Keep Evolving: A Paradise Lot Urban Fantasy

  Bonus Content:

  OK—so we’re accumulating quite the cast and growing quite the world … a world that cannot be contained by just following Jean-Luc’s story. That’s why I’m in the process of writing a series of short stories that will NEVER BE SOLD, and are reserved for fans of the series.

  CLICK HERE IF YOU’D LIKE EXCLUSIVE ACCESS TO PARADISE LOT CONTENT

  Part 1

  Prologue

  Tomorrow—

  Things are what they are, and Azzah does what she must to survive.

  But surviving isn’t easy anymore. And living is even harder. Azzah must work for the humans—the AlwaysMortals—in order to do either. Sure, they provide her with food and shelter, doctors and something called a pension, but Azzah is no longer free to come and go as she pleases, roam all the worlds as she once did. Instead, she is chained by what the AlwaysMortals call a job.

  Azzah’s job is helping the humans drill deep into the ocean floor for oil. Humans are more obsessed with the black muck than dwarves are with gems and jewels. They seem to always be fighting each other to get more. Well, what does Azzah care? She is well paid—or so she is told—and her job has benefits. Something the humans call dental. Azzah is not sure what dental is, but the gleam of satisfaction humans get in their eyes when they talk about it leads her to believe that dental is a thing of great value.

  ↔

  “There she blows,” cries out the AlwaysMortal known as George as she breaks the ocean’s surface. The humans nearby laugh at his joke. Even though George has explained it many times, Azzah does not know why the humans find this funny. The expression, George once told her, was used by humans who hunted whales. When they spotted a whale surfacing for air, a geyser of water blowing out of its spout, they would yell out, “There she blows!” What followed was a hunt in which these AlwaysMortals would spear the whale, forcing it to remain surfaced, and eventually kill it. How referencing the death of a whale is considered humor, Azzah does not know.

  “Because,” George has explained, “you’re not a whale.”

  No, she isn’t. She is a myarid. A sea-jinni. Of course, she would be honored to be a whale. Azzah has never met a whale she did not like. Amongst all of creation, whales are well known for their kindness and wisdom. And as for humor? It is well documented in all the once-upon-a-time heavens and hells that whales are amongst the funniest creatures in existence. Their knack for unusual observations told with perfect timing makes them wonderful entertainers. Not like these AlwaysMortals. Not like George.

  Still, despite his insensitive joke, Azzah likes George. He speaks to her as an equal, unlike so many humans who treat her like a trained seal. One day Azzah will again explain to George why his joke is not funny, but not today. Today she is working.

  Azzah doesn’t like working for humans, but what else can she do? Survival isn’t easy in this new GoneGod world. When Azzah was immortal, she spent her days doing as she pleased, swimming the vast oceans of both the mortal plane and her home world, the emerald cities of Qa, without hunger or fatigue, without fear of being hurt and without fear of death. But now … now is different. Now she gets hungry. She gets tired. And when she is hurt—which has only happened once when she broke her arm while trying to fix one of the humans’ ridiculous underwater drills—she cannot pray to her gods to be healed instantaneously. Now, she needs a “doctor.” And as for death? Sadly, that is a very real threat these days.

  For her, the GrandExodus happened while she was already on Earth, roaming the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean on one of her frequent trips. It started with the voice of Hermes, the messenger of her god, in her head. “Thank you for believing in us,” he said, “but it is not enough. We’re leaving. Good luck.” At first she didn’t know what to think. Rarely did the gods speak directly to myarids, and in her thousands of years, Poseidon—the myarids’ god—had only spoken to her twice. Once was when they were at war with the ifrit. The second time was when he opened the waterways between this world and Irem Emad.

  After Hermes delivered his message, she could no longer feel her home.

