by Jon Skovron
“Your mother’s,” says her father. “She used it only for her own bloodletting, when spells called for it.”
Jael places the case on the table and takes out the knife. It seems impossibly thin and delicate, but when she presses her finger against the tip, it draws blood immediately
“Ah!” she says, and holds her hand over the bowl. “Will this be enough?”
“Not if I were doing it,” says her father. “But maybe for you.”
“So now I’m supposed to say something?”
“Yes. ‘Prodeo, Dagon piscis rex.’ ”
“What?”
“It’s Latin.”
“What does it mean?”
“Literally, it means, ‘Come to me, Dagon, Fish King.’”
“Well, can’t I just say that?”
“Formal prayer in Latin always worked best for me,” he says.
“Well, I’m going to try it in English,” she says. “Because if I have to do everything in Latin, that’s gonna suck.”
She squeezes her finger and the blood wells up. A single drop falls into the bowl of water and she says, feeling a little silly:
“Uncle Dagon, Fish King. Come here, I need to talk to you.”
Then, “Please.”
The water immediately bubbles and froths like it’s boiling.
Jael lets out a little yelp and leaps back. Two clawed hands emerge from the bowl, stretch up into the air, and reach out to grab the edge of the table. Then a head that’s much too big for the bowl emerges, elongating as it passes the rim. It’s followed by one shoulder, then another, and so on, until at last Dagon stands in front of them, his ragged fish scales dripping blood. He shakes himself violently, spattering blood on the Formica.
Then he turns his black shark eyes on her and says, “Christ on a cross, could you have found something smaller to squeeze me out of?”
“Sorry,” says Jael. She feels a strange thrill at seeing her uncle. She wonders if maybe it’s the relief of having someone around who is more monsterish than her. “I didn’t realize you’d actually show up. I thought it would be like when Dad does it.”
“Demon blood is a much better conductor than mortal blood,” says Dagon.
“Right . . . ,” says Jael.
“So what’s the emergency?” he asks.
“Well . . .” She glances at her father. “Maybe we could go talk about this somewhere else,” she says.
“No, Jael,” says her father. “If you truly want me to help you, if you want my support, then I need to know what’s going on.”
She tries to meet his gaze and fails. “You’re not going to like it,” she mutters.
“Add it to the list of recent events,” he says.
She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on Dagon. “The guys at school were really into me today.”
“Of course.” Dagon grins, teeth glinting in the harsh kitchen light. “You’re pretty.”
“No,” says Jael. “I mean, like, they wouldn’t leave me alone.
Like they couldn’t leave me alone.”
“I’ll bet,” says Dagon. Then he laughs in a sea-lion bark. “I mean, you are a succubus after all.”
“Oh God,” says her father.
“Those poor teenage boys!” says Dagon, still laughing.
“They must have been in agony!”
“It’s not funny,” says her father.
“Oh, Father Paul, don’t be such a little priss,” Dagon says.
Then he turns to Jael. “Did you have your hair down like you do now?”
“Yeah,” says Jael. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“That’s where it’s coming from,” says Dagon.
“My hair?”
“The longer and looser it is, the more potent that kind of magic gets.”
“So . . . if it were really short, the boys would leave me alone?”
“Well, you’ll never be a wallflower again no matter what, kiddo. Sorry. But yeah, your affect on mortals would be less intense.”
“Good enough,” says Jael. She turns and walks out of the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” her father calls out.
But she doesn’t answer. Instead she goes into the bathroom and pulls out the clippers her father uses to cut his hair. A moment later, a shower of black, frizzy locks start to fall to the tile floor.
She takes it slowly, one strip at a time, front to back. At first, her heart is racing because she can hardly believe what she’s doing to herself. So many bad-hair-day mornings she thought of it. But every time, she chickened out. She continues to cut her hair and after a while, her heart slows. She’s able to appreciate the odd sensations of the clippers sliding across her scalp and the sudden cool freshness that follows in its wake. Once she’s finished, she rubs the shock of short spiky hair, letting it prickle her palm. She looks at herself in the mirror and sighs deeply, feeling like she’s shed several pounds.
She notices her uncle Dagon watching her, his massive shape taking up most of the doorway. In moments like this, when he’s completely still and silent, she remembers all over again how alien he is to her, and how little she understands him.
What was it her mother’s letter had said? That he has seen more civilizations rise and fall than he cares to count. She can’t even conceive of what that might be like.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” she says.
“I’m no expert on mortal aesthetics,” says Dagon. “But I think you’d have to do a lot worse than a haircut to make yourself ugly.”
“Yeah, but it’s just the demon magic stuff that makes people think I look prettier, right?” says Jael. “It’s not like I can claim any credit for it. It’s not me.”
“This ‘demon magic stuff’ you’re talking about is not something separate. It’s as much a part of you as your lungs or your teeth. So keep that in mind. And sure, your beauty is in the eye of the beholder. All beauty, and all ugliness, is subjective.
There is no other kind.”
“Well, anyway, it didn’t do much good for me today,” she says.
“I thought the boys were falling all over each other.”
