Misfit (6 page)

She hurriedly spreads out the rest of the things in her bag. A few of the pens are halfway melted, a notebook is a little crispy at one edge, and her lip gloss is destroyed, but the history book seems to have absorbed most of the damage.

But damage from what?

She stands up again and nervously rubs her thumb across her necklace. She notices tiny black bits stuck to some of the chain links and she absently begins to pick them off. Then she realizes that they look like burned paper. She looks back at the history book.

She kneels down again and holds the gem over the hole. It fits perfectly.

She slowly stands up and stares at the gem. Deep in the center, she can just make out an angry red pulse.

“What are you?” she says. “Where did you come from?”

The pulse grows larger until the entire gem flashes red in slow, regular beats. She sees a slight movement in the center, and a sickening fear shoots up through her stomach. Not now.

Not here in the school restroom, in the middle of the day. . . .

That weightless vertigo feeling hits again and she finds herself somewhere else. But it’s not like anyplace she’s ever seen.

It appears to be a cavern about the size of a footbal field. The ceiling is ridged with off-white, curved beams—like being inside a giant rib cage. Six-foot-high gray stalagmites protrude from the ground in regular intervals. She can’t tel if they’re made of stone, wood, or bone. Balanced on top of each one is a crab shel the size of a car. Some of the shel s are mottled with red and orange, others with green and blue. Al of them leak thick black smoke and sprout tongues of flame. Something like grease drips from them and runs down the sides of the pil ars.

Then she hears heavy footsteps accompanied by a dry, scraping sound. A figure roughly the shape of a person, but more than eight feet tal and massively built, walks down the line of shel s, its face hidden in shadow. For a moment Jael panics, thinking it wil see her. But then she remembers that it’s just like last night. Even though it al seems so real, she’s not real y there.

The creature shuffles down the line of columns, stopping at each one to examine the giant crab shel on top. It pokes a stick of some kind into one of the shel s, and she hears screams and whimpers in response. As the creature gets closer, she sees that what she thought was clothing or armor is actual y fish scales covering its entire body. The scales are yel ow and have a sickly, dried-out look. The creature’s thick arms stretch out to either side, ending in thin, curved claws.

The fish creature uses the stick to lift up the top half of one of the shel s. A puff of black smoke escapes, fol owed by something fast and wriggling. The creature slams the shel back down, trapping whatever it is back inside. Then it stands there for a moment, staring at the closed, smoking shel . It scratches its hairless, earless head with one claw.

Then it turns suddenly and looks directly at Jael with black, impenetrable sharklike eyes.

A pathetic little squeak of fright escapes from Jael’s throat.

“Wel , wel , wel ,” the creature growls in a voice like sandpaper. “It looks like you’re more clever than your father thinks.”

It smiles. Cracked fish lips stretch wide, showing rows of needle teeth as long as her fingers.

“He won’t give you the answers you need. When you’re ready for the truth, use the necklace to cal me.

Just cal for Dagon. . . .”

The hard heat of the cavern drops away and she is left huddled on the bathroom floor, shaky and cold. But the visions of that place and that creature stil fil her mind. It’s al she can do to keep from hyperventilating.

The door opens.

“Jael?”

Ms. Spielman. Jael hears the soft clack of her sandals coming closer. Ms. Spielman kneels down next to her.

“Jael, what’s wrong?”

Jael looks back at her with wild, frightened eyes. “I don’t know,” she manages to say in a halting whisper.

Then a strange laugh bubbles out for a moment before she’s able to stop it. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, Jael, you’re Okay,” says Ms. Spielman in a voice as soft and soothing as honey. It helps a little.

“I’m here. What can I do to help?”

“Don’t . . . t-t-tel my dad about this,” Jael says.

“About? . . .” says Ms. Spielman. Then she notices the burned history book. “What happened?” she asks, unable to keep the shock out of her voice.

Jael says nothing.

“Okay, wel , forget it for now,” says Ms. Spielman, her voice back to soothing sweetness. Almost singsong.

She places her cool, soft hand on Jael’s cheek and smiles at her. “Why don’t we get ourselves together a little, huh? Put your necklace back on and we’l clean up the rest of your stuff.”