  It was the mortals’ season of autumn, which meant her sisters would have been attending the Celestial Solace. She only needed to think of them and be connected instantly. She tried to summon a portal, open up the pathway back to Qa, but it was simply not there. Fine, she thought. If I cannot go to them, then I shall summon them to me. But as soon as she began to manipulate the currents she needed for her summoning spell, she felt a deep sensation of decay. She was aging. That much was sure. And as if by instinct born not at the beginning of life but at that very moment, she knew that every second she spent on magic was a minute less of her life.

  She knew this as she knew she now needed food to eat, water to drink and air to breathe.

  Azzah was dying. Not immediately, but slowly, from a terrible disease called aging. And the use of magic hastened that process until one day she would use all the time she had and be no more. Azzah wasn’t afraid to die, but she was no fool, either. She would save her time and use it only when absolutely necessary.

  Scared to use magic and even more scared of no longer being connected, Azzah emerged from the depths and saw the destruction that the gods’ departure had created. It would not be long until she learned what everyone else knew. The gods had left, closing all the heavens and hells when they did, and with that closing they had given their once loyal servants a choice: Stay and perish, or go to the only plane of existence left. Earth.

  And what of her family? She learned from the kelpies that they had not left. They were myarids, and they had done what any member of her tribe would do—they had stayed behind to fight for their home. Brandishing weapons of war—tridents, nets, spears and harpoons—they’d fought the enclosing darkness. But how does one fight the dying of the light and expect to survive? It is like trying to tame a tornado with a paper fan.

  Azzah, who was never given the choice of whether to stay and die, or run and survive, now lives on the mortal plane. Every day spent is one day closer to the end. Death by time. She would rather have died fighting an impossible battle than live like this.

  Azzah hands the foreman her sensor, and he plugs it into something called a laptop. Readings pop up on the screen. “Strong currents down there?” he asks.

  “Nothing I cannot handle,” Azzah says.

  “I suppose not, you being a mermaid and all,” he says with a wink.

  “I’m not a mermaid, I’m a—”

  “Myarid. I know, I know. Sheesh, Azzah, lighten up. I was just joking,” George says as he continues to evaluate the readings. Again, she doesn’t get the joke. A part of her understands why the AlwaysMortals think of her as a mermaid. Both myarids and mermaids have dorsal lower bodies and humanoid upper bodies. But unlike a mermaid, Azzah can spend her entire life underwater, never needing a breath of air. Of course, she can also spend her entire life above water as well. She would like to see a mermaid do that. Mermaids are slow and weak, choosing to run from a great white shark rather than fight. Great whites swim from her—she doubts there is a creature beneath the ocean’s surface as strong as herself.

  Except, that is, another myarid—not that there are many of them left.

  Azzah shakes her head—to think a myarid is the same as a mermaid is to think a lion is the same as a kitten.

  “Ahhh, Azzah,” George says in a distracted voice, looking at the sky above her. “Could you submerge a bit? You’re … you’re . . . too high.”

  Azzah looks over to see several of the male variety staring at her. None of them make eye contact, all of them gazing below. She looks down and sees that while distracted in thought, she had p
ushed herself up, her torso now above water, her wet breasts glistening in the late-afternoon sun. That is another thing she will never understand—humans and their love of breasts.

  Several of the men groan as she lowers her body so only her head is above water.

  “Thanks,” George says with a kind smile. He returns to the readings. His brow furrows and concern creeps onto his face. “Hey, what’s this?” he asks, tilting the screen so Azzah can see it. Amongst the blips and beeps, curved lines and numbers, there is an anomaly. One of the drill lines is under immense pressure, but unlike the typical problems of strong currents or large creatures bumping against it, the sensors indicate that the drill is being pulled into the earth. That should not happen.

  “I will investigate,” Azzah says.

  George hands her a commlink. It is a small earbud that was designed to withstand massive amounts of pressure. It had to—Azzah refused to wear a pressurized suit when diving to the ocean floor. “Be careful.”

