Misfit (7 page)

“Hmm,” said Kazen. He leaned back into his stack of books and stroked his beard. “There is one group that has been trying to push into Hassidic turf, actual y. Of course, there’s more than money at stake for us. We need this neighborhood in order to maintain our way of life. So they haven’t been very successful yet. But they’ve got someone in the Haitian community who’s been stirring up old resentments the past few weeks and I fear that things could get unpleasant.”

“One of mine?” asked Poujean in surprise. “Do you know who?”

“A fel ow named Emile Rameau, I believe,” said Kazen.

Poujean frowned. “That’s strange . . . ” He looked at Paul and Astarte. “I know this man. He’s not the sort to get mixed up with demons in any sort of serious way.

If he’s working for them, they’re pressuring him somehow.”

“Or possessing him,” said Paul.

Poujean’s eyes widened. “We should see him immediately.”

Paul nodded and stood up, extending his hand to Kazen.

“Thank you very much for the information.”

“Just a moment!” said Kazen with a sly grin. He turned to Astarte. “What about my question? One for one?”

Astarte leaned back and crossed her arms. “Ask away,” she said, and smiled in that cold way of hers that told Paul quite clearly that this poor, knowledge-thirsty Rabbi was about to be taught a lesson.

“Wel !” said Kazen eagerly. “One question only . . .

hmmm .

. . which to pick . . .” He tugged on his beard for a moment, his thick brows furrowed. “Ah! I’ve got it!” He sat up and smoothed his shirt and pants, as if preparing himself for a historic event.

“Oh, Lilith, First Woman and Queen of the Lilitu, where is the Garden of Eden?”

“The Garden?” asked Astarte, her smile stil present, but taking on an even harder edge than before.

“Hon . . . ,” said Paul, placing a hand on her arm.

“But my love,” said Astarte. “I did promise I would answer.”

“Yes, yes!” said Kazen, his eyes gleaming eagerly.

“Can you tel me where it is or what it looks like?”

“Better than that,” she said. “I can show you.”

“Oh yes!” he said exultantly.

“Look into my eyes,” she said in a voice that almost purred.

He did, and the lines of tension in his face lessened until it was almost slack and his eyes grew distant.

“The Garden,” said Astarte. “Omphalos, the center, the origin of al . . . it lies at the point where Heaven, Hel , and Gaia—the mortal realm—intersect.”

Kazen’s eyes widened, seeing something in his mind’s eye.

“It is a place,” continued Astarte, “that fol ows al rules and none. The crossroads of order and chaos, light and dark, good and bad. It is, as Lao-tzu once said, the source from which both mystery and reality emerge. A darkness born from darkness.

The beginning of al understanding.”

Kazen’s eyes changed slowly from dreamy amazement to unease.

“In that darkness,” said Astarte, “lives Abbadon the Destroyer. He stands upon countless worlds of mortal souls.

His eyes are the torment of a mil ion dead gods and goddesses, and his mouth is a gaping wound in a reality that consumes time itself.”

Kazen’s face twisted up with fear. He covered his eyes with his suddenly trembling hands, but it did not block the images that were in his head. “Please . . . ,”

he whispered.

“And past him,” said Astarte relentlessly, “the Void, the unmaking of everything. To look upon it is to know one long, endless moment of death as the Universe itself dies.”

“Please,” moaned Kazen, tears coursing down his bearded cheeks. “Please, no more.”

“Yes,” said Astarte abruptly. “A wise choice.” She waved a hand in front of his face. He shuddered, then began sobbing.

“Astarte,” said Paul, giving her a reproachful look.

“What?” she said, blinking innocently. “He asked.”

“He also just helped us with the case,” Paul said.

She rol ed her eyes. “Okay, perhaps I was a little harsh.”

“Yes,” Paul agreed. “You had your fun, but . . .”

“Fine,” she said crossly. She leaned over the stil -

sobbing Kazen. “Rabbi,” she said gently, “look at me.”

“No, no,” he said weakly. But he looked.

“It’s Okay,” she said, and stroked his bearded cheek.

“It is best for mortals not to know some things. You wil remember this lesson, but not the images I showed you. It wil be like a dream, in which the feeling is recal ed vaguely and without detail. Now sleep on your nice, safe, scholarly books and take comfort in their simple embrace.”

Kazen’s face slowly softened and his eyes closed.

