out like a wet towel.
I pulled myself onto the dock and made my way over to my car. Thankfully, I had left my keys in the ignition. Otherwise they might have sunk to the bottom of the ocean. “Hey!” I cried out. “You ruined my jacket!”
“Really?” Astarte yelled out.
“Oh … and put down the lady.” I got in the car and gunned the ignition. By way of an answer, he whirled around and grinned with blood-stained teeth and murderous eyes.
