Misfit (18 page)

They stop in front of her house. She stares up at her dark, silent windows.

“You wanna come in?” she asks.

Rob looks startled, then says, “Sure. If you think it would be cool with your dad.”

“Honestly?” says Jael. “I don’t real y care if he’s cool with it or not.”

A single large candle on the living-room coffee table is the only light in the house. Jael’s father sits on the couch next to it, poring over his lesson plans. When Jael walks in, he says, “Jael, I—”

Then he sees Rob.

“Who is this?”

“Dad, this is my friend Rob.”

His eyes widen. “Friend.” He says it like he doesn’t know what the word means.

“Hi, Mr. Thompson,” says Rob uneasily. “I’ve seen you around at school, but I don’t think we’ve actual y met.”

He holds out his hand and gives his best Rob smile.

But her father stays seated, stil holding his lesson-plan book. Rob’s outstretched hand slowly slips into his pocket.

“So,” says her father. “You are Jael’s . . . friend?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“And I get the feeling you know everything. Is that right?”

“I, uh, guess so. Or a lot of it anyway.”

Jael’s father doesn’t say anything for a long time. He lays down his book and stands up. His hands are loose at his sides as he takes a few steps around Rob, circling him like he’s examining him. Jael assumed this would be tense. But she starts to wonder if he’s coming around. Rob’s just one of those guys everyone likes. Maybe not even her father is exempt from his charm.

“Wel , Rob,” her father says quietly, “may God have mercy on your soul. Because she won’t. Now, get out of my house.”

“Dad!” says Jael.

“A demoness wil cause you more agony by accident than an army of malicious, heartbreaking teenage girls.”

“What are you saying, Dad?! Stop it!”

“Who knows,” he continues. “You might already be damned to the darkest pits of Hel for even associating with her. The ways of a demoness are devious.”

“Rob,” says Jael through clenched teeth. “Please. Just go.”

“Are you sure?” he says, looking bewildered.

“Please,” says Jael.

He nods slowly, then leaves. Jael watches the front door close quietly behind him. She doesn’t trust herself to look at her father, so she continues to stare at the closed door.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” she says.

“Wel perhaps that wil teach you to play by the rules.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. ‘Damned to the darkest pits of Hel ’? People don’t even go to Hel !”

“I know that,” he says. “I was putting some fear into him.

The last thing we need is some lovesick schoolboy fol owing after us.”

“Fol owing us?” says Jael. “Fol owing us where?”

“I’l probably need a day or two to lock something down,”

he says. “But you blew our cover. We have to leave.”

“Dad, no! Rob won’t say anything!”

“Jael,” he says, adopting a firm but reasonable tone, like they’re discussing her grades. “I know exactly what that boy wanted, what he thought would happen.”

“I think I can handle myself—”

“Exactly. And when he tries to take what he wants and you knock him on his ass, what happens then? Wel , I’m guessing he gets his revenge by revealing you to the world.”

“But he’s not like that. Why do you always expect the worst to happen?!”

He looks at her sadly and shakes his head. “You just don’t get it. You’re not old enough to understand what’s truly at stake here. How bad it can real y get.”

“You always say that,” she says. “I think you just can’t stand not being in control of me.”

“You want to know why?” he asks, his tone mild.

“Sure, Dad,” she says, rol ing her eyes. “Tel me.”

“No,” he says. “I’l show you.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, her boldness faltering.

“Dagon’s not the only one who knows some magic.

Look into my eyes,” he says. “Look into my soul.”

“Dad . . .”

“Just do it. I’m sure you’ve figured out how by now.”

So, Jael looks into his eyes, down into his soul. It’s nothing like Rob’s. Instead of bright and glorious, it’s heavy and crumbling—ful of dark, broken, jagged edges. The song is slow and heartbreakingly sad.

“Good,” she hears him say. “Now, I want you to go deeper.

Concentrate on one of the biggest, sharpest-looking pieces.”

At first, she doesn’t quite know what he means. But as she continues to focus, she realizes that the flickers of light on the edges are actual y images. Gradual y the images grow more pronounced, and she can begin to hear sounds with them.

“Now,” says her father, “very careful y, reach out and touch one.”

She does. And the world melts.

