Misfit (10 page)

Belial landed in a bolt of white lightning. He was twice her height, glinting in the moonlight like a creature made of ice and razor blades. The moment he touched down, Astarte sent him reeling with a blast of fire. He recovered quickly, then hurled a blast of sleet that tore into her flesh and left her bloody and fighting to stay on her feet. They fought for some time, fire against ice. The skies flickered and rumbled as they grappled.

But the last few centuries had given Belial a strength and stamina few could match. Final y, he broke through a wal of fire and grabbed her by the neck.

Then he began to slowly tear her apart and consume her, limb by limb. The last piece was her left arm. He started from the shoulder, cramming it down his throat. But when he had almost reached the elbow, she stil somehow had enough presence to bend her arm, reach around his head, and tear off his ear just as he swal owed the last of her, and the ear with her.

He bel owed in pain and rage, clutching at the wound in the side of his head. Then he tore apart the tent, looking for the halfbreed. When he didn’t find her, his roar shook the mountains like an earthquake.

Asmodeus watched it al . He marveled at what Astarte had done that night. It was not just a battle that had taken place, but a complex and powerful ritual with herself as the sacrifice. This is what she had meant when she had spoken to him, agreeing to spare him. That a time would come when he would be able to repay his debt and find renewed purpose.

First, he would spread the word of what he had seen this night, quietly, careful y, to sympathetic persons.

The Grand Duke of the Northern Reaches had been outwitted. And what was more, his precious own perfection had been marred.

Change, real and inescapable, had been wrought this night.

Asmodeus had experienced much in his long existence. He knew the beginning of an epoch when he saw it. The fal of the Grand Dukes of Hel was at hand, and the infant halfbreed would be the catalyst. It seemed impossible that such a creature could survive long enough to reach maturity. But on that night, Asmodeus swore that he would do whatever he could to make sure that she lived long enough to come into her own power and fight for herself.

Jael lets the necklace drop back to hang from her neck. She looks first at her father, then at Dagon.

“Why did she do it?” she asks. “Why did she stay behind to die?”

Her father stares at the necklace, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“She had to,” says Dagon. “Belial couldn’t trace you anymore, but he could stil trace her.”

“There had to be another way,” says her father.

“There was also something about what she did, ripping off his ear, and the way she did it,” says Dagon. “I don’t real y understand it myself, but I know it was something that had to happen.”

“But why did that demon want to kil me so badly?”

says Jael. “I was just a baby.”

“Because you’re half mortal, half demon,” says Dagon. “You knew that, right?”

“Why is it so bad to be a halfbreed?”

“It’s not bad!” says Dagon. “But it’s unusual. The only time one is created is when a mortal and demon truly love each other. You can guess how often that happens. In the past, some of those halfbreeds became real y powerful and caused a lot of trouble for became real y powerful and caused a lot of trouble for the established order. Basical y, you’re a wild card.

Belial and the other Grand Dukes have plans in motion, and you’re just the kind of person who could screw them up.”

“Don’t fil the girl’s head with your Reclamation destiny garbage,” says her father. He turns to Jael. “Look, Belial is the ultimate perfectionist. He has a homicidal obsession with purity.

Belial has made it a personal mission that demon blood wil never get corrupted by mortals again.”

“And you’re saying this Belial is stil out there somewhere looking for me?”

“Yes,” says her father. “Which is why we’ve been hiding al these years. Why we have to move so much.

Because he wil never give up. Not just because are you a halfbreed. But also because your mother mutilated him. He wants revenge.”

“So what do we do?” she asks.

“Give her the letter,” says Dagon.

Her father looks like he wants to object. But instead he presses his lips into a tight, thin line and nods.

Then he turns and picks up the Bible that always sits on the coffee table. He flips through the onion-skin pages until he finds a specific page and pul s out an old, yel owed paper.

“This is from your mother,” he says, extending the folded paper.

Jael’s hands tremble as she takes it from her father.

On it is written:

To Jael Thompson, on her sixteenth birthday.

The handwriting is smal , jagged, and strangely ornamental, almost like that old manuscript style, except messy. Jael takes a deep breath to steady her hands. Then she careful y unfolds the paper, which crackles and feels both rough and delicate from age.

The pages are laced with scribbles, scratched-out words, and smears of ink.

Dearest Jael,

You are sixteen now. I must confess that it is strange to imagine you as a teenager while I look at you now, as a baby, lol ing around on a blanket, drooling and puking on yourself!

But that is one of the many precious marvels of humanity that I have come to appreciate.

My daughter, it is time for you to reclaim that which you have been denied al these years. It is time for you to embrace your demon aspect. I’m sure it was difficult for you al these years, knowing what you are capable of, but not being able to accomplish it.

