Muses Musing: Paradise Lot (Urban Fantasy Series) Read online

  The Night Before the Others’ Christmas

  by

  R.E. Vance

  Chapter 1

  The gods are all gone; they left in the night,

  Abandoning myth and legend alike.

  And when they departed, shutting Heaven and Hell,

  Ev’ry creature immortal, to Earth they all fell.

  Born not to die, now mortal made low—

  The gods were so cruel, when they said, “Time to go!”

  How could they do this to beasts of their birthing,

  Who know of our culture not even the first thing?

  Angels of light, and fairies of dust;

  Jinn smokeless fire, and succubae lust.

  All creatures were formed as the gods did deem,

  Save one who appears in ev’ry child’s dream.

  He’s not angel, nor fairy, nor mischievous gnome,

  Yet children ’round Earth oft welcome him home.

  They don’t call him Zeus, Achilles or Rick,

  Instead they call out, “Bring us presents—”

  “St Nick?” I cast a skeptical look at the hobo lying in the gutter. Lying next to him was my best friend, Penemue, the twice-fallen angel. “I’m pretty sure that’s not St Nick.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, for one, St Nick is not real.”

  “Not real? Not real!” Penemue spluttered. “Do you honestly believe the man responsible for bringing joy to millions of children is not real? Do you honestly think that a being who not only ushers in a joyous season, but also is the guest of honor at an annual festival, is not real? The arrogance of you humans… Not only is St Nick real, he is a legend! A legend… and a saint!” Penemue sat in a clinking bed of discarded Drambuie bottles. I counted twelve. A strange mashup of “12 Days of Christmas” and “99 Bottles of Beer” started playing in my head.

  “OK. St Nick was real. But he died… When? Several hundred years ago?”

  “Legends never die,” the twice-fallen angel said, patting the unconscious hobo on the head with a sanctimonious tenderness.

  “Legends might not, but people do.”

  “I assure you, this is St Nick.”

  “No… It’s a hobo with a white beard.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t believe in St Nick?”

  “I’m telling you that he’s just an unconscious hobo, Penemue, and you should leave him alone. And as for believing… Yes, I am telling you that I don’t believe in Jolly Ol’ St Nicholas.”

  “Let me remind you,” Penemue said, struggling to his feet. The discarded bottles of Drambuie clinked their agitation, and at this late hour it sounded like the ringing of discordant bells. Once standing, the twice-fallen angel spread his wings pointedly. “There was a time you didn’t believe in any of us – angels, especially. Yet here I am, a living, breathing, drinking angel.”

  He was right. I never believed in dragons, fairies, jinn or gods until, that is, the gods left. Apparently they got bored or frustrated or whatever emotion gods feel when abandoning their creations, and packed up and left. And what was their last message to humanity after eons of us worshipping them? “Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.” Then – poof – gone, and with their departure they closed all the heavens and hells, forcing creatures once thought of as myth onto Earth where they live as unwanted refugees.

  I didn’t believe in the gods before they left and I don’t believe in them now that they are gone.

  As for angels…

  Penemue arrogantly thrust out his chest – Pride goeth before a fall, I thought – and overbalanced by his wings, he fell back on his rump. The Drambuie sounded its discord once more.

  “You’re drunk,” I said.

  “And you have an unshakeable need to point out the obvious.”

  “True,” I said. “And here’s something else that’s obvious: that’s not Santa Claus.” As if to accentuate my claim, the fat hobo stirred in his sleep, letting out a snort that would have scared off a parcel of hogs.

  Penemue lifted a finger. “First of all, how do you know? And secondly,” Penemue lifted another finger, this one on his other hand, “I didn’t say ‘Santa Claus.’ I said ‘St Nick.’ ”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “One is fictional; the other is not.”

