Last of the Mighty (3 page)

When I woke that afternoon, Aunt Laurel and Amos were gone, but Merryn was still there. Beautiful as ever. She smiled and waved at me.

I waved back, trying to figure out which parts of the last eleven hours were real and which were dreams. Had Amos really tried to kill me?

I told Merryn about it.

She listened patiently, her fingers running over the stitches that covered my arms like black fly legs.

When I finished, she said, “Well, you know he went to prison.”

“Amos?”

“Child abuse.”

I gave her the no way José look, yet Merryn's face, combined with one of those yeah-that's-right nods, convinced me. No wonder she was so frazzled around him.

“Woulda been attempted murder if the Church hadn't pleaded guilty to abuse.”

“The Church?”

“Amos was a priest.”

“Oh my Gandhi!”

“Training to be an exorcist.”

“What? How can…”

Hmm. Exorcist.

Interesting.

“Amos thinks I'm possessed.”

Merryn raised a confused eyebrow along with the silent huh? that usually goes with that.

I told her about Amos's “Let me free you” line and the “Why don'cha tell me who ya are, son.”

“He knows my name. He wanted the name of the demon he thinks is inside me.”

Merryn lit up. I did too. Because nothing was more entertaining than watching her all hopped up like this when trying to solve a mystery. She'd pace and nod and think out loud. Jag her lips from one side of her face to the other. Say things like “no-ho waay-hay” and “holy whack-a-moley.” Her jaw would fall, her face would quiver, and she'd mumble to herself like she was speaking in tongues.

“Okay,” she admitted. “So it kinda makes sense. But what's with the nail? They don't exorcise demons with nails.”

“Doesn't matter. Amos wasn't gonna kill me. Just ‘free me,'” and I actually did the air quotes. What a dork. I blame the drugs. “He thought he was doin' me a solid. Exorcising my ‘demon.'” And I did it again. Yup, the stupid air quotes. So embarrassing.

I went on to Chool and the hellhounds.

Merryn had no problem with the story. Her father, my Uncle Will, taught a class called Celestial Beings at the Catholic junior high. He knew all about demons, the Tenth Choir of angels, how light and dark forces battled each other…all that stuff.

I told her how the dogs had killed a bunch of the Mighty. Big mistake. Because then Merryn the reporter had to know why Chool would tell me that. No point to it. Unless I had something to do with the Mighty. She busted my chops until I had to let her in on my secret.

That should've blown her away, right? I mean, having Mighty roots was pretty amazing.

So where was her applause? The fanning of me with palm fronds while feeding me grapes?

All I got was, “How long have you known?” with an angry pinch of her lips and folding of arms. The hurt eyes were the worst. Then, as quickly as it had come, she let it go. “Okay. Cool. What next?”

Typical.

Gave her the deets of the brawl.

“So that's why your mom signed you up for all that fighter stuff. She knew this'd happen. Wanted to make sure you were ready.”

It had never occurred to me.

“So, what's the plan?” She looked around the room. “Can't just sit here and wait for Chool to come back. You know he will.”

“Not if I find him first.”

“Yeah, right. He'll totally kill you.”

“Not if I kill him first.”

“Like you're gonna kill someone? You, Mr. G-rated?”

“I'm PG-13 now.” I felt my cheek's scar, a reminder of the new me.

“You're G, Og. Way G.”

“I'm verging on R, sister.”

“Ohhh. Okay.” She nodded sarcastically. “R. Whatev.”

Merryn stared at me, shaking her head while looking over my gashes, welts, and stitches.

“What?” I asked.

“I say we go now then. C'mon, get up!” Her sarcasm grew sharper. “Time to put Chool the Ghoul down.”

She was so annoying. And so right. I could barely stand.

“I s'pose you got somethin' better?”

She paced, whispering to herself, “Cops'll never believe it… Priest maybe… Wonder if Dad knows anyone…” And so on.

We went back and forth for a while, coming up with nothing, until…

“I got it!”

Merryn balked, of course, when I told her my plan. We'd need a few things—sugar, salt, nail polish remover, and some chemicals from the swimming pool supply place—but nothing out of the ordinary. Would've been nice to have an action plan that was more offensive, but considering my condition, I didn't have much choice. Until my strength returned, I'd lean on the shinobi defensive tactic to save my bacon.