“It wasn’t . . . ,” Jael begins. But if she puts the necklace back in her bag, it could start burning things again. She’s already come this far; she might as wel go al the way. So she holds the chain up in both hands and slowly puts it over her head. The gem rests against her chest and feels so nice on her skin that she lets out a quiet sigh.

“Feel better?” asks Ms. Spielman.

Jael nods.

Then the two of them gather up Jael’s stuff in silence and put it back into her bag.

“Jael, I have to get to my next class,” says Ms.

Spielman.

“But I think Father Ralph has this period free. Would you like to talk to him for a bit?”

“Okay,” she says. She feels like she has to talk to somebody.

And Father Ralph might actual y be the perfect person.

Jael slouches in a neon green IKEA chair in Father Ralph Frizetti’s office. Father Ralph is the youngest of the three priests and he does his best to make both education and Catholicism as accessible and hip as possible. But he tries a little too hard to

“keep it real,” as he says. He always wears the regular priestly black with the white col ar, but he also wears a funky cartoon character belt buckle, as if to let students know that he can be fun, too. And the single hoop earring and scruffy hipster beard just don’t look right on him. But at least Jael can relate to him.

Unlike the dril sergeant Father Aaron or the saintly Mons, Father Ralph just seems like a regular person who happens to be a priest.

Father Ralph leans back on the edge of his desk, scratching his beard thoughtful y. They’ve been sitting like this for more than five minutes in complete silence. But if Father Ralph is getting impatient, he doesn’t show it.

At last, feeling like an idiot but not knowing any other way to start, Jael says, “Father, do you believe in . . .

uh, supernatural stuff?”

He looks surprised by the question. “Wel , Jael, yes as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Real y?”

“I believe that God counts as supernatural.”

“Oh,” says Jael. “What about . . . magic?”

“I prefer the word ‘miracle.’ ”

“Right,” says Jael, her faint hope of real communication with Father Ralph already starting to fade. She gives it one last try. “What about stuff like evil spirits and, uh . . . demons?”

He looks at her for a long time, like he’s trying to figure out if she’s messing with him. Eventual y, he says, “Wel , in a way, I do.”

“In a way?”

“Hel isn’t a place, you know?”

“It isn’t?”

“No, it’s a state of mind. A state of being. Hel is the absence of God.”

“Okay. . . .”

“So, technical y, you don’t even have to be dead to be in Hel .”

“You don’t?”

“Nope. You just have to have alienated yourself from God to the point where you no longer see Him or feel Him in your heart.”

“Uh-huh,” says Jael. She doesn’t like how he’s trying to maneuver the conversation. “And do you feel Him in your heart, Father?” she asks with maybe a little snottiness.

He pauses for a second, adjusting his SpongeBob Square-Pants belt buckle, then smiles and says, “Of course. Now, the question is, Jael, do you?”

“Look, Father. It’s al kind of complicated for me. You know, there’s a lot of . . . family history.”

“Your father has made his doubts in the Church known to the rest of the faculty. Doubt is healthy and it’s only natural for you to begin to explore similar questions.”

“Okjay, but what if some things in the Bible were . . .

wrong.

You know? Like what if demons weren’t real y . . .

evil? At least, not al of them.”

“Wel , Jael, I don’t real y believe in demons.”

“Okay, so you think they’re just a state of mind too?”

“Wel ,” says Father Ralph, rol ing his eyes. “Some of the older members of our faculty would disagree with me, but the way that I interpret scripture is that Satan is not an actual person who walks and talks and creeps into your room at night to tempt you into doing evil things. Satan, demons, and al of those scary things are merely symbols of the weakness within us.

Our human weakness that comes from Original Sin.

We separate it from ourselves and give it the label of Satan, or monster, or any number of things. But Satan is no more real than, say, Superman. They’re both icons that we, as members of this society, al identify with because they reflect something about ourselves.

We are al a little bit like Superman. And we are al a little bit like Satan, too.” He smiles a little smugly, probably thinking he’s picked a good comparison.

Then he glances at the red gem around Jael’s neck.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s a very pretty necklace.”

