by R. E. Vance
That was why I hid the fact that I was being blackmailed by my former commanding officer, General Shouf. Miral wouldn’t like that. But if I didn’t tell him about General Shouf, then I couldn’t tell him that I’d fought those friggin’ monsters before … that they were a military experiment gone wrong, and that the reason they turned to foam when they were killed instead of just becoming a corpse on the ground like everyone else was because they weren’t actually monsters at all. They weren’t anything, really, except a mixture of cells and magic: animated creatures that didn’t come from the Black Lagoon, but rather Black Ops.
I also omitted that Mr. Cain, our prime suspect, had offered me a job with a salary that had more zeroes in it than a ZIP code had numbers.
All of that was somehow justifiable. After all, being blackmailed, job offers and military secrets were, in a way, my own damn business. Not his. But what I also didn’t tell him about was that I was fairly sure Sinbad had more in common with the monsters than a six-year-old girl in a pirate’s costume.
Sinbad needed to be a secret because, unlike the monsters, Sinbad was a thinking, considerate creature that exhibited free will. And that was something Miral absolutely could not find out about.
When the gods left, they took the power of Creation with them. That was the common belief, anyway. But if Creation was in fact still possible … well, let’s just say that angels got very testy around that subject. As in, Sodom-and-Gomorrah testy. She’d see this as a much greater threat to the world than a bunch of kidnapped kids. Creation was god business.
I didn’t give a frig about gods or their business before, and now that they were gone, I cared even less. There were children taken from their families, their homes, and being held captive by the stuff of their nightmares. That was all I cared about. Period.
So I made up some half-baked story about her being my cousin that he knew was a lie. And he knew I knew he knew it was lie. But we all played pretend, because he also knew I had my reasons and because Miral told him to trust me.
But just before we got on the plane, Miral was on her knees paying homage to another creature. And that freaked him out. Hell, it freaked me out, too, because angels don’t bow to anyone or anything except, you know, the big-guy-no-longer-in-the-sky.
Conner wanted to know what was wrong with her. I may have kept information from him and given him false information in its place, but this was the one thing I didn’t have a clue about.
“Conner. I don’t know,” I repeated.
“Bullshit,” he said.
“No, really. Not a clue.” I met his eyes and held them. I cared for Miral. After Bella died, Miral was the only creature who took care of me without pity. Making excuses to come over and take care of me, always finding reasons to keep me busy … if it wasn’t for Miral, I would have collapsed under my own grief. I loved that angel, and I owed her everything. “I swear to you, Conner. If I had any idea, I’d tell you.”
“Like you’ve told me so much already?” Conner growled.
“I have my reasons.”
“I don’t care about your damn reasons,” he said, gripping the back of his chair.
“Look,” I said. “She’s OK. Whatever is happening to her, she can take care of herself. Once we’re back, we’ll grab her and find out what’s happening.”
Conner closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Promise,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Promise,” he echoed. “Miral told me about your promises. She said you take them very seriously.”
“I do.”
“Then promise.”
“Conner—”
“Promise, Matthias. Promise me that you’ll figure out what’s wrong with Miral. Promise me that you’ll help her. Promise.”
“OK—I promise.”
“Good … because I’ll hold you to this one.” He let himself slip back into his chair, his brown hair submerging behind the seat in front of me.
“You won’t have to,” I said. “I didn’t make the promise for you. I made it for Miral.”
I heard a loud grunt and we fell into silence for the rest of the flight.
↔
The mainland was a heavy dose of culture shock for us Paradise Lotters. For one thing, it was lit up, filled with open shops and bustling movement. We were in an airport, as in a real, living, well-used human transportation facility, complete with actual humans to transport.
It was like landing on another planet.
Conner was right. I had lived in Paradise Lot for so long that I was starting to think that panhandling genies and drunken angels were normal. I forgot all about a world whose inhabitants didn’t have talons or wings or eons of memories coursing through their bodies. I forgot all about the human world its—our—distinctly human ways.
