Misfit

by Jon Skovron

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

  “I think I will 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 tall, his arms folded over his chest, his head cocked to one side in a playfully 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 tell 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.”

  “Well now,” said the Baron, “actually, accordin’ to da truce between Lucifer and Papa Guede, no demon of Hell 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 pulled himself back into his human shape. “Fine,” he said. “We were just leaving anyway.” He turned toward the door, casually tucking Jael in the crook of his arm.

  “Ah no, not so easy as dat,” said the Baron. “Why don’t you give me dis precious baby as payment for breaking the truce.”

  “No thanks,” snarled Amon. He shoved the possessed out of his way and ran out of the shack.

  “Ah so,” said the Baron with an amused twinkle in his eyes. He took a few deep puffs on his cigar. Then he looked at the possessed men. They stared back at him with their blank, bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m disappointed in you, children,” he said. “Letting foreign devils mount you like dis. It shows a weak will.” He picked up the bottle of rum from the altar, took a long swig, then splashed some on each of the possessed. They convulsed for a moment and the air above them rippled thickly with imps escaping back to Hell. Then the mortals dropped to the ground, unconscious.

  The Baron turned to the gasping, bloodied Paul. “Hey, I know you,” he said, shaking his cigar at him scoldingly. “Erzulie Freda’s husband, yes?”

  Paul could do nothing but wheeze one last time. Then his eyes started to dim.

  “What is wrong with you people,” said the Baron, shaking his head. “I said dis is my turf. I decide who lives and dies. And you, I’ll keep around for a while.” He pressed the burning cigar into the wound in Paul’s neck. The stench of burning flesh filled the shack and Paul convulsed wildly. But when the Baron pulled the cigar away, Paul took a long, shuddering breath and touched his healed neck.

  “Dat’s better,” said the Baron, and nodded, placing his cigar back in his mouth.

  Paul staggered to his feet, rubbing his neck carefully, his face a mixture of shock and relief. But that quickly changed to panic.

  “My daughter!” he shouted, and charged for the door.

  “Wait now,” said the Baron, easily restraining Paul with one hand on his shoulder. “No need to worry. You’ll get her back any moment now.”

  “How?” demanded Paul.

  “You wait and see,” said the Baron, and he winked.

  Off in the distance, Paul heard a sudden wolfish howl of panic that changed abruptly to pain. Paul listened to the short barks and whimpers, while the Baron grinned and chewed his cigar. Then a shape appeared in the doorway. It looked like a mortal woman, but she walked with a strange, shuffling gait.

  As she stepped into the light of the shack, Paul saw that it was a zombie. Her hair was patchy, her skin peeling away from the bone in strips on her face. In her rotting arms she held Baby Jael. She stroked Jael’s hair with bone fingers and smiled down at her with a vague yet unmistakable maternal affection.

  “Jesus,” said Paul, stunned speechless for the first time in a very long time.

  “Ah, thank you, my dear,” said the Baron, gently removing Jael from the zombie’s arms. “You may go back to your feast. I am quite pleased with you. I suspect your service may be ending soon.”

  She nodded and slowly turned, then shuffled back through the door and into the night, heading in the direction of the canine howls of misery.

  “This is yours, I think,” said the Baron as he handed Jael to Paul.

  Paul held Jael in his arms, feeling her warm breath against his chest as if for the first time.

  “Thank you,” he said simply.

  The Baron shrugged. “It’s good to remind these demons sometimes that I’m still around.”

  There was another shrieking bark in the distance.

  “I didn’t know zombies could eat demons,” admitted Paul.

  “Oh, dey can’t, really,” said the Baron. “But you know, dey just keep trying anyway.”

  When Poujean woke a few hours after dawn, he found Paul sitting at the table, holding the sleeping Jael in his arms and staring out the window. Poujean struggled to his feet, rubbing his head.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Paul quietly. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “You did it. You brought the Baron here and he helped me.

  Not exactly in the way we hoped, but that’s pretty typical of the Baron.”

  “Is that why I feel like a cow has stepped repeatedly on my head?” asked Poujean.

  “Probably,” said Paul.

  Poujean tore open a bottle of water and chugged it down without taking a breath.

  “You going to be okay?” asked Paul.

  “Every muscle in my body aches,” said Poujean as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But in a good way. Like when I was a boy playing football. The kind of ache that reminds you that you’re still alive. With things to do.” He picked up the black top hat that lay on the altar and brushed the dirt from it.

  “The Church won’t like you doing this kind of stuff,” said Paul. “It’s too dark for them. Too blatantly pagan.”

  “Yes,” said Poujean. “But I hear a call now that is stronger even than when I was called to the priesthood. I cannot ignore it. Perhaps my path leads away from the Church for a while.”

  “That’s funny,” said Paul. “Because I think mine is leading me back to them.”

  “Oh?” said Poujean. He turned from the hat to Paul.