“Thanks,” says Jael. “I think it might be from Hel .”

Paul liked to watch his wife sleep. astarte was such a complicated being that sometimes it was difficult to see her clearly. But when she slept, al of those layers dropped away.

Her perfect tan face smoothed out and almost seemed to radiate peace.

He brushed back a ringlet of her black hair and wondered if demons dreamed and, if so, what they dreamed of. He’d have to ask her later when she woke up. Let her sleep for now. They had been traveling hard for weeks.

He gently kissed her cheek, then slipped on pants, a sweater, and his overcoat. It probably wasn’t wise for him to go out alone. But he was tired of being cooped up in the hotel. Back at the monastery, al those years ago, he had been able to stay in confined spaces for days on end. Now even the respectably sized hotel room pressed in on him. He couldn’t decide if that was a sign of growth or something else.

“Paul?” Astarte whispered sleepily from the bed.

He paused at the door. “Yeah, hon?”

“Pick me up some breakfast while you’re out.”

“Sure,” he said, and quietly slipped out.

Their hotel was just off Union Square Park. He wandered the park and square aimlessly for a little while, then down Broadway, no real purpose or destination in mind. The morning air had a nice brisk bite to it that kept him moving. There was something so comforting about the anonymity of New York City.

He could be anyone from anywhere. It didn’t real y matter.

“Father Paul?”

He stopped, the hand in his overcoat pocket going to the little vial of holy water he always kept with him.

Then he slowly turned, ready for fight or flight, whichever seemed more practical. But it was Father Poujean, an old friend from seminary. The dark-skinned Haitian priest sat at a smal table outside a café, the only occupant on this chil y early morning.

He flashed a bright smile, then took a demure sip of his espresso.

Paul walked over to him and they clasped hands. “It’s just Paul now. Remember?”

“Yes, yes,” Poujean said. “Stil playing the same old game, eh?” He gestured to the other seat at the table.

“Please.”

“You think we should settle down?” asked Paul as he sat down. “Get real jobs and buy a house in the suburbs?”

Poujean stirred his espresso in silence for a moment.

“You know, it doesn’t matter how many rogue demons you destroy.

It won’t earn you a get-into-heaven card. So why do you do it?

Why do you risk your life like that?”

Paul shrugged. “We do it because somebody has to keep them in line, and we are uniquely qualified for the job.”

“It can’t pay wel ,” he said.

“No,” agreed Paul. “It doesn’t. But we get by.”

Poujean gave him a searching look. “How do you earn anything at al ?”

“She handles the financial aspects of the business,”

said Paul with a wry smile. “I don’t pester her for details.”

Poujean sipped his espresso. Then he said, “Do you real y think you’re making a difference?”

Paul leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I do. But . . .”

“There’s more of them coming over,” said Poujean.

“They’re getting bolder,” said Paul. “More confident.”

“People aren’t expecting demons at the supermarket, Paul.

So they don’t see them.”

“Sometimes I think people would believe in aliens before they’d believe in demons.”

“That’s how it is, now,” said Poujean. “But what are they doing, these rogue demons? What are they playing at?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Paul. “They’re changing tactics.

It’s not just possessing some poor mortal and terrorizing the locals for a bit of fun like it used to be.

Al of a sudden they’re turning up in financial institutions, in real estate, in politics. I think they’ve been working their way into the infrastructure for some time, but lately they’ve been getting more bold.

They’re changing the world from the inside, and it seems like they’re being organized by someone in Hel with real authority.”

“To what end?”

“Astarte has theories. She believes it’s al coming to a head sometime soon. That everyone is digging in.

Bracing for something big.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s been over a century since she’s been in any sort of influential position in Hel . The few demons she stil kept in touch with cut her off when she made our relationship known.

Most demons think that fal ing in love with a mortal is blasphemy.

The only one who stil talks to her is her brother, Dagon. He’s nice enough, but not real bright. So she doesn’t real y have any hard evidence on any of it.

She’s just taking shots in the dark.”

They sat in silence for a little while. The waiter came over and asked if Paul wanted to order.