Coffee shops, clothing stores and duty-free shops stood open, each inviting us to enter with advertisements that showed beautiful humans enjoying chocolate, looking amazing in their fashionable clothing or happily sipping their hot beverages.
Humans. Doing human things.
And not a single image was of the fantastical creatures that now walked among us. It was as if they wanted to forget all about the Others. But that just wouldn’t work. Forgetting about Others felt like listening to classical music played on a banjo. Where were the horns and the timpani and the pizzicato strings? The dynamics? The harmony?
Sure, everything was clean and well-maintained. Sure, there was order. And sure, things were simpler. But with only one kind of species being represented here (and, to be honest, only the white version of that species), the whole thing felt soulless. At least that’s how I saw it.
I felt empty walking through that airport. I’d been on the ground for less than ten minutes, and I already missed home.
From all the looks we got, the humans weren’t used to Others, either. Penemue got a lot of curious looks—some people even stopped to snap photos of him. Some tried to do so on the sly, but most just pulled out their phones and took a picture. But to mistake this for some kind of celebrity/paparazzi scenario would be a gross miscalculation of the situation. To them, Penemue was a freak, and they wanted photographic evidence of that freak—his feelings be damned.
To Penemue’s credit, he took it in stride, walking to the bus lane and pretending not to notice. Who did notice—and wasn’t sure how to handle it—was Sinbad. Her child-like mind both adored and hated the attention; I could sense her internal debate as to whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.
We got on a bus, the standard Greyhound monstrosity, and headed into the city. As we rolled toward our destination, we rode in silence. In fact, most of the bus’s occupants rode in silence. The only real noise, beside the occasional cough or seat-adjustment, came from the back, where four teenage boys giggled and fought and wrestled and did what typical teenage boys do when given a respite from parental supervision.
Unfortunately, to the typical teenager this also included provoking. Bullying. One of the kids threw a piece of popcorn our way and muttered under his breath, “Damn pigeon.”
Sinbad’s ears perked up. She tilted her head to one side before it hit her that they were calling Penemue a pigeon, and not in a nice way.
The kid, who was being egged on by his friends, decided to upgrade the popcorn to a bottle cap. He flung the aluminum cap at Penemue, except it never hit its intended target. It didn’t even get close. Sinbad caught it and threw it right back at the kid, with far more speed and force. The bottle cap hit the kid in the eye with a thud, followed by an “Owww!”
The kid was about to complain loudly, probably planning to blame Penemue, when Sinbad leapt over the seats and onto his chest. “Listen here, Mr. Bully,” the little warrior admonished, “you shouldn’t pick on anyone, even if they are much more bigger than you and could probably send you flying up into a tree before you could say ‘Boo.’ Also, just because Mr. Penemue has wings doesn’t make him a pigeon. It makes him an angel, which is a lot more than I could say a
bout you or your friends, you, you … talking monkey.”
When her little speech was through, there was a pause—and then the kid’s friends burst into laughter. Sinbad got off the kid and meandered back to Penemue, where she climbed onto the angel’s lap. “Stupid bully,” she said, resting her head against his chest.
Penemue stroked her hair. “Stupid bully, indeed,” he agreed.
Conner gave me a look. “Your cousin, huh?”
I shrugged. “What can I say? We’re a righteous bunch.”
Chapter 2
Pixies, Monsters and Invulnerable Sailors
Once we were downtown, we divided up the files and agreed on a place to meet come nightfall. Conner leaned over to be eye-level with Sinbad. “Take care of these guys for me, will ya?”
Sinbad swooned. The guy was a heartthrob to everybody, I guess. “Sure will,” she said in earnest.
He winked at her. “Good.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You make sure you and your cousin don’t do anything news-worthy. Last thing we need.”
I looked to Penemue and Sinbad and said in a falsely cheerful voice, “Today’s word is ‘stealth,’ kids.”