  Azzah scowls. “Why do you always say that to me? There is nothing below that can hurt me.”

  “Hey, do you know what would happen to me if I went that deep without a whole lot of stuff to protect me? If the cold wouldn’t kill me first, then the pressure would crush me like a tin can. And if, by a miracle, that didn’t get me, I’d get eaten by a shark or a giant squid or something.”

  “I have told you many times, Human George, and I will tell you again. Giant squids do not like the taste of human flesh.”

  “Still,” George says, his eyes softening as he looks at Azzah, “be careful.”

  Azzah glares in frustration before submerging.

  ↔

  “Hey,” Azzah’s commlink buzzes to life with George’s voice, “how’s it going down there?”

  “I am here.”

  “Where?”

  “At the bottom.”

  “What? How?” George fumbles. “You’ve been gone for less than … four minutes. Are you telling me you swam seven thousand feet in less than four minutes?”

  “Yes,” Azzah says flatly.

  “That’s amazing!”

  “No, it isn’t,” Azzah says. “I’ve seen myarids who could traverse the strongest—”

  “Azzah—”

  “Yes?”

  “Just let me be amazed.”

  “Very well, Human George, be amazed.”

  There is a pause and then the commlink buzzes, “Thank you. OK, what do you see down there?”

  The drill is three meters in circumference, and Azzah circles it several times, examining the floor and entry point, looking for whatever could be pulling at it. Everything seems perfectly normal. She goes to the tethers that hold the drill in place. Again, normal.

  She clicks on her commlink. “I do not see anything unusual.”

  “OK, probably just a faulty sensor,” George says. Then, after a long pause, the commlink crackles, “Say—while you’re down there, I don’t suppose you could do me a favor? I, ahhh, got this date and it would be really cool if I could give her a seashell from so deep.”

  “A seashell?”

  “Yeah—or a rock … anything that looks, you know, cool.”

  “Something cool?” Azzah asks. “Below, everything is cool, if not cold. But once it surfaces, it will most likely become surface temperature and—”

  “Something pretty. I meant something pretty.”

  “Pretty? I think I understand. It is part of your courting ritual … like when one of my kind presents the desired myarid a slain great white as a way of expressing the desire to mate. I can help you with that.”

  “Oh gosh, please don’t kill a shark. I was thinking a lot smaller.”

  “Like the aforementioned seashell?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “And that impresses the females of your species.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Your females do not expect very much. Very well, Human George. I shall bring you a seashell.”

  “Thanks.”

  Azzah clicks off the commlink and searches the seabed for a desirable shell. At this depth, simple things like shells are not commonplace, but Azzah assumes she could capture a spider crab and strip it of its shell. That should please the human George.

  Azzah hunts. She sees a large rock just beyond the drill’s tethers. Underneath the rock will surely be her intended prey. She grabs at it, seeking to turn it over. The rock is unusually heavy. Perhaps it is a piece of something much bigger. But the scans of this area show that there should be no large rock bed beneath. It doesn’t make sense that she can’t lift this rock. She tries again, this time summoning all her strength. The rock moves, but not from her efforts. It is moving under its own power.

  She realizes that it is not a rock at all, but something else entirely, shooting straight up from the ocean bed. It is … it is … by the GoneGods, Azzah does not believe what she is seeing. Surely they would have taken her with them, she thinks.

  “George,” Azzah says on the commlink, but before she can say more she is distracted by a giant hand that emerges from the ocean floor.

  “Azzah, you OK? You sound worried. You never sound worried.”

  George’s voice brings her back. “George,” she says, her voice low, “listen to me very carefully. Everyone needs to evacuate the rig.”

  “Evacuate?”

  “Now, George. Now.” She looks at the moving rock and thinks of her family, how they fought the darkness for their home. How they fought for each other.

  How they died with honor standing up, against insurmountable odds, for the ones they loved.