“Better not,” said Paul. “I have to get going. I promised I’d bring back some breakfast before we head out.”

Once the waiter had left, Poujean asked, “On a case, I assume?”

“We got the lead back in Tel Aviv and fol owed it to Moscow.

Had a little tussle with some low-level imps there.

Nothing too serious. Astarte was able to get some more out of them, though.

Seems like whatever their game is, it’s something with real estate and urban planning here in the city.”

“I know a man who might be able to help with that particular area. Real estate and such,” said Poujean.

“Is he . . . understanding?” asked Paul.

“Of ex-monk mages with demonic spouses?” asked Poujean.

“I think he’s flexible enough to handle it.”

“Interesting,” said Paul. “Mind introducing us?”

“Wel , I did have plans today. . . .”

“But there is that little matter of me saving your ass from that spider cult back in Paris a few years ago,”

said Paul.

Poujean nodded. “There is that. Although if memory serves, I believe it was actual y your lovely wife who saved my ass.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Paul. “We’re a package deal. Not intended for individual sale.”

“She does excel at saving people’s asses, though,”

said Poujean.

“You’re tel ing me,” said Paul.

Astarte was waiting in the lobby when Paul and Poujean entered the hotel. Instead of her usual jeans and T-shirt, she wore a long, heavy skirt and a simple white blouse. Her usual y wild black hair was pul ed up into a tight ponytail. She smiled warmly at Poujean, her green cat eyes twinkling.

“Ah, Father Poujean,” she said, extending her hand.

“So good to see you again.”

Poujean kissed the back of her hand and said, “The pleasure is al mine, as usual, Erzulie Freda.”

Paul handed her a bunch of bananas and gave her a quick kiss. “Why are you dressed like that?” he asked.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked with an impish grin.

He regarded her for a moment. The austere clothes made the fine angles of her face even more pronounced, and since her green eyes were the only splash of color, they seemed to sparkle even brighter than usual. He shrugged. “You’re stil beautiful.”

She smiled and laid her hand gently on his cheek. “My husband, master of the artless compliment.”

“Ah,” said Poujean. “But you know he always tel s the truth.”

“Of course,” she said. “One of the many reasons why I keep him around.” She slipped her arm through his in the strangely formal way that she always did when there were other mortals around. “The reason, my dearest, that I am wearing this drab attire is because we’re going to Crown Heights and I thought it best to blend in somewhat.”

“Crown Heights?” asked Paul. “Why would—”

“How did you know?!” asked Poujean, his eyes wide.

She grinned. “Magic,” she said, and winked.

Poujean looked imploringly at Paul.

“That’s the best explanation you’re going to get out of her,”

Paul said. “So I take it this guy you’re taking us to see is in Crown Heights?”

Poujean nodded, looking a little disappointed that Astarte had stolen his thunder. As they walked to the subway station, Poujean fil ed them in on the climate of the neighborhood. There were two main ethnic groups in Crown Heights—the Hasidic Jews and the West Indians. And they didn’t get along.

The Hasidim were one of the most conservative sects of Judaism. In their community, a great deal of importance was placed on attire and social interaction between the genders. The women wore long dresses and covered their heads. The men wore black suits and hats and grew ful beards. On the other hand, the West Indians, were considerably more liberal. There had been long-standing tensions between the two groups. Then, in 1991, there was a car accident in which a Hasidic man kil ed a West Indian child. A three-day riot fol owed.

“It’s been a few years since the riots,” said Poujean as they descended the station steps to the underground subway platform. “But tensions remain.”

Soon the number 4 train pul ed in, and they boarded an empty car. The subway train rocketed through the tunnel that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn beneath the East River.

The lights flickered out for a moment. When they came back on, Paul noticed there were two people in the car who hadn’t been there before. They stood at the far end of the car, casual y reading the advertisements above their heads. One was a tal , thin man with a long nose, a pronounced overbite, and glittering orange eyes. The other one was short and round, not so much fat as simply thick, with droopy, florid jowls and lavender eyes.

Both of them were clearly demons.

Paul squeezed Astarte’s hand and she immediately squeezed back. She knew. When they got out at the Franklin Avenue Station, the demons fol owed but maintained a good distance.