  “That’s how the Baron helped. In addition to saving my life and my daughter, he convinced me to follow your advice,” said Paul.

  “Which advice was that?”

  “To ask the Church to protect us.”

  “How did he convince you to do that?” asked Poujean.

  Paul looked down at the sweet baby girl in his arms. “He didn’t need to say a word. If it weren’t for him, I would have lost her last night. I have to humble myself and accept that I can’t do this alone. I can’t let my feelings toward the Church or my pride get in the way like that again. From now on, I think only of the greater good.”

  CATALYST 15

  They stand in the living room, father and daughter, both reeling from the shared experience.

  “Dad, I . . .” “Do you see now?” he asks. “Do you want to bring something like that down on this sleepy little neighborhood? If there is any risk that this Rob could reveal us, it will be more than just embarrassing. It will be deadly.”

  “But Dad, we can’t just keep moving. I can’t do it. I’ll go crazy.”

  He looks at her, and Jael sees the pain in his eyes. She remembers the heavy song of his soul.

  “Please, Dad,” she says, little more than a whisper. “I know you don’t want to do this.�
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  But he takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.

  I need to you be strong,” he says. “I need you to think about the greater good now. I will give you tomorrow to say good-bye to your friends. We leave in the evening. Go up to your room and start packing.”

  Then he sits back down in his chair, picks up his Bible, and begins to read.

  She walks slowly up the spiral staircase to her bedroom.

  Once there, she stares at the clothes on the floor for a long time.

  She feels her body slowly heat up and she lets it. What does it matter if she scorches a few walls now? She’s leaving anyway.

  Going off to live in some remote land—no friends, no contact with anyone except a bitter ex-priest and a fish monster. Perfect.

  Why can’t her father just trust her for once? Why can’t he believe that someone other than him is capable of doing something right? She can make this work. She knows it. It will never get to the point where crazy demons and zombies are climbing in through the windows. Or if it does, it won’t be because of Rob. There has to be a way to convince him of that.

  Britt will know what to do. Jael hasn’t been sure about telling her all of this, but what’s the risk now? If she doesn’t get Britt’s help, she’ll be leaving in twenty-four hours anyway.

  With a sudden burst of energy, she grabs the phone on her dresser, and punches in Britt’s number. But she’s let herself get too hot. Just as the voice mail kicks in and Britt’s mom’s cheerful, dippy voice comes on, Jael’s phone melts into a shapeless blob.

  “Shit,” she hisses, and flings it across the room, where it smashes through the monitor of her computer.

  Well, there goes that option too.

  The anger and frustration boil up inside her and her body gets even hotter. Smoke begins to rise off of her clothes. She can’t seem to calm down. She’s losing control like she did at the bookstore.

  “No!” she says. “Please, just . . . cool off.” She just throws it out there, not even really expecting anything. But the air responds. Yes, it almost seems to say. If it upsets you to be so hot, we can make you cooler. A moment later, her skin temperature drops so low that there’s a light dusting of frost on her jeans.

  She sighs deeply. “Thanks,” she says, although she’s not sure if air really cares about stuff like that.

  The heat problem is solved, but she still needs to talk to Britt and she doesn’t have either a phone or a computer. She knows her father won’t let her out this late. And she’s so pissed at him she doesn’t even want to see his face right now anyway.

  So for the first time in her life, she contemplates sneaking out.

  She peers out of her bedroom window. There isn’t any ledge and the lone tree in their little yard is not within jumping distance.

  Not that she’s crazy enough to jump at this height, considering her last attempt at flight.

  But she did get into the air, didn’t she? It was only for a few seconds, but that might be all she needs.

  She leans out the window. The wind is up, so it’s hard for her to get the air’s attention. Eventually, she connects with a swirly little piece and asks it to stop her from falling. Then she quickly steps off the window ledge before the wind gets tired of waiting. She sways somewhat precariously in midair for a moment. Then the air loses interest and lets her fall. But she’s already been talking with the air beneath it, so she only drops by a foot. She continues like this, moment-by-moment, step-by-step, until she lands on the ground.

  She thanks the earth under her feet for being its dependable self. The earth turns its groggy attention to her for a moment, then goes back to whatever it is earth thinks about.

  Jael turns west, toward Britt’s house.

  All the windows in Britt’s house are lit up like they’re having a party. But that’s how Britt and her mom keep it all the time, even when it’s just the two of them, and it looks a lot more cheerful than Jael’s own dark, gloomy home. Her eyes have adjusted so well to the night that as she approaches the front door, she has to squint at the light that spills out.

  Jael walks up the front steps and across the porch. She has to step around old toys, broken exercise machines, and camping gear, some of which has probably been there for years. Britt and her mom always enter through the back door, where the garage is, so the front porch has become a dumping ground. That’s one of the dangers of always living in the same house, she supposes.

  You never need to purge your possessions, so stuff just keeps piling up.