Paul sat at the scuffed wood table and stared at his one-year-old daughter. Jael sat on the dirt floor playing with her only toy, a threadbare rabbit that had once been pink. The night song of insects came in through the open windows of the shack and, along with it, the heat of the Haitian summer evening.

Jael careful y maneuvered her chubby bare legs under her diaper, grabbed the table leg next to her with one round arm, and slowly pul ed herself up to a teetering standing position.

She looked up at Paul with her solemn green eyes and presented her rabbit.

“Bun,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Bunny.”

“Bun,” she said. “Nee.”

“Very good,” he said.

She nodded, satisfied, and dropped back down onto her butt, cooing softly to her rabbit.

The sound of an old car engine approaching covered the insects’ song. Paul launched himself from his chair and ran to the window. He watched the car pul up the dirt road, then stepped away from the window.

The engine cut out and a car door slammed. Paul slid the deadbolt back and opened the door.

Father Poujean came in holding a grocery bag in one arm.

Paul and Poujean clasped hands. Then Poujean handed Paul the bag and crouched down next to Baby Jael. She looked up at him and presented her rabbit.

“Bun,” she said. “Nee.”

Poujean gently cupped her cheek in his hand, his eyes glistening. He looked up at Paul.

“She is beautiful,” he said.

“Yes,” said Paul.

“So much like . . . ,” Poujean started to say, but when he saw the pain flash across Paul’s face, he stopped himself. He looked back down at Baby Jael and ruffled her curly black hair.

“You are a marvel,” he told her. “A miracle.”

She smiled back, showing her two tiny bottom teeth.

“I’m sorry,” said Paul.

“Don’t be,” said Poujean.

“The last thing I wanted to do was drag you into al of this,”

said Paul, “but I’ve run out of places. He can’t track us directly anymore, but he’s got a legion of demons scouring the world for us. If we stay here too long, they’l come, and I don’t want to endanger you, so we’l leave in a day or two. I just . . .” His throat closed up like a fist and his eyes stung.

“It’s okay,” said Poujean, placing a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“Truly.”

“I just needed to talk to someone who understood the whole picture. To brainstorm with. I’m not sure what to do now.

Parenting . . . it doesn’t come natural y to me.” A tear final y escaped and he sat back heavily in his chair, pressing his hands to either side of his head.

“Where is her uncle?” asked Poujean.

“Betrayer,” spat Paul. “He let it happen. He helped it along.”

“But Paul,” said Poujean, “perhaps he was only—”

“No,” said Paul. “I wil not al ow him near her.”

Poujean said nothing for a long time. Instead, he watched Baby Jael crawl across the dirt floor, dragging her rabbit around with her.

“You can stay here for as long as you want,” said Poujean.

“No one comes out to this old shack. They al think it’s cursed.”

“Is it?” said Paul.

Poujean shrugged. “It used to be the home of a powerful bokur.”

Paul grunted. “Just guilt by association, then,” he said.

“That’s rarely a problem. But we won’t stay long. We have to keep on the move, at least until Belial stops pushing the hunt so hard.”

“Do you think he’l give up?”

“No, but he can’t have every demon in the Northern Duchy crawling through Gaia for too long without upsetting the delicate balance of power in Hel .”

“Do you think it’s wise to keep on the move like this?”

asked Poujean. “I fear it isn’t good for the baby.”

“What other choice do I have?”

“You could seek protection.”

Paul laughed a short, humorless burst. “From who?”

“The Church.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“You’d be surprised. If you get in touch with the right people and present yourself in the right way, they can be quite flexible and accommodating. I have some friends at the Vatican who—”

“No,” said Paul, his voice flat. “I know the types you’re talking about, and they always have agendas, and their help as often as not ends up being a tie that binds you to them. I won’t owe them anything.”

Poujean was silent again. He walked over to Jael, who had pul ed herself up at the other side of the table. He picked her up and held her. She returned his grave expression for a moment, then reached out and stuck her finger in his nose. He laughed and kissed her on the forehead, then put her back on the ground.

“There is something else we could try,” he said.

“Oh?” said Paul.

