Misfit (4 page)

The first few drops of rain hit the window screen and stick in the tiny black squares, creating odd pixilated patterns. As the rain picks up speed, the patterns expand until the entire screen is drenched and begins to drip. A little spray makes it through, and drops prickle her face.

Then the lightning and thunder come, emerging from seething purple clouds. They rol and flicker in a soothing rhythm, lighting up the sky in quick bursts.

Jael holds her necklace up to see how the lightning reflects off of it.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it almost seems to absorb the light. In fact, there’s something about the center that plays tricks on her eyes. It almost looks like something is moving in there.

She turns on the lamp next to her bed. Then she squints back down at the center of the gem. No, it’s no trick. There real y is something moving inside. She squints hard, trying to make it out. Gradual y the tiny swirling shapes within sharpen and come into focus until she’s staring at a red-tinted, miniature version of her kitchen.

There’s a moment of dizzy vertigo and the world seems to lurch forward. Then it’s as if she’s in the tiny kitchen herself, hovering like a ghost.

Her father sits at the table, just like she left him. But now there are other things in front of him: a smal ceramic bowl, a bottle of alcohol, gauze, surgical tape, a knife.

He picks up the knife and looks at it for a moment, turning it slightly so the light flashes along the edge.

He positions the bowl of water in front of him and holds his hand over it. Then, whispering something quietly under his breath, he draws the knife slowly across his palm until a thin trickle of blood runs down and dribbles into the bowl of water. He continues to mutter under his breath as he squeezes his hand into a hard fist so that a little more blood drips into the bowl. He careful y cleans his hand with the alcohol and wraps it up in gauze. Then he stares back at the bowl of blood and water, waiting.

The surface of the liquid shivers and gradual y the swirls of blood coalesce into a perfect ring.

Something that isn’t exactly a voice, but more like an audible ripple in the air says, “Yeah?” It’s a harsh, deep, masculine sound.

“It’s done,” says Jael’s father.

“You gave her the necklace?”

“Yes.”

“Strange. I didn’t hear anything. Didn’t you release it?”

“I gave her the necklace,” says her father. “That was al I promised her mother I would do.”

There is a pause, while the blood in the bowl writhes for a moment. Then it reforms.

“You are such a little shit. You might as wel have spit on your wife’s grave. You know she wanted you to—”

“If she wanted me to do anything more, she would have told me,” says her father.

“What happened to you? I never liked you, but I at least used to respect you. Now you’re nothing but a pathetic, cringing mortal.”

“That’s enough, Dagon.”

“You think this is the end of it?”

“Yes, I do.” He turns away, gazing up at the uncovered lightbulb.

“You know you can’t avoid this. There are greater things at work here than just you and your cowardice.”

“Right, your grand dream of reclamation,” says Jael’s father, his voice bitter and mocking. “You hold on to that, Dagon. I know it’s al you have left.”

“And what do you have left?”

“I have her. She’s real. And you’l never drag her into your bul shit.”

“Bul shit? I believe in the reclamation and so did your wife.

You did too, once. But when it came down to making a real sacrifice, you just couldn’t—”

Her father backhands the bowl off the table, spil ing the watery blood onto the kitchen floor. He stands and looks down at the puddle, his fists clenched so tightly that the knuckles are white. Then he clasps his hands behind his head, closes his eyes, and takes a slow breath. He gets some cleaning solution and a sponge from underneath the sink. Then he scrubs the bloodstained floor on his hands and knees. He scrubs harder and harder, and his shoulders start shaking like he’s crying, but his eyes are dry and fil ed with rage. . . Jael can almost taste it, metal ic and hot, coiling itself around him, tighter and tighter, until . . .

There’s another dizzy lurch, and she’s back in her bed, staring at her necklace. But it’s empty now.

She hears her father’s footsteps on the metal spiral staircase.

She quickly switches off her light, lies down, and turns so her back is to the doorway. She hears him open the door and walk slowly, quietly, over to her bed. He stands there for a couple of minutes. Jael concentrates on keeping her breath slow and even, like she’s asleep.

Faintly he whispers to her, “I love you.”