She gently laid him down amidst his piles of books.

“Thank you,” said Paul.

She shrugged, then kissed him. “One of the many reasons I keep you around.”

“God . . . ,” said Poujean. He looked at her with a new appreciation and a bit of unease.

“Let’s go see this Emile of yours, Father,” said Astarte, and walked out of the apartment.

“Y-Yes, of course,” said Poujean. As he and Paul fol owed her down the steps, he whispered, “Does she do this a lot?”

“Only when they ask for it. She stil feels a responsibility to enlighten mortals. I’ve tried to suggest that it doesn’t have to be so . . .”

“Cruel?” asked Poujean.

“Yeah,” said Paul. “She’s having a little trouble with the concept.”

When they got back out onto Eastern Parkway, the two demons who had fol owed them from the subway were gone.

“They’re somewhere around,” said Astarte.

They walked down the Parkway Promenade, out of the Hasidic section and into the Haitian section. The same old buildings lined the streets, although they seemed a little more run-down. Out of many windows came the thumping music of raga—similar to Jamaican reggae, but harder and more aggressive.

Poujean led them to the largest apartment building on the block, five floors high.

“I’m not sure how Emile is mixed up in al this,” said Poujean. “He’s a very fine, stable member of my church. Sel s a few traditional remedies on the side, but nothing serious.

Certainly nothing that would make me think he was dealing with darker aspects of Vodoun. He is no bokur.” He turned to Astarte. “Please, Erzulie Freda.

Be kind to him. For my sake.”

“Why, Father Poujean,” she said and smiled sweetly.

“I’m always kind. Except when they ask me not to be.

And I don’t think we’l have to worry about that in this case.”

“Why do you say—,” began Poujean. Then they heard a scream coming from within the building.

They pushed through the heavy front doors and charged down the hal way. Poujean led them up to the second floor and through another hal way to a scuffed white wooden door. The screams were coming from behind it. Poujean pounded on the door.

“Emile! Marie! It’s Father Poujean! Open the door!”

They heard the sounds of frantic fumbling with the locks, then the door swung open. A middle-aged Haitian woman stood in the doorway, panting, the sleeve of her shirt torn.

“Father! Thank God!” she said between breaths. “It’s Emile!”

“What happened?” asked Poujean as they piled into the narrow foyer of the apartment.

“He’s been mounted by the loa before,” said Marie,

“but they’ve never taken control of him this violently! I had to lock him in the bedroom!”

Almost in response, a sharp crash of breaking glass came from down the hal .

“Did this come on suddenly?” asked Paul. “Or did it happen gradual y?”

“Who? . . .” She glanced worriedly at Poujean.

“It’s okay,” he said. “This is Father Paul, an old friend from seminary. Please answer the question.”

“W-W-Wel ,” she said, “he had been acting a little moody the past few weeks, and that’s not like him.

But it was nothing like this.”

“And when did he lose control?”

“Only just a little bit ago.”

“They knew we were coming,” Paul said to Astarte and Poujean. “They’ve been prepping him for something and we forced their hand. Poujean, come with me. We’l see if we can’t kick whoever’s in there out. Astarte . . .” They exchanged a quick look and she nodded.

Astarte turned to Marie. “Come, dear,” she said in a soothing tone. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I don’t suppose you have any fresh fruit? I’m famished.”

Marie looked helplessly at Poujean.

“It’s okay, Marie. You and your husband are in good hands.”

Astarte led Marie into her own kitchen, murmuring quietly to her. Paul and Poujean fol owed the screams and pounding to the bedroom. As they walked, Paul pul ed two long, fat rosaries from his overcoat pockets and handed them to Poujean.

“I’l stun him and you tie him down to something heavy,” he said tersely.

Poujean took the rosaries, looking nervous.

Paul didn’t break his stride as he knocked aside the chair that held the door closed, opened the door, and stepped into the dark room. It stank of piss and vomit.

A naked man crouched on top of the bed. His head snapped in Paul’s direction like an animal’s would.

His eyes were bloodshot and a thick, clear liquid leaked from them. He was chewing on something and had blood smeared on his face and a headless pigeon in his hand. A snarl curled his lips.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be gone!” shouted Paul, splashing holy water on the man. “In the name of Muhammad, Siddhartha, Lao-tzu, and Confucius, of Zeus and Jupiter, of Shiva, and Osiris, in the name of the faith of al those named and unnamed, I cast you out, you parasite, you scavenger, you bottom-feeding scum of mortality!”