Poujean picked up the bag from the table. He pul ed out some baby food, formula, bottled water, and diapers and placed them to one side. Then he pul ed out a bottle of rum, a package of cigars, a top hat, and a pair of round mirrored sunglasses.

Paul picked up the top hat and looked at Poujean questioningly. “This seems a little heavy for you.”

Poujean smiled slightly as he took the top hat from Paul and examined it, picking off bits of dirt. “Our encounter with those demons in Crown Heights had a profound impact on me,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Paul. “It wasn’t fair to put you through that. Destroying a demon is ugly business.”

“That wasn’t the part that affected me the most,”

said Poujean. “It was your wife’s conversation with Asmodeus. For the first time, I was able to see things from their point of view.”

He walked over to a smal altar in the corner of the shack and placed the top hat on top of it. Then he walked back to the table and picked up the sunglasses. “That perspective has opened up a new pathway for me.” He popped one of the mirror lenses out of the sunglasses. “A crossroads, if you wil .” Then he walked over and placed the sunglasses next to the top hat.

Paul picked up the bottle of rum and gazed at the tan liquid.

“If you think there’s a chance the Baron wil listen, let’s ask.”

“It wil take a little while before everything is ready. He can be rather picky at times.”

“They al are, each in their own way,” said Paul. “I’l take Jael out while you work.”

“There’s a wel down the hil a ways,” said Poujean.

He pointed to a metal bucket next to the door. “You could go get some water. I’l need it after this, and you’l want to conserve the bottled water as much as possible.”

“Good idea,” said Paul. He picked up Jael, slid her into the baby carrier, and pul ed it onto his back with practiced ease.

Poujean brought the rum and cigars to the altar. He lit one of the cigars, took a few puffs, then placed the stil -burning cigar on the altar. He lit a cluster of candles beneath the altar. Then he opened the bottle of rum and took a long swal ow. He took another swig and spat it on the altar. He picked up a stick with a dried gourd tied to the end of it and began to shake it like a rattle. Then he started to sing quietly.

Paul picked up the bucket, and with Jael strapped to his back, walked out into the dark, hot night.

Paul took his time hiking down through the dark trees to the wel . The rhythm of his walk lul ed Jael to sleep, as it usual y did, and he didn’t want to wake her up.

Also, he knew Poujean would need some time alone.

Contacting Vodoun spirits, or loa, as they preferred to be cal ed, was a tricky business. Especial y when it was a loa as capricious as Baron Samedi, spirit of the crossroads and death. One slip could put the requester in a state far worse than death.

But after an hour or so, the bugs were eating Paul alive and Jael smel ed like she needed a diaper change. So he began to make his way back to the shack.

As he carried the water-fil ed metal bucket back up the hil , he thought he saw some movement over by a group of trees.

He stopped, his heart suddenly racing. He waited, but saw nothing more in the darkness. This was a forest, he told himself.

There were animals around. After another minute of stil ness, he moved on. The dim light from the shack came into view and he picked up his pace. Then he thought he heard something like a twig breaking. He froze again, but heard nothing more, so he continued toward the shack. In his mind, he debated whether his nerves were shot or if he was walking into something real y nasty. As soon as he stepped through the door, he knew which it was.

Two young Haitian men held Poujean pinned flat against the table, and one of them was choking him.

Poujean’s limbs shook and his eyes showed only the whites.

Paul dropped the bucket of water with a clang and the two men turned their heads. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes bloodshot and leaking.

They were possessed.

The sound of the bucket fal ing woke Jael and she began to wail. Paul tried to tune out the screaming baby on his back as he pul ed a vial of holy water from his pocket. “In the name of God, Jesus, Muhammad, Moses, and the Buddha,” he shouted, flicking holy water on the men, “I cast you out!”

The men hissed like snakes and lurched away, releasing Poujean so that he slid to the floor. Paul pressed his advantage, shouting the prayers of exorcism while Jael continued to yel in his ear. He had them backed into a corner, and in a few more minutes he would have exorcised them. But then he heard a clang from the bucket he had dropped by the door, as if someone had kicked it. He glanced back and saw three more possessed men piling in through the door. He angled his body sideways so that Jael wasn’t directly exposed to either group. It was starting to look like a wel -laid ambush.