And then he leaves. She listens to his footsteps down the metal spiral staircase, then across the hardwood floor downstairs.

Final y, she hears his bedroom door slowly close.

She curls up into a little bal , holding the gem of her necklace pressed tightly to her chest. Her father had always said they had to hide from demons. So why did he just contact one? Who is this Dagon, and why does he know so much about her and her parents?

It takes her a long time to go to sleep.

the night the demon came to his room, father paul was reading Saint Augustine’s Confessions. It was a book that Paul had always admired. Saint Augustine was one of those guys who saw himself clearly. A man who didn’t flinch away from his mistakes. A man of deep contemplation and bold action. Paul could think of a few monks in his monastery who could stand to give it another read. Most of them, actual y.

Paul had come to the monastery fresh out of seminary, his heart burning with passion for the wisdom of the great Church Fathers. He had this idea in his head that they would al sit around every night by the fire with a mug of brown ale and talk deep theological concepts. But what he found was a bunch of jaded, lazy old farts who would rather sit in the common room and watch TV every night.

He tried to start discussions. Talking was forbidden during meals, but between services, or in the common areas, he would try to engage some of them in something more than sports stats.

They tolerated him politely for a few weeks. Then the abbot pul ed him aside and explained to him how things worked around there, and said that if he didn’t like it, he was more than welcome to transfer to another monastery.

He should have taken the abbot up on the offer. But Paul wasn’t the kind of guy who gave up easily, even when sticking with it was against his best interests.

So he stayed on, trying to show by example how a man dedicated to theological pursuit should act. It had been a year since then, and it hadn’t been easy.

Or effective. Lately, there had been times when he was tempted to loosen up a little. But Paul was good at resisting temptation.

Or so he thought.

It started with a strange dream—dark and warm, like floating in a river of silk. A soft, cool breeze caressed his face, lingering on his lips. Then the air meandered almost teasingly down his chin, onto his naked chest, and further down his stomach, taut with tension, until final y—

Paul sat up in his smal cot, shivering as he clutched the heavy wool blanket that covered him. His breath echoed harshly in the tiny room and his heart pounded so hard, he could almost taste it on the back of his tongue. It took several minutes before his pulse began to slow down. It was the most vivid dream he’d ever had. He shook his head, like it would clear the lingering feeling of sensual longing, and made the Sign of the Cross just out of habit.

He was about to settle back down to sleep when he happened to glance in the direction of his desk and saw a pair of blazing green eyes. They were like a cat’s, but larger and brighter.

They stared at him unblinkingly out of a dark cloud of shadow, bodiless and luminescent.

Paul knew that he was staring at something supernatural. In his heart of hearts, he felt he had been preparing for this battle his whole life. He held up the smal crucifix that hung from his neck and tried to keep his hand from shaking.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said. “Reveal yourself!”

“If you wish,” came a clear, light voice.

Slowly the shadows coalesced into the most beautiful woman Paul had ever seen. She had long, wild black hair that seemed to writhe with a life of its own. Her face was finely cut, yet strong, like an Arabian princess from some legend. She sat on the corner of his desk wearing only jeans and a T-shirt in the cold night air. She leaned back on her hands in a way that pul ed the T-shirt tight across her breasts. Her legs dangled easily over the edge, spread wide in a casual, suggestive sort of way. She regarded him calmly, one black eyebrow arched and an amused smile on her ful , burgundy lips. Her green cat eyes burned into him, making it difficult to think.

Paul had never encountered a demon before, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was what she was. A succubus.

“So you’re the one the others talk about. The good priest.

They al hate you, you know,” she said casual y. “And who can blame them? Nobody likes to be reminded what a worthless bag of meat they are.”

“In the name of Jesus Christ, be gone, demon!” he said, losing some of the firmness in his voice.

“You know, that stuff only works on the lesser demons,” she said. “And anyway, I prefer demoness.”

“You have no power over me!” he said, the tremor in his voice unmistakable.

“Clearly not,” she said. “My seduction failed. Honestly, it’s the first time in almost three decades. I was a bit shocked.”

Then she winked at him. “And impressed. It takes an incredibly strong wil for a mortal to resist me.”