“We’re being tailed,” Paul muttered to Poujean.

Poujean nodded. “I saw them. They must be fairly powerful to manifest without a human host.”

“I know those two,” said Astarte. “The tal one is Amon, the fat one is Philotanus. They are powerful, but clearly time has not made them more intel igent if they thought we wouldn’t notice them slipping in like that.”

“Wil holy objects affect them?” asked Poujean.

“I should think most would,” she said.

“Good. Then they won’t be able to fol ow us for long.”

Poujean led them out of the station and onto the promenade, a strip of sidewalk along the main thoroughfare of Eastern Parkway. The street was lined with old apartment buildings and the occasional grocery store, al with bars on the windows. A few Hasidic families walked along the promenade, glancing at the mixed crew as they passed.

The two demons fol owed at a distance until Poujean turned and led his friends up the front steps of an old brownstone.

As Paul and Astarte walked through the front door, Poujean pointed to the smal box nailed above the doorway.

“There’s a little piece of blessed Torah above every door in every Hasidic home,” he said.

“Spiritual security system,” said Paul.

“Precisely,” said Poujean. “And much less gruesome than painting the door with lamb’s blood.” He glanced at Astarte. “It stil baffles me as to why none of these objects affect you.”

She shrugged. “I’m just not that kind of demon.”

Paul knew the real reason. It was because she predated al Judeo-Christian religions, and was therefore immune. Of course, saying “Because I’m too old” was not something Astarte would ever say.

They entered the building and ascended an old, creaky staircase to the third and topmost floor.

“We’re meeting with Rabbi Kazen, a very progressive voice in his community,” said Poujean. “He’s rather eccentric, and a little too in love with his books. But he’s a good, kind man. He and I have been working together to try to ease some of the tensions between our two communities. If this case of yours is somehow connected to real estate in Brooklyn, there’s a good chance the Hasidic community is involved, or at least aware of it. And if they are aware, so is he.”

Poujean knocked quietly at a door covered with peeling yel ow paint.

There was a sound like a pile of books fal ing over, then slow, heavy footsteps. A moment of silence as the person presumably peered through the peephole, then . . . “Ah!” Paul counted the sounds of three dead bolts and a chain sliding open, then at last the door flew wide. A large man with a flat, bearded face stood in the doorway in shirtsleeves and suspenders, his arms outstretched.

“Father Poujean!” he bel owed in a deep baritone, and embraced Poujean in a rough bear hug, slapping him several times on the back.

“Good to see you, Rabbi,” said Poujean, wincing slightly.

“And who did you bring me?” asked Kazen. He glanced briefly at Paul, but then he saw Astarte and his eyes went wide. “An interesting pair, to say the least!” His eyes flickered anxiously to Poujean, who nodded.

“Come, then, come!” He gestured inside. They fol owed him into a living room with no furniture, only stacks of books. “Who needs shelves, yes?” Rabbi Kazen said and chuckled. “This way, I don’t even need furniture.” He sat down on a stack of books and gestured for them to do the same.

“Rabbi,” said Poujean. “This is an old friend of mine from seminary, Paul Thompson. And this is his wife, the lovely—”

“I am not blind,” said Kazen, stil jovial, but with a strange edge to his voice. “And I certainly need no introduction to Lilith, the First Woman.”

Astarte nodded. “Rabbi.”

“Ah, my dear,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly.

“The knowledge that must be contained behind that radiant face.

I could ask you a thousand questions and stil not be satisfied.”

“Quite so,” said Astarte. “But what about an exchange of one for one?”

“Only one?” he said with good-humored anguish.

“Wel , I wil have to make it a good one, then.”

“Rabbi,” said Paul, “we’re tracking a large and wel -

connected group of demons. They seem to be getting heavily involved in a lot of financial activities—real estate, stocks, that sort of thing.”

“That seems a bit complex for them,” said Kazen.

“Right,” said Paul. “This actual y seems to be a coordinated effort. We’re trying to determine who is in charge of it. Our concern is that this is being organized at a higher level. Perhaps even by one of the grand dukes.”