  This was going nowhere and, what’s worse, I found my rage beginning to bubble up. Again. It had been a tough month. Who was I kidding? It had been a tough year – the love of my life, Bella, died, effectively leaving me alone to run the One Spire Hotel. I’d been at my wit’s end trying to keep her dream alive ever since. A hotel, she’d said. A place where Others will never be turned away, no matter what.

  And how will we pay for this if we let them all stay for free? I’d asked one night when she was still very much alive and I was still very much happy.

  Those who can pay, will pay.

  You think so? I mean… humans wouldn’t.

  Others aren’t humans. Then she’d given me that Don’t-worry-it-will-all-work-out look of hers and, well, I’d melted. That’s what I always did when she gave me that look. Hell, that’s what I always did when she gave me any look.

  But that was a lifetime ago and now Bella was dead and gone, and I was the one stuck finding a way. But I made a promise to Bella: to help Others as they found their way in this GoneGod world. That promise is the last thing I have of her, and so I’d keep it, even though it would probably kill me one day.

  Penemue, the once-upon-a-time fallen angel, now drunk and permanent non-paying guest at the One Spire Hotel, tried to stand again, this time with considerably more success because he used his massive, dirt-stained wings as crutches.

  The commotion was bound to annoy the neighbors – again – and since most of them had the police station on speed dial, I knew I had to get these two inside as quickly as possible.

  I lifted a finger of my own and said, “Firstly, you find a fat man with a jolly big beard snoring in the gutter and, because tomorrow’s Christmas, you instantly think he’s Santa Claus – that is what we humans call profiling. Secondly...” I lifted a second finger on my other hand and placed it alongside the first one, doing so with considerably more grace than Penemue had managed. “If we don’t get you and your hobo-who-is-not-Santa-Claus-or-St-Nick inside, you’re going to spend yet another night in the drunk tank. Wouldn’t you rather get upstairs and sleep—”

  “On a bale of hay?” Penemue interrupted.

  “I was going to say in your own room, but yes… on a bale of hay.”

  Penemue huffed at this. “In Hell, my bed was made from alabaster and gold.”

  “Look, I already told you, they don’t make beds big enough to carry someone your size and weight.”

  “I know, I know, but still… I’m not a chicken,” he pouted. “I’m an angel.”

  “An angel who is literally sitting in a gutter with a passed-out,” I waved a hand at the hobo, “whatever he is. Inside, Penemue. Now.”

  “And him?” he asked.

  “Yeah, him,” I sighed. “Room 4 is empty. Help me get him up there.”

  “How charitable of you,” Penemue said, and I honestly couldn’t tell if the angel was being sarcastic or genuine.

  ↔

  Carrying a five-foot-five passed-out fat man into the hotel is a damn-near impossible task, but when your helper is an eight-foot drunken angel, the task shifts from impossible to absurd. We manipulated rolls of fat and pushed against pudgy skin, and by the divine grace of the GoneGods, we somehow managed to plop him into the tiny hotel room.

 
As soon as his ample frame hit the bed, he stirred, a smile cracking open the gray bush of his beard. “You’ve been nice. No coal in your shoes,” he said before promptly passing out again.

  “See?” Penemue slurred. “St Nick.”

  “Drunk hobo,” I countered and threw a blanket over the snoring man.

  ↔

  As soon as we left the room, I was greeted by a chorus of “What is going on here?”

  The closer, more pleasant voice came from the succubus, Astarte, who lived in Room 5. Astarte had been living in the One Spire Hotel for three years now, but unlike most of my regulars… Astarte actually paid. You see, after the gods left, Others struggled to find their place in this new GoneGod world – but not Astarte. For the uninitiated, a succubus is a being who literally sucks your life energy out of you via sex – think of her as an orgasmic vampire. After the gods left, her sexual photosynthesis – or rather, orgasmosynthesis – abilities were no longer viable. So, Astarte used her talents in more traditional ways. In other words, she traded sex for money, which she in turn used to buy everything she needed: food, water, shelter and lingerie. Today’s ensemble included a black see-through teddy, matching panties and nothing else. ’Tis the season.

