by R. E. Vance
Others shrivel away into obscurity, living out the rest of their days broken and miserable, dreaming of the past that, if they could see it clearly, offered nothing more than pleasure. They, too, are meaningless.
The strong among them find a way to move on, and in moving on do great things; for they are free of the need for Love and, being free, their minds are no longer distracted.
One such man is a young king named Gilgamesh. From the moment Astarte takes him to her bed, she knows he is strong. A bull, not only between the sheets but also in mind. A fortitude unlike any other human she has ever known.
For a time, Astarte and Gilgamesh bed nightly, and after every moan-inducing, knee-wobbling encounter, Gilgamesh sips from his wine before he stands to leave. Most beg to stay the night, hoping that the succubus will grant them access once more to her garden of pleasures. But not the young king.
“Where do you always go?” Astarte asks one night, dismissing the three sirens she had called to join in the night’s festivities. She knows that she should not ask. Breaking him requires disinterest. But Astarte needs to know how it is that this man—no, this king—can leave her so readily.
“To work,” he says.
“Work?” she scoffs. “You are king. Is it not your privilege to have others do the work for you? Besides, what work does a king have? Does he till the soil? Does he knead the bread? Tell me, young Gilgamesh, what is your work?”
Gilgamesh ties his robe before allowing himself another moment in her bed. “I must study.”
“Study?” Astarte runs her finger along his chest as desire flares in her. Once more into the breach, she thinks. “Tell me, what does a king study? Philosophy? History? Or perhaps it is the pleasure of religion that interests the young king?” Her hand has found its way under his robe and she feels his engorged member in her palm.
Gilgamesh pulls her hand away. “No … those disciplines, although important, are not practical to the everyman. My interests lie in the sciences, agriculture and the trades.”
Astarte should be offended that he rejects her advances. But she is not. This … this man-king is different. Interesting. “The trades—does the king want to be a blacksmith, or perhaps a carpenter?”
“No,” Gilgamesh says without hesitation. “But I need to understand these things if my schools are to be a success.”
“Schools?”
“Yes—think about it.” There is a glint in his eyes that shows a zest for life. It also betrays his naïveté. “How do farmers learn to cultivate soil, masons to chisel stone, apothecaries to prepare medicines? Apprenticeship. But this system is old. Archaic. It means that tradesmen are only as good as their masters. And whereas many masters are worthy, their knowledge is incomplete. But if a tradesman were to learn from many masters, from a school, he would truly conquer his discipline. This would advance my kingdom to unimaginable heights. And that is why I must study.”
“I see …” Astarte says. Gilgamesh is satisfied that his lover understands, but what he does not know is that Astarte understands far more than he. This is what Atargatis warned her of—humans who innovate, learn and grow and, in doing so, break their dependence on the gods. Gilgamesh is a king with an entire empire under his control. The success of his lofty ideals would mean the loss of so much for Astarte and her kin.
Astarte knows that she should kill this human. That would certainly slow human progress. Maybe even stop it. Then the gods allied to Chaos would be less threatened.
Perhaps they would reign supreme—at least for a little while longer.
Perhaps they would reign long enough that she wouldn’t have to marry Poseidon.
But Gilgamesh … he is different. Intelligent and strong, bright-eyed and beautiful. And what a lover. Astarte cannot bring herself to take the life of a man who has brought her higher than most gods.
That is not who she is.
She could tell her siblings about his plans. But again, that is not who she is. Besides, it will only be a matter of time until they find out about him.
Astarte neither kills nor tattles. She is a succubus. A godling of lust. A tamer of men. A conqueror of spirits. What she can do is crush his spirit. Perhaps then he will abandon his plans and just live. That is in her nature. That is who she is.
Astarte laughs. It is a cruel laugh filled with mockery and ire. Gilgamesh’s smile fades and his eyes narrow. “What?” he asks.
“Foolish, petty man,” Astarte says. “You honestly think that you can train your fellow humans to be more than they are? That is no more possible than teaching an ant how to count or a dog how to drive a cart. Ridiculous.”