“Except the one guy that I actually like,” says Jael.
“Oh?” says Dagon, cocking his head to one side. “There’s a guy?”
“Yeah, well, I know you can’t lie, but don’t mention it to my dad. He’d totally flip.”
“I’ll try to avoid the topic,” says Dagon. “You might have noticed, he and I don’t talk too much anyway. So what happened with this boyfriend?”
“He’s not a boyfriend,” Jael says quickly. “I mean, I thought maybe there was a chance . . . But he couldn’t even stand to be near me for more than a few seconds.”
“That so?” asks Dagon, and he smirks, his lower teeth poking out on one side.
“What?”
He shrugs. “If he already liked you before . . . well, maybe he was a little overwhelmed.”
“Huh,” she says, looking back at herself in the mirror.
“Could it be that intense?”
“Kid, you got no idea. And when you actually start using it on purpose, look out world.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll ever use it on purpose. That would be totally creepy.”
“Listen, kid,” says Dagon. “I’m supposed to be at work right now, so I have to split. But we can start your training tomorrow.
Get a little better control of all this.”
“Work, huh?” asks Jael. “What do you do, anyway? Like, torture dead people or something?”
“Torture dead people?” asks Dagon, his eyes going wide.
“Isn’t that what demons do?”
“The crazy stuff these mortals think up!” he says. His face curves down into a wicked frown and he glances down the hallway toward the kitchen, where her father still is. “Kid, you have to stop listening to these mortals. They have no idea what they’re talking about. Especially the priests.”
“But . . . isn’t that what Hell
is? The place of eternal torment?”
“Hell’s no picnic, but it’s not that bad.”
“So . . . bad people don’t go there when they die?”
“Of course not,” he says. “Trust me, we have enough problems on our own without taking on garbage from Gaia.”
“Gaia?”
“The mortal realm.”
“Okay, so when people here on . . . uh . . .”
“Gaia.”
“Right. Gaia. When we die, where do we go, then?”
“Dead people? How would I know?”
“What about Heaven?”
“What about it?”
“Well, do people go there?”
“No idea. Never been there.”
“Um . . .” Jael rubs her temples. “I’m totally confused now.
If Hell doesn’t exist to punish the wicked, what’s it there for?”
“You know,” says Dagon, giving her a teasing smile. “I’ve often wondered the same thing about Gaia. What’s it there for?”
She just stares at him.
“What?” He shrugs. “If you can answer my question, I’ll try to figure out yours.”
“Fine,” she says. “So what do you do in Hell, then?”
“I’m Hell’s baker.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“So when I saw you in that place with the giant shells and all, that was your kitchen?”
“I share it with Hell’s cook, Nysrock, but otherwise, yep.
That’s my domain.”
“Wow,” says Jael. “How bizarre. I mean, you don’t really think about Hell having an actual kitchen.”
“I wasn’t always a baker,” he says. “Before Belial and the other Grand Dukes consolidated their power, things were different. Once, I was . . .” Creases appear in the dried scales of his face for a moment, causing some of them to crack and flake off. Then he shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t a fish, that’s for sure. But that’s a long story and I’ve got to get back to work because I’ve got about two thousand loaves in the oven. So let’s figure out where we’re going to meet tomorrow. We’re gonna need a big, natural space without people. Any ideas?”
“In a city?” asks Jael. “There isn’t much. Do I have to get there by myself?”
“Afraid so,” says Dagon. “The only way I know to transport someone is through Hell, and I don’t want to risk anyone catching sight of you.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how I feel about going to Hell anyway, even if there aren’t any tortured dead people,” Jael says. “I don’t want to count on my dad, so it’s got to be somewhere I can get by bus. Maybe Discovery Park?”
“How big is that?”
“I don’t know . . . like, five acres?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s a lot for a city.”
Dagon sighs. “If that’s the best we can do.”
“So where should we meet?” asks Jael.
“You just find a spot without mortals around,” says her uncle. Then he winks. “And get ready to make some magic.”
Then he’s gone, leaving behind only a faint fishy odor.
“Yeah,” she whispers to herself as she looks in the mirror.
She runs her hand through her new spiky hairdo, feeling it slide freely through her fingers for the first time since she can remember.
“Magic.”
She has no idea what that even means. But she thinks she just might be ready for it.
A BAD HAIR DAY 11
“Well, brother,” said astarte. the desert winds whipped at her thick, curly black hair as she gazed at the vast stone temple before them. “It seems you are doing well these days.”
Dagon grinned broadly, a twinkle in his amber eyes. “It doesn’t equal the majesty of Babylon, but it’s pleasant enough.
The Philistines are a fascinating and cultured people.”
“Yes,” said Astarte. “It helps that they adore you so much that they built this gorgeous temple for you.”
“Yes,” said Dagon. “They have good taste. And they’re quite the artisans, as well. Come inside and I’ll show you row upon row of finely crafted pottery, all with my dashing good looks painted on them.”
“Oh,” said Astarte, arching her eyebrow. “Do you think I should? I’d hate to go blind from all that beauty.”