Remember that it has been difficult for your father as wel . I am certain he has done the best he can, but my death wil go hard on him. It may indeed be a wound that never heals. He has carried a burden no mortal should ever be asked to carry. But believe me when I tel you, I could see no alternate course of action. It was my death that guaranteed your life.

So I must leave you in the care of your father and your uncle Dagon. If you have not met your uncle, you soon wil . You must try not to judge him immediately. He is ugly, he can be difficult sometimes, and can be rude most times. But listen to him. He is incapable of lying and has seen more civilizations rise and fal than he would care to count. There is no one in al of Hel who cares for you more. He wil be your guide as you learn what it means to be a demon. And that is what you must do now. It wil be dangerous, of course. But it is time for you to accept what you are. To go forth and be the wondrous creature you were meant to be.

There is so much more that I want to tel you. But when I real y consider it, I realize that most of what I have to say would not actual y be helpful to you right now. It might even make things more difficult. So, I must trust that your father and your uncle wil , between the two of them, lead you on the right path.

Hel is a dangerous place and many in it wil hate you simply because of what you are. They wil cal you

“halfbreed,” which is a very inaccurate name. Do not ever think of yourself as half of anything. You are al human, and al demon. You have every right to both heritages. Remember, my dearest, that you were created from a love that is seldom found on this earth or anywhere else. With time, patience, and courage, there is no tel ing what you are capable of.

Love,

Your mother,

Astarte Thompson

Of al the things contained in the letter, the phrase that Jael reads over and over again, and final y speaks, just to hear it, is

“Your mother.”

It sounds almost like a prayer.

“Jael,” says her father. “I know this must be a lot to take in.

Perhaps we should stop for the night—”

“Are you kidding?” says Dagon. “Now we free her demon half!”

“Wait a minute, Dagon,” says her father. “Let’s not—”

“What happens when we do that?” asks Jael.

Dagon shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot of stuff.”

“Wil I . . . ” She’s not sure how to say it without making it total y offensive. “Wil I look like you?”

“Ah . . . ,” says Dagon, and his smile fades. He shakes his head. “No, I look like this for a different reason. It’s not hereditary. You’l probably look more like your mother.”

“And wil I have, like . . . powers?”

His fanged grin returns. “Never know until we try.”

“Jael,” says her father, “I real y think—”

“How do we do it?” asks Jael.

“Let’s see that necklace again,” Dagon says.

She pul s the gem up from under her blouse. It feels warm to the touch. “You’re going to put this back into me?”

“Yep.”

“But then . . .” She frowns. “Won’t that other demon, Belial, be able to find me?”

“Yes, exactly!” says her father. “Belial is waiting for this to happen!”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Dagon says to her father.

“Sure, he’l hear it al right. But he won’t know what it is exactly or where it’s coming from. There wil be way too much noise for him to get any useful information out of the event. But al that’s beside the point.” Then he turns to her. “Jael,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said her name. Most people pronounce it “Jail,”

but Dagon pronounces it “yah-ÉL,” from the old Hebrew.

Jael’s always been slightly uncomfortable with her name, like it doesn’t fit. But when her uncle says it, it sounds right. It sounds beautiful. “Jael,” he says again.

“It’s time to become your whole self. Haven’t you always felt it? An emptiness? Like you’ve lost something?”

She nods.

“You can’t go on living a half a life. Being a demon is part of who you were meant to be. And if you don’t do it now, you lose the chance to be a whole being forever.”

“What do you mean I lose it forever?” asks Jael.

“Your demon half wil start to fade soon,” says Dagon.

“We don’t know that for sure!” says her father.

Dagon looks at him, his face ful of disgust. “It’s been away from her long enough. Maybe even too long already. Did you real y think this was a permanent solution? Why do you think Astarte insisted on this age? She was pushing it as far as she could without risking irreparable damage.” He turns back to Jael.

“This is what your mother wanted. I trust her completely.

Your father did too, once upon a time.”

“I did until she betrayed me,” said Paul.

“Stil , after al these years, you can’t bring yourself to see it,”

said Dagon sadly. “To believe that it’s possible.”

“Here we go again,” says Paul, rol ing his eyes. “You and your grand fantasies. There is no destiny, no prophecy, no Reclamation. You’re deceiving yourself if you think we’re anything more than accidental misfits!”

Dagon says nothing, just looks at him with his shiny, black eyes, his face alien and unreadable. Then he turns to Jael.

“Wel ?” he asks her. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to be what my mother said,” she says quietly.