  “What’s going on down—”

  “George,” Azzah interrupts. “You are the one AlwaysMortal who always treated me with kindness and respect. You are my friend and the closest person I have to family in the GoneGod world. For that I will fight for you. Give you time. Now, please … don’t make my sacrifice be in vain. Take the helicopter, save as many as you can. Run. Run and live.”

  George starts to protest, but before he can say anything, Azzah cuts the commlink and looks at the hand.

  How does one fight the “dying of the light” and hope to survive? The answer is that one doesn’t. But sometimes you fight even when there is no hope, because … well … because some things are worth dying for. And there is no greater death than dying for your home. For your friends. For your family. Azzah knows this, just as her tribe once did.

  She burns time. A lot of it. It does not matter. This will all be over in a few minutes. She can only hope that those minutes are enough time for George to find safety. Azzah burns time and summons her trident. She raises it above her head and cries out in rage.

  How could they have been so careless and left her behind? It is the last question that crosses her mind as she attacks the creature emerging from the ocean floor.

  Chapter 1

  A Nest of Sexy Vipers

  Twelve Hours Earlier—

  “Hold on, let me ask,” I said, looking over at my date. I held up two fingers, and she nodded. “OK, make that two of the same.”

  “Two scoops of bananarama ice cream in a waffle cone—sprinkles and marshmallows,” the hobgoblin screamed to the back.

  “No, no, no,” I said. “Two single scoops.”

  The hobgoblin nodded with an expression of complete understanding. “Two single scoops of bananarama ice cream in a single cone.”

  “No … two single scoops, one per cone,” I said, summoning every ounce of my not-so-infinite patience. Remember, Jean-Luc, I told myself, they’re new to all of this. After all, how many ice cream parlors were there in the UnSeelie Court anyway? I held up two fingers in hopes that the gesture would help clarify my point.

  It didn’t. The hobgoblin looked at me as if I was the one confused and said, “That’s what I said. Two single scoops in a cone,” and before I could protest, he handed me a waffle cone with two scoops.

  “Fine,” I said, taking the cone and handing it to my date. “Can I have an
other of the same?”

  “Two scoops of bananarama ice cream—sprinkles and marshmallows? Did you want that in one or two cones?” the hobgoblin said with a grin that exposed three rows of serrated teeth.

  Cheeky little bastard.

  ↔

  We left the ice cream parlor and went for a walk on the Promenade. I looked over at Medusa—as in Queen of the Gorgons, snakes-for-dreadlocks Medusa—and thought, I shouldn’t be on a date. Not today. And if I was honest with myself … not ever.

  The reason I shouldn’t be here today was because tonight was the gala. It was some big dinner being hosted by some big kahuna Other called The BisMark. Not that I ever heard of him. But when I told the drunk fallen angel who lives in my hotel that The BisMark wanted to use my hotel, the angel furled his wings in tight and said in a voice that was equal parts admiration and fear, “What? The gods didn’t take him with them?” So it was that kind of big kahuna. Not that I really cared—as long as the check didn’t bounce, I was happy.

  Given that The BisMark was throwing his event at the Millennium Hotel—my hotel—I should have been busy, but The BisMark didn’t trust my poorly trained staff, opting to bring in his own. Seems this BisMark was particular and didn’t want me and my ilk mucking things up. Hell, he paid me extra to stay out of his way. We weren’t permitted in the kitchen, we couldn’t help with the decorating … we weren’t even allowed to clean the guest rooms, each one being turned down by his army of gargoyle servants.

  Who was I to complain? I had a full hotel at full rates and no work. Still, I was going crazy not being allowed to do anything. Getting out would be good for me, and Medusa knew it, too.

  She walked in the foyer of the Millennium Hotel wearing a long sun dress with roses on it, looked at the gargoyles who were preparing everything and said, “Let’s go.” To my credit, I did protest, but she folded her arms over her chest and gave me an “I won’t take no for an answer” look, and I knew I was stuck.