“But …” Gilgamesh stands up. “My studies show—”
“ ‘Studies’? That is not life nor is it experience. Study. Teach. Build your school. And fail.” Astarte feels the young man’s heart cry out in pain. But it does not break.
Nor does the king within him break. Instead, the king stands up and says, “Over the years I’ve seen you crush your lovers, and I always knew it would be only a matter of time until it was my turn. I admit, I had hoped I would be special. I would be the one to escape your cruelty. But I guess that in the end no man can escape his fate …” He stands. “Thank you, Mistress Astarte. You have taught me much.” And with that, he leaves.
Astarte knows there will be no lamenting at the gate, no begging to return. Gilgamesh is gone … and for the first time in Astarte’s long, long life, she wishes she had not been who she is.
Chapter 1
The Earth Shook, the Stars Fell
As soon as Atargatis pierced the carp with her trident-shaped fork and took that first ceremonious bite, the world started to tremble.
At first, I thought it was just another one of The BisMark’s tricks. Burn a bit of time and make the ground shake—you know, to give his party a little oomph. After all, it was being televised. But from the way The BisMark’s eyes widened, he was just as surprised as everyone else. Even Stewart—the ever-still gargoyle—looked around in confusion.
Everything went quiet, and I figured that the Others were either thinking what I was thinking or they were waiting for it all to be over. After all—how long does an earthquake last? A few seconds. Half a minute at most. But when it didn’t show any signs of slowing down, I knew panic would set in.
Human panic is easy to identify: we scream, we run, we cry and, sometimes when the threat is big enough, we stand perfectly still wearing a useless expression of fear. That’s how humans react. Others, on the other hand, do not have the same tell-tale signs, and soon the Others started to engage in their own brand of panic. The ballroom was filled with shrieks, barks, roars and groans, as well as stomping, violent head-shaking, chest pounding and a variety of other gestures that added to the general mayhem in the room.
My heart thudded with anxiety as my senses became overrun by their fear.
Medusa put a hand on my shoulder. “Does this happen often?” She wore a brave smile, but I could tell from her snakes’ hissing that they were just as freaked out as everyone else. Which meant that Medusa was freaked out—except unlike her serpentine appendages, she managed to hold herself together.
Seeing her calmed me, too. More than calmed me—I regained myself, the panic almost leaving me entirely. Only one person has ever been able to bring me back to my senses like Medusa did: Bella. GoneGodDamn it!
“Does this happen a lot? Earthquakes, I mean,” she asked again.
“No,” I said. “As far as I know, the last time Paradise Lot had an earthquake was when the Others came.” I looked up and saw the diamond chandelier rattle and shake, its huge structure bobbing back and forth like the pendulum of a doomsday clock ticking to the rhythm of the rumbling earth. The only problem was that the hinge on which it hung wasn't designed to handle both its weight and a heavy sway, and it was only a matter of seconds before it came loose.
“Crap,” I muttered.
I got up on the table and, with as loud a voice as I could muster, screamed, �
�The chandelier! It’s coming down!” No one seemed to hear me, so I shouted again, this time trying to get the attention of people I knew. “Miral! Conner! The chandelier—it’s coming down. Everyone needs to get under the table.”
“What?” Miral said, cupping her ear to hear me in the chaos.
“The chandelier!” I pointed at the swinging crystals.
Miral got it and wasted no time, gathering the Others around her, gesturing for them to take cover. As for Conner, considering he was new to Paradise Lot, the guy was all pro. Calm and confident, he’d gotten the idea before me and was already directing Others to get down. I looked over at The BisMark, thinking that maybe he could make an announcement. At first, I thought it would be difficult to get his attention, but he was staring right at me, a calm, curious smile on his face. I pointed up at the chandelier and mouthed, “Warn everyone.”
The BisMark nodded, but his gaze made me think that he was contemplating something else, completely unfazed that the ground beneath him shook. How long does an earthquake last, anyway? I didn’t have time to think about that now.
