by Ramy Vance
That meant that Kenji was Plan A. Plan A sucked. The last time I visited him, the place was attacked by monstrous statues, Kenji was arrested by the U.S. military and we almost died.
I’d definitely made a huge withdrawal from the Kat-Kenji emotional bank.
Still, he was an old friend. And a good person … well, Other. He’d help us. He had to.
I was about to go through the curtain that served as a door when Egya grabbed my hand.
Given that he was a dog, it was more of a bite. A wet, disgusting bite.
I withdrew my hand. “What?”
Egya motioned his head; he was trying to show me something. I considered going through the whole, “What is it, boy?” routine when I actually followed his gaze to what he was warning me about.
On the edge of Kenji’s door was what looked like a mezuzah, except the symbols weren’t the traditional Hebrew inscription, but rather a teeny-tiny pyramid with an eye in it.
The Eye of Providence. More like the ever-watching eye of Sauron. It was the celestial version of a hidden camera. So Enoch was watching this place just in case I got away. Which I had. Which meant that he was a planner. And a planner like him would also be watching my Plans B and C.
Shit.
There was literally nowhere for me to go.
↔
We walked away from the Kenji’s place back to the main street, where the generally human population looked at the giant hyena with trepidation. I ducked into the closest woman’s clothing store and bought a pink hat and a large kariyushi-wear shirt. “Here, put these on,” I said to Egya.
The giant hyena refused.
“Look around us,” I said. “People are scared of you. We need to cute-ify you so that we don’t add ‘in trouble with the police’ to our long list of crap to deal with.” I bent down to help him get the shirt on. It was harder than you’d think, but with only a little rip on the seam, we managed to get it around his body. I put on the hat, tying it around his neck. “Besides, pink suits you.”
And as we continued to walk down the street, I noted that the looks of fear were replaced with confused looks of amusement.
Baby steps. Baby steps …
↔
So, we were out of friends, had no place to go, no vehicle to ride away in, stuck out like sore thumbs in a country that generally took notice of two foreign women with a giant dog and were being hunted by a guy who had access to the largest magical arsenal I’d ever seen.
At least I had my ATM card on me. Thank the GoneGods for small miracles.
Which was more than I could say for my passport. That was still firmly in the hands of Okinawan airport security, which, given that Enoch had basically enchanted the place, meant that he had it.
I imagined him perving over my passport picture and cringed.
“Where do we go? Where do we go now?” I sang to myself to the tune of “Sweet Child of Mine.”
“Milady?” Deirdre looked at me like I was losing my mind, which I very well could have been.
“It’s just that we’re out of options. I have no idea what or where we could go. We literally need a miracle, and right now miracles are in short supply—”
And as if my prayers were being answered, a miracle did happen.
A dirty, low-down, horrible, terribly ironic miracle in the form of a picture. A poster, actually, of an event that was to take place in Okinawa later that day.
And who was the star of the show? The very same dark elf who just happened to be my ex-boyfriend.
Yaay …
Part III
Intermission:
Long, long ago, Enoch was a pious man. A unique one, too, who helped the angels in their civil war.
Back then, some rebellious upstarts wanted to usurp God’s power. Like such a thing was possible. They rebelled. They fought. But they were smart enough to know that they could not win a war in Heaven. So they fell to Earth and used its lush, primitive groups to fight.
Enoch watched as angels stabbed and clawed at each other. And seeing right from wrong, chose a side—the winning side.
He chose God’s side.
The frail human risked everything to save as many angels’ lives as he could. And his bravery did not go unnoticed.
He was taken up to Heaven—only one of three humans to gain such a privilege without dying to do so. There, he stood before a pleased God who demanded further service. For Enoch had witnessed the battles and judged wisely. He would become exactly that: witness and judge.
But a human cannot preside over lesser gods and angels. So God made him an angel. And not just any angel … a great archangel with powers that would rival even the archangel Michael.
And thus Enoch was transformed into an archangel of the highest order. He was given a new name—Metatron— and was tasked to judge over the gods and angels when they meddled in human affairs. His sole purpose was to punish those who went too far. Which, given the providence of the gods, was quite far indeed.
↔
And so he took to his role. Judging and punishing gods and angels, alike.
His last judgement was over Lyssa, the goddess of madness. She had turned the great Theban hero Actaeon into a stag before infecting his team of hunting dogs with rabies. Then she laughed as Actaeon ran for his life, the hunter now the hunted, only to be cornered and dismembered by the hounds.
The centaur Chiron had trained Actaeon, and brought a case against Lyssa, arguing that her cruelty went beyond the providence of gods. But in the end, Chiron had no case. Actaeon had stumbled upon the goddess Artemis bathing in a river and gazed upon her naked body. It was well within the rights of the gods to kill the man, even if he had done so by accident.
With Metatron’s judgment complete, he sought to take his leave, but was interrupted by the three Sisters of Fate. They had come to watch over the proceedings. Why? They already knew the outcome. The Great Tapestry had shown them exactly what Metatron would decide.