“Har-de-har,” he said. “Miral told me you were funny. I don’t think she knows what funny is.” And with that Conner hailed a taxi and was off.
↔
As I’ve mentioned before, I was a terrible hotel manager, so needless to say, I didn’t have a lot of money. And judging from the complete lack of checks sent to me, I gathered that being a deputy for the Paradise Lot Police was more of a volunteer position. Although I’ll admit, they did pay for the flight—I’ll give them that much.
That meant we couldn’t take a leaf from Conner’s book—taxis were out. So I called up a map on my phone; we’d have to take a bus, again.
As soon as Penemue realized that I was trying to figure out which bus we needed, he grabbed Sinbad and me and took to the sky.
“Weee!” Sinbad said.
“Penemue—what are you doing? They’ll see!” I gestured to the already gathering crowd of onlookers who had turned their heads to the sky.
“It’s not like they couldn’t already see the gigantic wings attached to my back,” he said. “Besides, a little awe might melt their hearts. I’m building bridges.”
“More like sowing terror,” I said, but the twice-fallen angel wouldn’t listen. The way he saw it, better to be chased through the streets by an angry human mob than have to ride the bus again.
“Weee!” Sinbad squealed again.
↔
A little voice perked up from Penemue’s pocket: “In two hundred meters, turn right.” And a split second later, it said, “Turn right now.” Sounded like we were flying at about two hundred meters a second. Sure beats the bus.
Three minutes later and we landed on the front porch of the Next Bee Nursery. Children were immediately at the window, banging against the glass and pointing and screaming in joy at the giant angel before them. I had to hand it to them: not one of them cried in fear.
A petite woman in a pleated green skirt came running out. “No, no, no … You’re not meant to come until next Tuesday,” she said.
“Next Tuesday?” I asked.
“Yes, I hired you for next Tuesday.” She looked behind us. “Now, where’s the centaur?”
“Centaur?”
“Yes,” she said, pulling off her thin, gold-rimmed glasses. “What else are the children going to ride?”
I lowered my head and said, “Umm … ma’am, I think you got us confused with—”
“You’re from the Paradise Lot Other Circus, aren’t you? You’re here to put on a show for the kids—but like I said, it’s not until next Tuesday.”
I shook my head. Other Circus? Now I’d heard it all. “We’re not with the circus.”
“Although we could be,” Penemue said, smiling knowingly down at Sinbad. “I’m quite the acrobat, and Jean-Luc here has been known to breathe fire.”
The middle-aged caregiver narrowed her eyes and looked Penemue up and down. Then, surprisingly, she giggled. Which was weird. Don’t get me wrong, Penemue is a good-looking angel, and being a former Fallen, he also had that bad-boy look to him. But in all the interactions I’d seen with him and humans, no one ever actually giggled—well, besides Sinbad, but she didn’t count. This human, however, giggled like she’d just met James friggin’ Dean. It didn’t help that Penemue winked at her, either.
“Oh, my, you’re not with the circus? Then who are you?” She looked down and saw Sinbad. “Oh no, don’t tell me—you’re parents! But we don’t have any new intakes. Not this week. Are you here for a tour or—”
“No, ma’am,” I said, holding out my Paradise Lot badge. “We’re not parents.” Penemue nudged me. “Or, at least we’re not here as parents. Ahhh, her mom is busy, and … I know it’s very unprofessional of me, but I couldn’t get a babysitter last-minute. The reason we’re here is because we’re investigating …” I leaned in close and whispered, afraid one of the kids might be listening. “Michael and Susie.”
“Michael and …” Her eyes grew wide, all traces of the giggles gone. “Oh, yes … but I was already interviewed by the police. I told them—”
“Yes,” Penemue interrupted. “But we’re Special Investigations. And if you don’t mind, we’ll just need a moment or two of your time.”