The BisMark turned his head and narrowed his gaze as if in deep thought. Then, as though a switch went on somewhere in the back of his head, his eyes lit up. “Folks, folks—seems the gods have heard us after all. Now, I’m not one to cower, but it does appear that my beautiful chandelier is about to come down. I have no idea where or on whom, so I suggest that everybody get under their tables.” He spoke in a calm, even voice that cut through the mounting chaos.
His voice overpowered the panic, unraveling it like a loose thread undoes a wool sweater. The crowd slowly calmed down until they stopped screaming altogether. Every single eye trained on BisMark just before they all dropped to their knees, like they were about to start some prayer to the Mecca that was BisMark. But instead of prostrating themselves, they shuffled under their tables. Others of all shapes and sizes crawled for safety, camera crews deserted their equipment, even the staff of stone waiters left the room, lest the chandelier crush them.
“That means you, Grimlo and Milton!” The BisMark pointed to a dwarf and a cyclops who stood defiantly. “I know you two are some of the toughest Others this world or any other has ever known, but that chandelier light is hotter than the flames of Tartarus, encased in a shell harder than the Great Gold Wyrm’s scales. Make no mistake, it’s about to rain down on this place like fire and brimstone.” He carried on as if he was narrating a play rather than actually trying to save lives.
The dwarf huffed and the cyclops blinked angrily, but both got under their tables without further protest. I was just about to jump down myself, when I noticed that The BisMark did not move. “Come on,” I yelled. “You too.”
“Me?” he said, his hands on his chest. With an exaggerated look of indignity, he shook his head. “Oh, not me. I’m not in danger. There is nothing in this realm or in any other that can hurt me.”
“Oh, give me a break,” I said. I’d seen this before—grand creatures of Valhalla or Tartarus believing that they were invincible because when the gods were here and they were immortal, nothing could harm them. They forget the one fundamental change in this GoneGod world: everyone dies.
I ran from table to table toward the stage. By the GoneGods, I’d wrestle this feathered peacock to the ground if I had to. But when I tried to tackle him, it was like hitting a big redwood or the side of a cliff. Immovable. And I don’t mean that I couldn’t budge him. There was always some give, even when wrestling a giant beast far stronger than me. I mean he did not move. There was no compression of skin, no ruffling of one of his peacock feathers on that ridiculous suit of his. “Really, Mr. Matthias. I already told you, nothing in the mortal realm can hurt me.”
“All the same,” I grunted, “I think you should get down.”
It was at that moment that the chandelier let loose from the ceiling and, just as my luck would have it, swung to the stage. The whole thing came shooting our way.
“Again, Mr. Matthias,” he said. “As I mentioned earlier, those stars will not hurt me. Nothing will. Nothing can.” He swirled around to put his body between me and the stars. I watched the bits of crystal shoot across the room like a meteor shower of fire.
“Ohhh, crap!” I yelled, trying to free myself from The BisMark’s grip and get to cover. But he held me, smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. Streaks of orange and yellow, red and blue flew past us, and not a single shooting star touched him. I watched in horror as a tiny fleck of flame flew between The BisMark’s earlobe and neck, missing him by no more than a millimeter, and landed right on my forehead. It felt like I’d been stung by a bee—a bee with a stinger dipped in sulphuric acid and lava. “Ahhh!” I screamed.
“You should have taken your own advice and gotten under a table, Mr. Matthias,” he said, licking his finger and rubbing the boiling pinprick on my head. The heat immediately subsided and with it, the earth finally stopped shaking.
↔
The chandelier falling seemed to be the earthquake’s cue to stop. Little streams of smoke billowed from where the stars had fallen, littering every inch of the stage. Every inch, except where The BisMark stood. Behind us was a shadow perfectly outlined by little black pocks of fiery heat. I guess he was right—he really didn’t have anything to worry about.
He picked up one of the smoldering meteorites. He tossed it to me and I yelped—in a very manly way—as it touched my flesh. But it wasn’t hot to the touch. Warm, yes, but far from the heat that burned my forehead.