He held his vial of holy water in one hand and drew his bladed crucifix with the other. He didn’t want to use the sword on these possessed innocent mortals, but if it came down to their lives or his daughter’s, he knew which one he would pick.

“In the name of Isis and Osiris, of Zeus and Hera, I cast you out, spirits!” he shouted first at one group, then the other. They cringed and kept their distance, but he couldn’t press one group without exposing Jael to the other group.

He quickly bent down to check Poujean’s vitals. He was breathing, but with a shal ow quickness that seemed unnatural, as if he was fighting off possession.

Then the possessed in the doorway were shoved roughly aside and a tal , lean figure with a wolfish grin and amber eyes strode through.

“Amon,” said Paul. “I should have kil ed you when I had the chance.”

“Yessss,” said Amon. “You should have.” His eyes gleamed with glee and the muscles under his face writhed, as if he could barely hold on to his human shape. “But you are mortal and therefore faulty. This was inevitable. I am only glad it is me who wil deliver the halfbreed to His Grace. He has offered the feast of your soul as the prize.”

“You won’t get either,” said Paul, brandishing his bladed crucifix.

“You plan to fight me with a baby on your back?”

asked Amon. He laughed, a harsh bark. Paul responded with a quick thrust. But his balance was off, his turn slow, and Amon easily avoided him.

“It is rare that I waste much thought on a mortal,” said Amon. “But you, I have thought of often.”

Paul knew it was hopeless, but hadn’t it always been?

So he attacked with the fearless desperation of a man cornered. Amon and his possessed slowly closed in around him.

“Philotanus was my brother,” said Amon. “You cannot even begin to conceive of the vast knowledge and towering intel ect you snuffed out with your clumsy artifacts and prayers. Like al mortals, you only know how to waste things.”

Amon lunged and grabbed Paul’s wrists. His grip was so strong that Paul’s hands went into spasms and he dropped both vial and crucifix. Amon’s grin widened, becoming more and more canine, the teeth sharp and protruding from his lips as he drew closer.

Then Paul felt the awkward weight of Jael suddenly lifted from his back.

“No!” he shouted.

One of the possessed scurried out of reach with Jael in his arms. Paul thrashed against Amon’s iron grasp and wailed like an animal.

“Oh, this is too delicious!” snarled Amon. “And too loud.”

He opened his mouth wide and the skin peeled back, exposing the wolf head beneath. Then he sank his teeth into Paul’s neck.

Paul’s screams turned into a gurgle as blood splashed onto the table, the dirt floor, and the stil -

unconscious Poujean.

Amon dropped the struggling, gasping Paul to the ground, drew his head back, and howled. Then he shed his legs like clothes, revealing a snake tail as thick as a tree trunk beneath.

“I think . . . ,” he said, his amber eyes cloudy with bloodlust.

“I think I wil have this halfbreed for myself.” He snatched Jael from the arms of the possessed and opened his jaws wide.

“Hey now!” came a low, rough voice from the other side of the room.

Amon froze, his eyes suddenly clear and frightened.

He turned his head and looked in the direction of this new voice.

It was Poujean. But it was not Poujean anymore. He stood tal , his arms folded over his chest, his head cocked to one side in a playful y scolding manner. He wore the black top hat and the mirrored sunglasses with one missing lens, and he held a burning cigar loosely in his teeth.

“What do ya tink you’re doing?” he asked in an amused, almost mocking tone. “Tresspassin’ on my turf?”

Amon’s lip curled up. “This has nothing to do with you, Baron. Leave it alone.”

“Oh-ho!” laughed Baron Samedi around his cigar.

“Dat so?

You goin’ ta tel me what ta do?” He took a step closer. “Here?

In my land?”

“You’re nothing but a recycled New World nightmare,”

said Amon. “You have no authority over me.”

“Wel now,” said the Baron, “actual y, accordin’ to da truce between Lucifer and Papa Guede, no demon of Hel can shed blood on da soil of Haiti. And”—he gestured to the gasping, gurgling Paul on the dirt ground—“dat definitely counts.”

Amon glared at him for a moment, then pul ed himself back into his human shape. “Fine,” he said. “We were just leaving anyway.” He turned toward the door, casual y tucking Jael in the crook of his arm.