  The other, far more judgmental voice came from Judith, my mother-in-law, who was human… sort of. She used to be human, but then she died and, because she never approved of my marriage to her precious Bella, came back to this world to haunt me as a ghost (well, poltergeist if you want to be technical). For years things would go missing, I’d wake up in the night in a cold sweat and I constantly heard this nagging voice that told me I wasn’t good enough for Bella. Turns out that nagging voice was Judith’s, haunting me from beyond the grave.

  But then the gods left and ghosts like Judith no longer had the ability to remain invisible and incorporeal, and thus were forced to manifest. She came back in the same dress she was buried in… and, to the casual observer, looked normal enough, until you realized that Judith didn’t walk, but instead floated around on the tattered remains of what used to be her legs.

  I lifted up my hands in surrender. “What is it now?” Before they both could begin their relentless complaints, I cried out, “One at a time! Astarte, since I can guess what your issue is, I’ll let you go first.”

  “You promised me Room 4,” she said in a sultry Parisian accent. I was pretty sure Astarte didn’t speak French and had never been to Paris, but only spoke that way because she knew the accent drove me wild (I prayed to the GoneGods that Judith didn’t know this).

  “I did?”

  “Yes! Humans aren’t the only ones who have parties on Christmas. When I ruled over the Fertile Crescent, we frequently used the Winter Solstice to—”

  “Let me guess: host an orgy.”

  “Worship, Jean-Luc. Worship.”

  “Worship with lots of people in one room?” I asked.

  Astarte nodded.

  “And most if not all of them are naked?” I asked.

  Again the succubus nodded.

  “Orgy, Astarte. That’s an orgy.”

  “Actually, Jean-Luc,” Penemue interjected, “many sex cults in the Far East do not experience climax during their fornications, oft times—”

  “Penemue. Get to the point,” I said.

  “Not all orgies are orgies,” the angel muttered under his breath.

  To this Astarte nodded in agreement.

  “Fine, fine,” I said, turning back to Astarte. “The two rooms on the second floor are empty, will they do?”

  Astarte grumbled but, seeing that this was the best deal she was going to get, acquiesced with a bow.

  “Now hold on…” Judith said, staring at me with eyes of condemnation. “Tomorrow is Christmas Day, and I will not sing Christmas carols to the accompaniment of moans and groans!”

  “Fine,” I said. “Astarte can throw her party in the cellar, which should be soundproof to any… musical ‘accompaniment.’ There’s more space down there anyway.”

  Astarte cocked a subtle grin and I got the feeling that the cellar was what she wanted in the first place.

  “Now, if there isn’t anything else I can help you with—”

  “Actually there is,” said all three this time.

  “What now?”

  All three of them started talking. From what I could gather, Judith wanted access to the kitchen to cook a turkey; Penemue wanted more hay, Drambuie and books (and had no money for any of it); and Astarte wanted the master key so she could take the bedding and linens from the unoccupied rooms to furnish her worship party downstairs.

  And even though it was damn near midnight, they all wanted it now.

  Just as their demands were reaching a crescendo, I cried out, “Enough!” The force of my voice must have been quite jarring because all three stopped speaking at once. “I don’t get it… All year, I do stuff for each of you. You,” I pointed at Penemue, “I bail you out of jail, I give you money that you squander on booze and I’m constantly helping you with some harebrained idea.” I gesticulated wildly at the room housing the drunk hobo to prove my point.

  “And you,” I pointed at Astarte, “I let you have your parade of costumers, but no matter how many times I tell you, you just don’t seem to get that wearing lingerie out in public is not an acceptable thing to do.”

  I finally turned to Judith. “And as for you… I get why you think I wasn’t good enough for your daughter. She was amazing and the truth is, no one on this Earth was good enough for her. But I did my best and she loved me! For that reason, if nothing else, I deserve some slack!”