“In the name of the Holy Spirit, I command you to tel me your name!” He remembered reading somewhere that knowing a demon’s name granted some power over them.

“As I already said, cal ing on your deity doesn’t do much for me,” she said. “But I certainly don’t mind tel ing you my name.

If ”—she held up a finger—“you ask politely.”

He stared at her for a moment, not sure if she was mocking him. At last he said, almost tentatively, “Wil you please tel me your name?”

Her smile broadened. “Why, for such a gentleman, of course! My name is Astarte.”

“You’re named after the Phoenician goddess?” he asked.

“Oh, you’ve heard the name? It seems so few priests these days have,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “But to answer your question, I am not named after the Phoenician goddess. I am her. And many others besides.”

“Many?” said Paul. “But . . .” He hesitated for a moment, caught between the duty he felt to repel this demon and the scholarly curiosity that had always been his greatest weakness.

At last he said, “I don’t understand.”

“In Greece I was known as Aphrodite, and in Rome I was Venus. In Egypt, they cal ed me Isis. In India, I was sometimes cal ed Durga, at other times Gauri, and occasional y even Kali.”

“Al of these?” he asked, unable to hide the awe in his voice.

“How old are you?”

She frowned. “Now, that’s a little rude, don’t you think?”

“So is sneaking into my room in the middle of the night and attempting to seduce me,” said Paul.

“Many mortals would be grateful for the opportunity,”

she said.

“I am not many mortals,” Paul said.

“So I am beginning to see,” she said.

“So these ancient cultures mistook you for a goddess?”

“No, Father Paul. I was a goddess.”

“But you’re just a demon.”

“That’s what I am now,” she said. “Because that is what people want me to be. That is what they choose to believe.”

“That makes no sense. Reality defines belief, not the other way around. How could—”

“Wel , Father,” she interrupted as she glanced out of the tiny rectangular window in his room, “this has been a delightful chat, but I think I’l take my leave.”

“Oh . . . ,” said Paul. “Good.” But he couldn’t quite hide the disappointment in his voice.

“Good-bye, Paul,” she whispered. Then she was gone.

It took a long time for him to get back to sleep.

Whenever he closed his eyes, the afterimage of those glittering green eyes floated ghostlike behind his lids.

He only got an hour of sleep before he had to get up and go to chapel for morning services. Even during prayer he couldn’t stop thinking about his encounter with the demoness. More than once he missed joining the others in response.

That afternoon, the lack of sleep caught up with him and he dozed off in the library. The thick col ection of papal edicts slipped from his hands and landed on the linoleum with a sharp slap. He woke with a jolt and glanced around to see if the few other priests in the library had noticed. But either they were too engrossed in their studies, or they pretended to be.

Did they suspect? It sounded like the demoness visited many of the priests in this monastery. Paul was certain that the others spent the time in wicked sexual acts instead of theological discussion.

But if the others did suspect anything, they would most likely assume he was breaking his vows of chastity as wel . It surprised him how much that possibility bothered him. Why did he care what those hypocrites thought of him? And yet, he did.

Wel , it was over. He had successful y repel ed the succubus.

Fascinating as the brief discussion had been, he needed to put the whole thing behind him.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Because that night, she came back.

Paul sat at his little desk in his little room, poring over Augustine’s Confessions again, trying to keep his mind off the demoness. Augustine had started life as a pagan—rich, selfish, given to indulging in every vice. In the Confessions, he described his reluctant journey from ignorant heathen to one of the greatest theologians the Church has ever had.

Normal y, Paul took comfort in the story because it reminded him of his own humble beginnings. Not that he was ever rich.

He spent most of his childhood in the purgatory of the foster-care system. But he had been selfish and godless. It wasn’t until he ended up in juvie for assault that old Father Green took him under his wing and showed him that life was more than just the struggle to survive. Father Green hadn’t always been the nicest guardian, but he turned Paul’s life around completely.

He had taught Paul the sublime joy of intel ectual pursuits, and on his deathbed, he had made arrangements for Paul to go to seminary. It was Father Green who first compared Paul to Saint Augustine. And ever since, when Paul’s spirits were at low ebb, he found himself sifting through The Confessions.