“Hmm,” said Dagon, and tugged at his short trimmed, black beard, his chiseled brown face serious. “Perhaps we should only look at the first floor.”
She punched him in the shoulder. “You are impossible,” she told him. “Lead the way to this rogue’s gallery.”
The pair started down the wide, dusty road, their white robes gleaming in the harsh sun. As they walked by, mortals stopped their activities and bowed low. When they passed between the massive wooden pillars at the front of the temple, a chorus of joyful voices greeted them. The chorus continued to sing as Dagon let Astarte through the temple, pointing out the rows of hundreds of delicate handcrafted pots, bowls, cups, and pitchers that lined the walls. It wasn’t until they reached the high stone altar and Dagon nodded in their direction that the chorus stopped and filed silently into an antechamber to rest.
“It’s convenient that they keep all these bowls and cups here,” said Dagon. “My people make an excellent alcoholic beverage.”
“And you encourage drinking in the temple?” asked Astarte.
She shook her head. “Next you’ll institute holy prostitution.”
“It worked for you,” said Dagon.
“That was Greece,” said Astarte, as if that explained it perfectly. “I’m done with all that now.”
“Oh yes,” said Dagon. “Your precious Phoenicians. How are they?”
“Busy as always,” said Astarte. “I’m a spirit of love, not maternity. I don’t coddle, and I prefer my mortals to have a little more autonomy.”
“Suit yourself,” said Dagon. “I have too much fun hanging out with mine to leave them for too long.”
“Dagon,” said a low, rumbling voice from the front of the temple. A creature stood at the entrance, like an ox standing upright on its hind legs, but several times larger and made of iron, wood, and stone.
“Ah, Baal!” said Dagon as he walked down the center aisle.
Astarte trailed slightly behind. “I’m glad you’re here. My sister just stopped by for a visit.”
“My lady,” said Baal in a slow, measured voice. He bowed his head, and the sound of creaking wood and grinding stone echoed through the temple. “It has been too long since I last beheld your beauty.”
Astarte smiled slightly. “Pretty words, sir. Has my brother been coaching you?”
“Yes,” said Baal with no trace of embarrassment. “He has taken me under his wing, so to speak. And I am very grateful.”
“Baal,” said Dagon, “I was thinking a feast would be in order to celebrate my sister’s visit. Could you oversee that for me?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Baal without changing his low, flat inflection. “I will begin arrangements straightaway. But first, news from Ashdod.”
“Oh?” asked Dagon.
“It’s that Samson again,” said Baal. “Recently he slew ten thousand of your people with a jawbone.”
“What?” said Dagon, his face clouding. “And with only a jawbone?”
“Of an ass, I believe,” said Baal.
“The sheer insolence!”
“Who is this Samson?” Astarte asked.
“Hebrew,” said Dagon tersely.
“Weren’t those the people with the box of sand?” she asked.
“The one that injured you back in—”
“Yes, yes, their Ark of the Covenant,” said Dagon, and he began to pace back and forth, rotating his hands on his wrists as if recalling the pain. “This one is rather impressive. I question whether he’s even mortal.”
“I assure you he is mortal,” said Baal. “Although it is rumored that he is favored by Heaven.”
Dagon snor
ted. “All Hebrews think they are a favorite of Heaven.” He paused in his pacing and frowned. “Still, this one seems able to show some proof of it.”
“Are the Hebrews a real threat to your people?” asked Astarte.
“Not really,” said Dagon. “They haven’t figured out how to make iron, so we have a huge tactical advantage over them, and they aren’t nearly as organized as we are. But their whole exclusive one-god-only policy is a serious pain in my ass. They’re impossible to work with when they keep telling me I don’t exist.”
“And of course they wounded your pride with that box of sand.”
“That too,” said Dagon.
“Perhaps he has a weakness,” said Baal. “Like Achilles.”
“Maybe,” said Dagon. Then he turned and gave Astarte a coy look. “Sister dear, don’t you owe me a favor for something or other?”
“No,” said Astarte. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’ll owe you one, then.”
Her eyes narrowed. “For what?”
“This Samson can’t seem to say no to a pretty face. If he has a weakness, I’ll bet you could find out what it is easily.”
“Brother, really. We both have better things to do than waste all this time and effort on one mortal.”
“But,” said Baal, “this mortal is the champion of the Hebrews. . . . ”
“Exactly!” said Dagon. “The Hebrews unite under him. If we put him back in his place, no one else will get delusions of grandeur and it will be clear to everybody that their distant god in Heaven isn’t going to protect them from a god right here.”
“These Hebrews really got under your skin, didn’t they?”
she asked.
“Please, sister. It will be such an easy task for you.”
“Perhaps . . . ,” she said.
“You’ll do it?” said Dagon, already wrapping her in a rough embrace.
“On one condition,” she said, pushing him away slightly.
“What?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“If I do this thing, you must promise to stop obsessing over these Hebrews. Let past insults go and move forward. It’s not like you to hold a grudge.”
“Of course, sister dear. You’re absolutely right. Once this is finished, I will turn to more important matters.”