Problem was our new Plan A couldn't take effect till tomorrow when Merryn could gather the ingredients.

“What if he comes tonight?” Merryn glanced at the door and its absence of a lock. “Chool's probably too beat up. But Amos…he lives right there.”

Amos. Merryn hadn't seen the tenderness in his hazel-greens. The look that told me I shouldn't worry.

With exhaustion setting in, I looked at my unlockable door. I was weak, an easy target. Doubt squeezed at my throat. What if I was wrong about Amos?

Merryn saw my concern. “Don't worry, Wes Craven.”

Wes Craven. He directed the original Nightmare on Elm Street, one of Merryn's faves. In our language, it was a way to call someone a chicken. “Craven,” she'd informed me, meant “cowardly.”

Reaching into her backpack, Merryn came out with a thick security chain, the kind you mount inside of your door. “Had Jenna bring it over when you were sleepin'. This too.” She held up a battery-operated, stick-on motion detector. Stick it to the door, flick it on, and an alarm would sound if the door moved.

Merryn had totally baited me, bringing up the Amos problem when she had a solution all along. Just to see my reaction. Tricksy little hobbit.

“It won't keep him out.” She took a screwdriver from her pack. “But at least you'll know he's comin'.”

Merryn. Sometimes I thought she liked me too.

The next day, Merryn came over with the Plan A ingredients, and we cooked up the shinobi cocktail. If anyone came to murder me, I'd be prepared.

Yet nobody did. For a few days anyway.

On the fourth night of my recuperation, though, something weird went down.

I was torn from a dead sleep by a voice blaring, “Augustine!”

My eyes snapped open and I bolted upright in bed. Pain bowed my torso into a shape like this—)—and a dozen stitches frayed on my back. I grabbed the shinobi off my nightstand, heart racing, fingers tingling. I gaped around. It was dark, but not so black that someone could hide in the shadows. I was alone.

I squinted at my door's security chain. It was latched. Looked at the motion detector. Its on light glowed green. The voice could've been The Committee, but never before had one of its messages been directed at me. Must've been a dream.

I put my head back to the pillow, closed my eyes, and—

“Listen!”

Definitely The Committee. Instructing me to eavesdrop. On who, I had no idea.

Better obey the voice, I thought. Could be God. Calling to apologize about my mom and allowing my dad to leave us before I could even walk.

Took me a minute to tune out the static of the thousand sounds that were always in my head. When I finally managed it, two voices bubbled to the surface. I'd never done this before, and there was no explanation for how I knew what The Committee wanted me to hear. Somehow, I just did.

Honing in, I heard:

Voice One: “He will come soon, Smiler, and I will knock him!”

Voice Two: “Yes. I too have seen it. Yet knocking him, my friend, may not prove the most prudent course of action. There are…alternatives.”

Voice One: “He killed the dogs of Chool! I will knock him!”

Voice Two: “Easy, my dear Knock, easy. A physical encounter will always remain an option, yes, but far from the only one. Consider that he is young, easily swayed. Consider that a more precious reward may be won by turning him rather than by knocking—”

A high-pitched buzzing, like an army of halogens, marched into my ears. I doubled my efforts.

Voice Two: “Let us be cunning, Knock. Wise, patient. Let us win him gently. And then, when the boy turns, he will believe it was of his own volition.”

Voice One: “He is of the Mighty. The kin of Jashobeam! He will not turn!”

Voice Two: “With time and persistence, my friend, we shall convince him to join the legions of Azazel. And the Master's reward will be ours to share.”

Voice One: “If he resists?”

A long pause.

Voice Two: “Shhh.”

Another pause.

Voice Two: “Someone listens.”

And they were gone.

Ever wake up and just know it's going to be one of those days where everything sucks? Even a glass-is-one-quarter-full guy like me has to admit that certain days are cruel. Bible says they're trials to test our faith and endurance, to build character. Maybe.