“Thing about stars,” The BisMark said. “Once they fall, they lose their sizzle.”
“Stars?” So Medusa was right. I looked around at the black motes on my stage and muttered to myself, “Falling stars just ruined my stage … and why not? An angel lives in my attic and my girlfriend has a head of snakes. ”
“Indeed,” The BisMark sighed, bringing me back to the present. “That chandelier, as you called it, took me over three hundred thousand years to collect and design. And now … gone in the blink of an eye. Such is the way of this mortal world, is it not? Very well, then, I shall adapt. That is what I have done and that is what I will always do.” The BisMark looked at me curiously. “As for you, Mr. Matthias. That was very brave of you. Foolish, but brave nonetheless.” He moved, and I watched as his shadow followed him, leaving behind another silhouette of clean, unmarred stage. “Of course, please bill us for the damage.”
He strolled over to Atargatis, who was composing herself as her seven creepy kids helped her up. Bob picked up the partially eaten fish off the floor like he was picking up his dead hamster. Little solemn tears rolled down his cheeks. His sister consoled him as she, too, cried. A lot of emotion for a ruined dinner, but who knew with these Others? I guess for immortal children, it was perfectly OK to cry over spilled milk.
Astarte stood close to the stage without saying or doing anything, her expression equal parts curiosity and concern. I considered a running interception in case she tried to get at Atargatis again, but I could see from her downtrodden gaze that she wasn’t going to attack.
“OK,” I said, “I’ll assess the damage.” I had no idea how to do it, but I figured I’d employ the crew of dwarves to fix it up and charge The BisMark double.
“Very good, Mr. Matthias. You do that. But in the meantime …” The BisMark snapped his fingers. Stewart suddenly animated, turning the mics back on. The BisMark tapped his mic—three muffled cracks echoed across the ballroom, punctuating his first three words. “Well, well, well … looks like we brought the sky down! But this is not the first time that the earth shook or the sky fell, and we’re still here. We are still here!” He wagged an admonishing finger up at the heavens. “Try as you might, you will not ruin this night!”
The audience slowly emerged from under the tables, silent until a storm giant started to clap thunder. “That’s right,” The BisMark said, pointing at the storm giant. “Bring the rain. Bring the lightning. Bring the hurricane. We’ll ride through it all
. Won’t we, Jean-Luc? Please join me in giving thanks to my hero who gallantly risked life and limb to protect me!” He stepped back, pointing at me, before clapping himself.
The audience hooted and whooped at me, while I tried to shield my face. It was one thing to be hanging out in the background, hiding from the cameras. It was another thing altogether being in the center of the stage. Turning my back to the audience, I whispered, “What are you doing? The cameras.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll burn a bit of time to blur out your face. Promise.” The BisMark’s eyes illuminated, and I wondered if this was a trick to lure me in and then very publicly turn me out. If the Army found me, I would be court-martialed. That was serious jail time. But I was comforted by one undeniable fact about Others: They didn’t believe in mortal justice. It was one of the hardest things for them to accept in this GoneGod world, and whenever they got a chance they exercised their own brand of divine retribution. If they had a beef with someone, they never called the police or sued you. They performed some ancient ritual that usually involved chanting, incense and blood. Lots of blood. If The BisMark wanted to take me down, he’d do something much more elaborate. He was that type—just look at his suit.
Still, The BisMark was different, and maybe, just maybe, his special brand of justice was indeed mortal justice. I had played into his hands by jumping on stage and standing in front of everyone. And so I had a dilemma: I either trusted BisMark, or I didn’t. Not that it made any difference. The cameras were trained on me and there was nothing to do but hope BisMark was true to his word.
And as if reading my mind, The BisMark whispered, “Don’t worry … I will be true to my word.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m going to believe that you are. Besides, I can’t worry about that now. We have to cancel the gala, send everyone home. That was an unnatural earthquake, and—”