  I started down the stairs to my room, then turned back. “Do any of you know how hard running this damn hotel is? We hardly have any guests and when we do, half of them can’t pay anything and the other half thinks that a vial of ground granite is a perfectly acceptable form of payment.”

  “Actually, for dwarves, granite dust is very valuable—”

  “Shut it, Penemue! Seriously. Not now. Just for one day can’t you act like what you are? An angel.” I shook my head in frustration. I looked at my watch – quarter past midnight. “You know what? It’s officially Christmas Day and I’m taking the day off. For the next twenty-four hours I’m on holiday and you guys are on your own. Now, if you’ll excuse me… Goodnight.”

  And with that I left a drunk angel, a succubus and the poltergeist of my mother-in-law alone on the stoop of the third floor landing.

  Hellelujah!

  Chapter 2

  Inside the room, the hobo hears all;

  Jean-Luc is just mad, sad and appalled.

  Though this hotelier thinks he’s no St Nick,

  He is—or was, but the world lost its magic.

  The gods may be gone, and with them magic’s throne,

  But there’s still a bit left in ol’ St Nick’s bones.

  So harkening back to who he once was,

  He touches the hearts of ghost, angel and succubus.

  Inspiration’s within and also without,

  For these Others three, there’s little to doubt:

  They owe Jean-Luc for One Spire’s refuge;

  So this Christmas Day, why not give back what they’ve—?

  “I refuse to take this anymore,” I said with a huff as I walked into my room, slamming my door. Immediately I regretted it. Tink would be asleep. I looked over at my shelf. It was filled with relics of my childhood: the complete ensemble of 1984–’91 G1 Transformers, a troop of GI Joes, Smurfs, Voltron, Cabbage Patch Kids and a herd of My Little Ponies. Castle Grayskull – Tink’s home – didn’t light up, so either I didn’t wake up the three-inch-tall golden fairy or she knew I was in a mood and chose to pretend to sleep.

  Either way, I whispered “I’m sorry” in the direction of the castle and went to bed.

  The real world might have been overwhelming and frustrating, but there was one place I could always go to find peace. My dreams.

  I closed my eyes, figuring it would take a while to fall asleep�
� but it didn’t. Either I was more exhausted than I thought, or I was excited to see the girl of my dreams again.

  ↔↔↔

  “Merry Christmas,” she says.

  Bella stands on the beach, wearing the same sleeveless sun dress that she wears on all our nightly rendezvous. It’s the dress she wore the night I proposed to her. The same dress she wore when we drove up to my PopPop’s cabin for what would pass as our honeymoon.

  The dress she was wearing the day the Others killed her.

  “How do you know it’s Christmas…” I start, but then I remember. Tapping my head, I smile and say, “Because you’re in here.”

  “And in here.” Strolling over to me, she places her hand on my chest. Her hand passes through me like a ghost. But Bella is no ghost… She can’t be. For when the gods left, they closed all the heavens and hells. Since the GrandExodus, the souls of the dead have had nowhere to go. They just fade into black and disappear forever.

  And Bella died after the gods left. After the GrandExodus.

  My Bella is gone. Forever.

  But not in my dreams. This Bella – standing on the beach with her hand pressed to my heart, but not actually touching me at all – is just a hallucination conjured by a sad man who misses his wife. And for reasons that Freud would have a conniption trying to figure out, Dream Bella and I never touch.

  As her hand passes through me, I feel the old pain. What I wouldn’t give to be able to touch her again… Hell, what I wouldn’t give to have any part of our past be tangible once more.

  Bella senses my disappointment and says, “No pouting. Not today.”

  “Why not? Today seems like a totally reasonable day to pout.”

  “Christmas?”

  “No. Tuesday.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, mister. OK, fine, pout. But while you do, why don’t I give you your Christmas gift?”

  “There’s only one thing I want for Christmas,” I say, reaching out my hand.