But that night, as he sat at his desk, feeling the wal s of his cramped room closing in on him, the words of Augustine seemed hol ow, stuffed with self-satisfaction, and—

“Arrogant prick,” came the clear, warm female voice behind him.

Paul nearly fel out of his chair as he turned around.

Astarte lounged on his cot as if it was some queenly bower that needed only a few beefy, shirtless men fanning her with palm leaves to complete the picture.

“Augustine was,” she said. “Not you.”

“You!” he said, flushed with horror and a strange thril .

Some futile attempt at a prayer for banishment began to form on his lips, but then her statement filtered through his welter of emotions. “You . . . knew Saint Augustine?”

“Not wel ,” said Astarte. “And certainly not in a friendly sort of way. He was like one of those people who quits smoking and suddenly acts as though he can’t stand to be around it at al .”

“He was trying to rise above his unfortunate beginning,”

said Paul, unable to prevent the defensive tone in his voice. “You can’t let the past hold you down.”

“That’s true,” she said. “But it’s dangerous to reject it completely. For example, take Saint Thomas Aquinas. Now there was a priest! But terribly stubborn. When he first started his brewery, I said to him . . .”

They talked for hours about various Church theologians, popes, and saints. He found her wealth of knowledge and unique perspective spel binding.

He was having the type of discussion he had longed for since he entered the monastery. He simply couldn’t resist.

It wasn’t until the pink predawn light began to leak in through the window that she final y slipped away.

Through the next day, Paul barely managed to stay awake. But once the sun went down, Astarte returned again to set his mind on fire.

And she came every night after that. Paul was troubled by it at first. He felt it was risky to spend so much time with an agent of Satan. But it seemed almost a sin to pass up so much firsthand knowledge.

He even began to tel himself that he was getting to know the enemy so that he could better fight them. To that end, he began to ask her questions about Hel .

“Is it the orderly pit of eternal suffering that Dante described?” he asked.

She smiled, a little sadly. “No, it’s not like what Dante and so many others have depicted. Far more interesting in form, but far less useful in function, I’m afraid.”

Paul couldn’t quite understand what she was saying, so he tried a different tack. “Are there a lot of demons, then? How many, would you say?”

“What an interesting question,” she said, her eyes growing sadder stil . “It’s never occurred to us to have counted ourselves.

I wonder if there are less of us now than there used to be, or whether we are just . . . lesser.”

“What about Satan?” asked Paul.

“Lucifer Morningstar, you mean? What about him?”

“Does he plan to conquer the world someday?”

“Lucifer? Make plans?” She laughed a little, but it was stil tinged with a strange melancholy. “That seems unlikely.

Although, I wouldn’t know. It has been a very long time since he has spoken to me.” She looked away, a muscle twitching in her neck.

“I’m sorry,” said Paul. “I didn’t realize it would upset you to talk about these things.”

She turned to him suddenly, then, her green eyes wide and glistening with tears. A single one escaped and rol ed down her smooth brown cheek as she reached out and laid her hand on his.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” he asked. “For upsetting you?”

She smiled, and this time the warmth broke through the sadness. “You have a very curious blend of compassion and honesty, yet you are not fragile and weak-wil ed like so many others.”

“Uh,” he said. “Thank you. I think.”

She laughed and shook her head. “But what about you?

We’ve talked so much about me, but hardly anything about your life.”

“I’m afraid my life is nowhere near as interesting as yours,”

he said.

“If there is one thing that I have learned in my long life,”

said Astarte, “it’s to appreciate nuance.” She was quiet for a moment, just looking at him. Then she suddenly sat up. “I wonder if you’l al ow me to look.”

“At what?” he asked a little nervously.

“Your life.”

“You mean my memories? You can do that?”

“Sort of . . . ,” she said. “If you let me, I can look at your soul.”

“My soul?”

She shrugged. “It’s up to you. I certainly wouldn’t force something like that.”

“And . . . you would see everything?”

“More or less,” she said. “Not in a literal way. It’s more like I would feel your experiences the way you felt them.”