In unison, the three sisters spoke as if one. “Witness,” they chorused, “we have something for you to see.”
Another case to preside over?
As if sensing his question, they answered, “The gods chose to meddle, and such meddling will end all. Come see for yourself. The tapestry calls for you.”
Wary to listen, Metatron knew he should consult God—or, at the very least, a higher angel—before following creatures such as the Fates. But alas, Metatron had not fully freed himself from his human vices, and the vice of curiosity demanded that he follow.
↔
Metatron enters the Fates’ chambers, where the three sisters stand over their incredible tapestry.
The first sister taps Metatron on the shoulder. The archangel whirls around, his eyes engulfed with fury. How dare this lesser creature touch him? The impudence—the arrogance! To touch one such as him without permission is a bold act that even the gods would be wary of doing. He would be within his rights to end her existence here and now.
But then he remembers the tapestry, and understands that this Fate has nothing to fear. She has already seen her future, and it does not include being torn asunder by him.
He cannot help but laugh. To know your own future … to know the futures of all … such insight must be both a curse and a boon.
“What is it that you wish to show me, Sisters?” Metatron demands.
“This,” the three sisters say in unison. Three brittle fingers point to the corner of their quilt, but instead of seeing the antiquated intertwining of all living beings’ fates, it is black … dark. Empty.
“We have woven the Threads of Destiny,” echoes one of them.
“Seen the fates of all,” murmurs the second.
“And everything—everyone—comes to the same moment. There in the corner resides the empty future of all.”
“A fateless future.”
“One without destiny.”
“Or purpose.”
“Or meaning.”
“Is that the End of Days?”
Metatron muses. He has read the scriptures; he knows that the gods have always planned an end of sorts. But that end was for their creations. Their mortal creations. The promise of life everlasting for their favored children always remained.
But if he is to understand this tapestry correctly, then the End of Days will be the end of all.
He speaks this conclusion out loud. “If the gods choose to end everything, that is their right.”
“Spoken like the pious whipping boy …”
“… that the angels are.”
“You dare,” Metatron bellows, his anger rising as the scent of brimstone and sulfur attend his intent. “Apologize! Apologize, or the universe will be forced to continue without the likes of you.”
“Ahh, angels,” the three sisters say.
“Such confidence.”
“Such arrogance.”
“Such a contradiction …”
“… for one as powerful as you to always be so willing to”—the sister pauses, as if searching for the word—“to follow.”
Metatron’s anger grows, and he takes a step forward as he manifests a sword made entirely of flames. As soon as the blade appears, a protective, sea-green halo surrounds Metatron. He is prepared for battle, and the form he takes is fearsome.
But the sisters show no fear.
The sisters know full well what he is capable of. They know what he is willing to do, and yet they goad him still. Given their own divine powers, Metatron understands that he is in great danger, for the Sisters of Fate do not fear him.
They do not fear him because they know he will not kill them. They already know how this conversation ends. And given his anger and willingness to end them, this can only mean one of two things: either he will be subdued, or he will be convinced.
Lifting his blade in a defensive manner, he looks around. There is nothing here to harm him. And with the halo, he is armored with God’s protection. No charm, illusion or enchantment can possess him now.
Which means that the sisters do not seek to subdue him. They mean to convince him.
Metatron knows he should take to the sky to retreat and re-evaluate. But even though he has shed his mortal coil, has become an archangel of great power and the leader of the Eighth Order of Angels, he still possess perhaps the greatest and most deadly of human traits: curiosity.
Sheathing his sword, he points at the darkened spot of the tapestry. “Show me what you wish me to know. And waste no more of my time, Sisters. Speak plainly and speak quickly.”
“As you wish,” the sisters say.
“We will not speak at all, but rather let the words of the gods speak for themselves,” says the first sister.
“For when they abandon us, their message is simple,” says the second.
“Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough …” says the third.
Dark Elves, Ex-Boyfriends and Motivational Speakers
When I was a young vampire of eighty years, I fell in love for the first time. His name was Aldermemnon, but he was Aldie to me. I met him one evening while hunting in a local graveyard just outside of Prague.
I liked hunting in graveyards, not so much because I was an evil creature of the night, but because those places tended to be quiet and relatively unoccupied. Usually you’d find one or two stragglers around, lovers on a walk celebrating their life-filled joy while exploring the finality of their existence, a vagrant looking for somewhere to sleep … a mourner who wandered there to speak to someone no longer around.
Also, because it was a graveyard, once you were done with the body you could just dump it into some open grave.
Hunting in a graveyard was easy pickings, the vampires equivalent of fast food. Quick, cheap and you didn’t have to clean up after yourself.
I had just finished draining an old man who had come to sit by his wife’s grave. He was so overcome with grief that he didn’t even try to run away, instead welcoming the death I brought.