“Special Investigations,” she said, fanning herself. “How mysterious! Of course, uh, come in.”
“And my kid, ma’am?” I said.
“Please, drop the ma’am. It’s Ms. Reynolds.” She glanced at Penemue here and added with emphasis: “Mizz Reynolds. I’m the purveyor of this little palace of pandemonium. And as for this dear, she can play with the other children if she likes?” She bent over and tapped Sinbad’s nose. “What’s your name?”
“Sinbad.”
“Oh, my, yes it is! I should have recognized you right away, Sinbad.” She turned to the window of onlookers. “Looks like we have a celebrity, here. Everyone say, ‘Hi, Sinbad.’ ”
In unison a chorus of “Hiiiii, Sinbad!” followed.
“We’re just about to start story time. Would you like to join us?”
Sinbad nodded. “Yes, I would. Very, very much!”
↔
We walked inside, and the dozen or so children crowding the window squirmed for their places in a semicircle on the carpet. A plump woman with a huge, inviting smile corralled a few stragglers and then, taking her place on a stool, began reading to them. Sinbad, without prompt or cue, joined the others in the semicircle. The woman held out a big, colorful picture of a pig and asked, “What noise does a pig make, children?”
A chorus of “Oink, oink, oink!” erupted.
The woman smiled. “And what about this one?”
“Woof, woof, woof!”
“Excellent! What about this one?”
“Keyaa, keyaa, keyaa!”
Keyaa? I looked over at the woman on the stool and saw she held a picture of a banshee.
Ms. Reynolds saw my look and nodded. “Here at the Next Bee Nursery, we like to equip our children with everything they need to know. That’s why we teach all the noises that Others make.” She spoke firmly, clearly confident in her role of bettering the world.
“Yeah,” I said, “but don’t you think you’re giving mixed messages when the previous two images are that of a pig and a dog?”
“Oh, don’t be so hard,” Penemue said, giving her another devilish smile. “Others, humans, animals … we all must share this world, must we not?”
Ms. Reynolds blushed, nodding gravely. “Yes, we must.”
“Excellent. Now if you don’t mind, we do have a few questions we’d like to ask you,” Penemue said, gesturing to her office. “Just out of curiosity, kids,” Penemue called to the semicircle as we passed. “What sound does an angel make?”
Without hesitation, the children cried out “Whoomp, whoomp, whoomp!” as they flapped their arms like wings.
“At least
they didn’t coo,” I said.
↔
Ms. Reynolds took us into a small office wallpapered from floor to ceiling with children’s drawings. Many of the drawings were of normal kids’ stuff—their house, their family, the occasional helicopter or airplane. But the vast majority of them were of Ms. Reynolds in various poses, holding flowers or the children’s hands—and always smiling. Seemed the kids loved, to borrow her alliteration, the purveyor of this little palace of pandemonium.
“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Ms. Reynolds,” I said once the door closed, shutting out the sounds of children’s “Moo, moo, moos!” and “Ribbit, ribbit, ribbits!”
“My pleasure.” She picked up a bowl of what looked like potpourri from her desk and tilted it our way. “Lilac petal?”
I gave her a blank stare. “Lilac petal?”
She smiled. “Much healthier than candy, and just as tasty.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Penemue said, plucking one from the bowl and tossing it in his mouth unceremoniously.
“No thanks,” I said. “Ms. Reynolds, we’re investigating the disappearance of two children, both of whom attended this nursery.”
Ms. Reynolds shook her head darkly. “Such a tragedy. I would have never thought such a thing would be possible in this day and age.”
“What can you tell me about the kids? Michael and …” I pulled out my folder.
“Susie,” Ms. Reynolds offered. “Bright smiles. Always played well with the other kids. Michael has the biggest chipmunk cheeks you’ll ever see, and as for Susie … impossibly long black curls and eyes bluer than the sky.” She pulled out a group photo. “They’re the two five-year-olds hugging each other. On the right.”