The possessed man reeled. His eyes rol ed back into his head until only the whites showed, and he fel on the bed in convulsions.

“Poujean! Now!” barked Paul.

Poujean hurriedly tied the possessed’s wrists to the metal headboard, then stepped back to the other side of the room.

Another moment and the convulsions subsided. The possessed took stock of the rosaries that secured him to the bed, and a strange bleating sound, like a goat’s cry, escaped his lips.

Then he turned his eyes to Paul.

“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “Astarte’s pet exorcist.

Very cute. But I think you’l find that I—”

“In the name of Yahweh, El, and Brahman!” roared Paul, throwing more holy water. “Be gone!”

The possessed howled in pain. “When I break free from here, I wil dine upon your entrails, you mortal incubus!”

“Are we going to go on like this for a while?” asked Paul in a milder tone. “Or are you going to save us al the trouble and get out now. I don’t have al day.”

“You wil find me much more difficult to dislodge than the lesser imps you are accustomed to, mortal,” he hissed.

“Sure, sure,” said Paul, sounding bored. “Nice bluff, but I can smel you from here, Bifrane.”

The possessed’s eyes widened in outrage. “Bifrane?!

You think I am some decrepit peddler of corpses?!

You wil pay for that insult, you gobbet of flesh!

Tremble in fear, mortal, for I am Asmodeus, master of gamblers and whores, corrupter and despoiler of life!”

Paul sighed and shook his head. “It’s almost disappointing how often that trick works.”

“What?”

Paul walked over and placed his hand on top the thrashing head of the possessed. “With thy name, Asmodeus, I bind thee to this mortal shel .”

“No!” screamed the possessed, “You filth, you whoreson, you—”

“And be quiet,” said Paul.

The possessed’s mouth moved, but no sound escaped.

Paul walked over to the corner of the room where Poujean stood awestruck. He sat down heavily in a smal , wooden chair and said, “That’s a lot more tiring than it looks.”

“I . . . I don’t understand,” said Poujean. You just trapped him inside Emile’s body?”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“We wait for the other two to come running.”

Poujean rubbed his temples and leaned against the door frame. “I think I’m a bit out of my league.”

“The fact that this doesn’t happen to you on a regular basis is a good thing,” said Paul. Then he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

There were a few moments of quiet, during which the possessed gave up thrashing and simply glared at Paul and Poujean with a sulky expression. Then the front door of the apartment blew inward with such force that splinters skittered al the way down the hal way to the bedroom. Paul launched himself out of his chair and stepped into the hal way.

“Hel spawn!” he yel ed, brandishing his vial of holy water.

Two figures—the tal , gaunt Amon and the short, fat Philotanus—stepped over the wreckage of the door and into the apartment. Philotanus hung back a bit while Amon strode down the hal way toward Paul and Poujean, smiling wolfishly.

“Where is she, mortal? Where is that traitorous bitch?”

As he walked past the kitchen, a thick jet of flame blasted from the doorway and slammed him into the far wal .

“Right here, Amon,” said Astarte from the doorway.

Smoke trailed from Amon’s clothes, hair, and skin. He snarled, showing long canines. Then he leaped at her, his fanged mouth stretching wide into a wolf’s muzzle.

She stood perfectly stil until he was only inches from her, then she thrust her fist down his throat. His jaws clamped down on her shoulder, fangs sinking through her shirt and into her flesh. Bright red bloomed on her white blouse. But then she shifted her weight slightly, her shoulder tensed, and Amon’s eyes went wide.

“Ah,” she said cheerful y. “Do you know what I have a hold of in there?”

He whimpered but continued to bite down on her shoulder.

“Neither do I,” she said. “But let’s see what happens when I twist.”

He barked in pain, his jaw opening with a jerk.

“This isn’t Hel ,” she said quietly, “and your master isn’t here to protect you.”

Then Paul felt a hard grip around his neck. A thick, oily voice behind him said, “And you have gotten soft here on Gaia.”

Paul couldn’t turn his head, but he didn’t need to. The other end of the hal way was empty now, and the rancid stench told him that Philotanus had just appeared directly behind him, and probably held Poujean as wel .