I believed good character could just as easily be forged by paying attention to life's nicer things. Relishing the smell, texture, and every bite of a pizza with onions, bacon, and extra cheese. The way it yielded to your teeth and lounged on your tongue before diving down your throat. Flavor so sunk into your cheeks that you could still taste it ten minutes after the last slice was gone. I believed that watching a cloud morph from dragon to bear to clown taught as many lessons as taking out the garbage or weeding the yard.

It was seven days after the Battle of the Boneyard, and I hadn't seen Chool or Amos Booth since, thank God. I was stiff and sore, but healing fast. Yesterday, I even felt healthy enough to leave a note on Amos's pillow suggesting we talk. I'd also convinced Merryn to snip away most of my stitches, leaving only a couple dozen in my back.

I rose early to do some light training. Pushups, dumbbells, kicks, jump rope. When Chool time came again, I'd be ready. Though Plan A was still in motion, I was in a hurry to activate Plan B—search and destroy. But I'd have to wait till my body was ready.

Today would be my first day back at school since my date with Chool. On the way to class, I stopped by my mother's grave in the church cemetery. I cringed when I saw the headstone. Broken and jagged with only a third of it left in the ground. And I had done it. When I'd tossed Chool over my hip. Guess whose headstone he crashed into? I'd probably never get the cash to fix it either. I bowed my head, talked to my mom for a while, and was off to school.

I was almost to first period, my fingertip appreciating my cheekbone's new scar, when the suckfest began. Some guy trying to pass me in the corridor rammed his shoulder into my back. Right into the stitches. Deep and hard. Felt like that hyena-dog was tearing into me again. Guy just kept rolling too. Peered back after ten yards, grinning, like he'd thoroughly enjoyed that.

I should've said something, but didn't. Merryn was right. I was G-rated. Way G. Even with my stitches burning and the guy's annoying face, I convinced myself there were more important things. Like the stuff I'd learned from The Committee a few nights ago. Who were Smiler and Knock, and why should they care about me? And who told me to listen?

In the last two days, I'd dialed up The Committee nineteen times trying to locate Smiler and Knock again. Nothing. Even listened out for any info on Chool, hoping someone would drop some knowledge. You know, where he got his cappuccino, name of his dog groomer, home address... But The Committee didn't yield squat.

The morning's sucktion continued with only a few minor incidents—disagreement with a teacher, visit to the principal's office—and I was happy to arrive at wrestling practice in one piece. Since my injuries had forced me to miss every practice last week, this was to be my first of the season.

Coach Burns wasn't pleased to see me.

Burns was a farmer's son from the Bible Belt who'd been coaching for thirty years. Good at it too, and, in normal circumstances, he liked me. Perhaps because I'd never lost a high school wrestling match.

Coach started in on me about my injuries—like it was my fault.

“It's hahgwahsh, Caffrey! Tahmfoolery! I thahhht you were serious about a schahhlarship, Ahhg.” He took off his baseball cap and ran a pahhlm over his bahhlding head. “Malahhrky like that gets wrestlers hurt, understand? Should be ashamed of yourself. Any more of it and you're ahhff the team. We clear?”

Then he made me run. Two miles. I didn't mind. Needed to build my endurance to battle Chool, Smiler, and Knock.

Coach Burns stopped me so I could meet our newest teammate, Tucker. He had transferred to our school last month. He was six-three, two-twenty with surfer blond hair that curled up like cute little fishhooks at the tips. Coach said Tucker was ahhsome and he wanted to wrestle heavyweight. As there can be only one first-string heavyweight on the varsity team, this was problematic.

For him anyway.

I won state last year.

Even with my stitches, Tucker couldn't touch me.

And I was eager to prove it. More than eager. I longed to bust him up bad, crush him to dust. Not because I was some crazy, power-mad lunatic. And not because this guy was challenging me for the first-string heavyweight slot. It was because Tucker happened to be the crotch-weed who rammed me in the corridor.

He was still wearing that same infuriating smile.

Sadly, Burns would never put me on the mat with a wound still healing on my back. It'd be another week, at least, until he'd let me wrestle. Maybe then I'd get to demolish Tucker and his huge ego.

So imagine the completeness of my joy when Coach Burns asked, “So Ahhg, feeling up for it?”