“The

. . . how did she say it? . . . ‘wondrous creature’ she thinks I’m meant to be. That’s what I want.”

“Jael,” says her father. There’s a pleading tone in his voice.

“You don’t have to decide right now. A few more days won’t hurt. Take some time to get your bearings, think it through.

Because you won’t be able to change your mind later.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” she says. “And I’m tired of doing it your way al the time.” She takes off her necklace and holds it out to Dagon.

He smiles appreciatively as he takes it from her. “This is nice work. She was so good at this kind of stuff.”

With his thumb, he bends back the silver clasps that anchor the gem to the chain.

He holds the gem out to her father.

“Here,” he says. “You have to do it.”

Her father reluctantly takes the gem from Dagon’s hand. He walks over to her, looking tired and a little sick.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks her. “It’s going to change everything.”

“Good,” she says. She pul s the col ar of her shirt wide.

“It’s also probably going to hurt,” he says. “A lot.”

“Do it,” she says.

He places the gem on her bare skin just below her throat.

“I release you.”

The world crashes down around her.

She can’t breathe.

She can’t see.

She can’t move.

Her skin is slowly peeled from her body. She knows something low and guttural must be coming out of her mouth.

She can feel it ripping its way out of her lungs and past her throat. But she can’t hear it because there is a roar in her veins like a hurricane. Then she hears a crack, like the first strike of thunder. A bright, pure light pierces her, fixes her on a single point of space and time, and she is screaming stil , though not from pain, but from fear and wonder. Like she’s just been born.

The storm within her recedes until she is left with only the sound of her own breath. She opens her eyes.

Everything is the same, but it looks different now—

clearer, sharper, more alive. It’s like the world had always been covered in a thick layer of dust before, and now it’s al been wiped clean.

She sees the tiny cracks in the paint on the ceiling and hears the water flowing through the pipes in the wal . Dagon smiles at her, his sharp toothy grin consuming most of his face. She smiles back. Then she looks at her father and she is amazed at how old and weak he looks. Sadness hangs around him like a haze.

“Dad . . . ,” she says.

“You look . . . ” he says, “just like her.” Then a tear rol s down his weathered cheek and it’s the most beautiful thing that she has ever seen. It glitters like precious crystal and drops from his chin with a grace that makes her catch her breath. She watches it hit the floor, spreading out until it is absorbed by the wood.

“I want to see the moon,” she says suddenly, and turns and walks out the front door. She hears Dagon cal out to her, but his voice isn’t nearly as interesting as the squeak of the front steps beneath her feet or the damp smel of the night with the faintest trace of salt from Puget Sound.

She stands on the sidewalk in front of the house and looks up. Clouds trail across the sky like the memories of dreams. The moon shines as bright as the sun, but with a grace and gentleness that the sun could never show. She sees in its pockets and craters old battle wounds from meteors that hit long ago, before the age of humanity. Before life on this planet.

She looks deep into the night sky and she can feel the vast, limitless space like it’s something that continues beneath her skin. In that moment, she understands what infinity means. She understands how smal a part she is within it, hurtling through its depths. Al control on this planet is an il usion. As that understanding grows, so does a sense of helpless vertigo. Like her vision is pul ing her forward, off balance, as though she feels the roundness of the Earth and every step must be taken careful y or she’l fal right off. . . .

She shakes her head, closes her eyes, tries to rid herself of the sensation. But she can stil see the night sky beneath her eyelids, drawing her out into the cold, uncaring stars. She can’t even remember what reality is supposed to look like. Even as she stands on the sidewalk with her eyes squeezed tight, a part of her is being pul ed farther and farther through the cosmos until she feels so stretched out that she could snap.

She screams, and screams, and screams.

Dimly she’s aware of thick, scaled arms wrapping around her and dragging her back into the house and to the kitchen table.

“Look,” she hears Dagon’s voice say, piercing through the panic.

There’s a smal bowl of water in front of her. It pul s her attention immediately and focuses her down until she’s only aware of the countless minute movements of the water. The surface ripples gently, and it feels like a waterfal is pouring over her, cleansing her, breaking her free of everything else. She shudders and sighs.

“Okay now?” Dagon is directly behind, stil holding her.

She nods, her eyes on the water.

His arms slowly release her.

“What’s that burning smel ?” she asks.

“Me,” says Dagon.

Jael looks up. There are scorch marks on his arms and chest. Smal swaths of scales are peeling off to reveal blistered flesh beneath.

“What happened?”

“You,” he says. Then he grins. “Cool, huh? Your whole body went hot when I grabbed you. Great reflexes you’ve got, kid. A natural.” He slaps her on the back, a look of pride on his face.