Once he was gone—hopefully to join his wife in the After (the gods were still around back then, so as long as he got into the same heaven or hell, they’d find each other)—I heard a slow clapping from behind me.
I turned to find out what, or rather who, was the source of the noise, but I couldn’t see anyone. That was strange. I was a vampire, after all. With my heightened senses, I could see in the dark just as easily as one could see in broad daylight. My hearing and sense of smell were attuned to find whatever I was looking for … especially if what I was looking for had a heartbeat.
And presumably, whoever clapped had a heartbeat.
But I saw no one. Just the statues and tombstones littering this place.
Shaking it off as a trick of my mind, I’d stood to leave when I heard a voice—soft and pleasant, but somehow still firm and confident—say, “I admire your technique. Subtle, quick, but still full of joy. Well, joy for you, at least. That said, I am fairly sure he whispered, ‘Thank you’ just before the end.”
The voice felt as though it came from everywhere at once, which didn’t really help me pinpoint where my admirer was standing.
“He did.” I scanned my surroundings. Not being able to see the creature unsettled me. It had been over eighty years since anything had been able to sneak up on me.
“So perhaps joy for you both, then?”
I still couldn’t find the damn creature, but the fact that it hadn’t revealed itself to me meant it was playing with me. Good thing I knew how to play, too. “Why not come out of the shadows so that we may enjoy each other, too?”
A chuckle. “Very good, young vampire. A bit of wit. A bit of humor. And humor does mask fear. For, after all, one cannot be scared and laughing at the same time.”
“Not unless you’re insane.”
“Not unless you’re insane,” he mused. “Yes, I suppose that is correct.”
“So, will you come out of the shadows and play?” I touched the upper button of my blouse in a suggestive way.
“I would, but I’m not in the shadows.”
“Then where are you?”
“Right in front of you.”
I stared directly into the space in front of me, but all I saw was a statue of a young boy holding an urn spilling stone liquid over its edge. Flowers poured out amongst the water, which made it quite beautiful. Of course, I had seen dozens like it; this was a typical statue for graveyards in this region and era.
Still, the statue was considerably larger than normal, and—
Without hesitation, I lunged forward and punched the stone face as hard as I could.
My fist met hard rock, and my hand exploded with pain.
That shouldn’t have happened. Don’t get me wrong—as a human, punching a statue with everything you’ve got is bound to break your hand. That’s to be expected. But as a vampire? My fist should have sailed through that stone like I was punching a piñata, except instead of candy bursting out, either the statue would have been reduced to rubble or—following my theory that this statue was alive—brains.
Neither happened.
I staggered back, cradling my hand. “What the—?”
The statue’s face contorted into a smile as the creature stepped off the pedestal. As soon as his feet touched the ground, his stone exterior turned into dark, almond-colored skin and his clothing became flexible, just like fabric should.
“Who are you?” In my relatively short life (well, short for an immortal), I had only ever encountered other vampires.
I’d never met something else. And here I was, standing in front of a being who was clearly not human.
I’m not proud of what I did next, but it was the only thing I could think of. I crossed myself. As in, spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, as my lips uttered a prayer. Hey, I was a Highlands girl who had gone to church every Sunday until the day I died. Some habits die hard.
“Tat, tat, tat.” He lifted an admonishing finger. “None of that.” He gave me the warmest, most inviting smile, and I immediately felt safe in his p
resence.
And his eyes … Oh, his eyes were the perfect shade of stormy gray, like they housed an entire horizon frothing with turmoil and beauty.
This creature was exquisite.
But he was more than that. I understood beauty. Hell, I used beauty when hunting; vampires are imbued with an unnatural allure ourselves. It helps when drawing in prey.
This creature was beyond exquisite. He was something else entirely.
He approached me, hand outstretched. “I am sorry about your hand. But that was stoneskin, milady. You never punch someone with stoneskin cast on them. It can only lead to … well …” He touched my broken hand.
Shit. He’d touched my broken hand, which meant that I’d let him get close enough to attack. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
But he didn’t attack. Instead, that gentle touch instantly healed my hand.
“What? How? … What are you?”
He looked genuinely confused that I didn’t know what he was. Hurt, almost. “You really don’t know, do you?”
I shook my head.
“My dear, for a vampire, you are woefully lacking in knowledge of the underworld and what it has to offer.”
I considered being insulted, but I was too busy swooning. My god, he was perfect.
“Come, dear vampire.” He stretched out his hand. “Come, let me show you a whole new world.” He used that line on me centuries before Aladdin said the same thing to Princess Jasmine. And as a young vampire who had just realized that myths—Other myths—were real, let me tell you: it worked.
Eat a man alive, it worked.
↔
Staring at that poster, I was flooded with memories of Aldie. The world of fae and myths wasn’t the only thing he had showed me during the years that followed.
I had been a virgin when I met him all those years ago. I wasn’t a virgin when I left him. Made me think of that Disney song and what it’s really about. I mean, think about it.
I can open your eyes