  Jael rings the doorbell, and after a few moments, Britt’s mother answers the door. Her thick honey-blond hair seems wreathed in light from the room behind her. She smiles with glossy red lips.

  “Hi, Jael. What’s up?”

  Ms. Brougher really is a beautiful woman, in that classic pinup kind of way. All soft curves and bright smiles. She’s always made Jael feel especially coarse and unfeminine.

  “Hey, Ms. Brougher,” says Jael.

  “Jael, you’re not my student anymore. You can just call me Heather now.”

  “Sorry,” says Jael. “It’s habit.”

  “So, what’s up, girl?” says Miss Brougher. “You’re out late on a school night.”

  “Yeah,” says Jael. “Can I talk with Britt?”

  Ms. Brougher raises a penciled eyebrow at her. “Hmmm .

  . . can I take a guess and say that you’re having boy trouble?”

  “Uh, sure,” says Jael. Close enough.

  “Well, come on in.”

  Jael follows her into the living room, which is crowded with overstuffed furniture that makes the small room seem even smaller.

  “Britt’s on the computer in her room. I’m sure she can pull herself away. Just go on in.” She makes a dainty flipping motion with her hand, then leans over and picks up a cordless phone from one of the easy chairs.

  “Hey, I’m back,” she says into the phone. “Yeah, just one of Britt’s little friends, here for some romance advice.” She pauses as she listens to the response. “Ha-ha, Jack. Real funny. She is only sixteen, you know.” Then she wanders out into the kitchen.

  A little tingle runs through Jael at the name Jack. Can it possibly be the same guy from the bookstore? How weird would that be? . . . She hopes it isn’t, because that would be a little disappointing. A guy like that could do better than Miss Brougher. Somebody younger. And cooler.

  Jael looks around at the living room: at the huge TV that had been a gift from one of Miss Brougher’s previous boyfriends, at the stacks of teen fashion magazines on the coffee table, and at the line of crucifixes and framed pictures of saints hung along the walls. Jael can’t decide whether coming here was the best idea she’s ever had, or the worst.

  When Jael peeks through the doorway into Britt’s room, she sees her in the corner, hunched over a keyboard and staring at her computer monitor. It looks like she has about five different instant message windows open at once, as well as e-mail and an article from Teen Vogue.

  “One sec,” says Britt without turning around. Then she clacks furiously on her keyboard.

  Jael looks around Britt’s room, which is, as always, perfectly organized. Every inch of wall is covered in posters of models or actors, except the space directly over her bed. That place of honor is held by a massive metal crucifix.

  “Hookay!” says Britt. “Good night, Internet!” Then she spins around in her chair to look at Jael. “I just told them all I have to sign off to help a girlfriend in crisis.”

  “Why do you think I’m in crisis?” asks Jael.

  “Uh, because you never just show up at my house late at night like this. Now, sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

  Jael sits on the edge of the bed.

  “So, what’s up?” asks Britt. “Is this about Rob?”

  “Yeah, kinda,” says Jael, trying to decide where to begin.

  Blurting it out like she did with Rob probably isn’t going to work, and lighting something on fire just to show h
er would definitely freak her out. She should have planned ahead of time how she was going to do this.

  “Come on,” says Britt encouragingly. “Whatever you guys did, trust me, I’ve done it.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I’m your best friend. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

  “That’s just it,” says Jael. “I don’t know if I should really tell anyone.”

  “Oh my God, are you pregnant?”

  “What? No!”

  “Okay,” says Britt, visibly relieved. “Well, it can’t really be any worse than that. So what is it?”

  “You know how a lot of people think that witches and stuff like that are evil?”

  “Of course,” says Britt. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Well, what if they weren’t? Not all of them, anyway. What if it was all just some kind of . . . misunderstanding?”

  Britt frowns. “How could it possibly be a misunderstanding?

  The Bible is full of examples of witches and sorceresses. And they’re all evil.”

  “So what if there were others though, who were good and just didn’t get mentioned?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Like, ‘Hey, God. I know you’re all-knowing and everything, but you missed a few.’” She gives Jael a weird look. “What’s this all about? You never talk about this kind of stuff. Is Rob into some weird Satanic cult or something?”

  “No!” says Jael. “Maybe witches was . . . a bad example. I was just . . . uh, talking metaphorically.”

  “J, just talk straight with me. Are you and Rob hooking up or what?”

  “No,” says Jael. “I mean, not yet. I don’t know. I’m just . . .

  look, honestly, I’m not even sure where to begin. . . .”

  “Oh,” says Britt, rolling her eyes and nodding her head.

  “OK, I get it.”

  “You do?” asks Jael, pretty sure she doesn’t.

  “Sure. Sorry, I’ve been a little slow on the uptake today.”

  She leans in a little, like they’re suddenly speaking more confidentially. “Listen, it’s totally normal to be nervous about the first time. But I am here to tell you that there’s nothing to be scared of.”