by Jon Skovron
Jael struggles to pick herself up off the ground, but her hands aren’t working too well and she feels dizzy from blood loss. Baal’s wooden parts blaze with fire now, but he is able to get back to his feet. He snorts and smiles a crumbling ash grin.
He paws the earth, preparing to charge.
“Sing,” she says, and stretches out one pale, red-soaked hand.
As Baal begins his charge, the fire that clings to him grows higher.
“More,” says Jael, and she stands her ground.
The flames thicken, burning almost blue with heat. Baal roars in pain, but continues his charge.
“More!” says Jael.
The flames leap up high enough to touch the bridge overhead. There is a thunderous crack and Baal crumbles, skidding in several directions at once.
She looks at the smoldering pieces of Baal that still struggle to rise, then at Amon, writhing on the ground, clawing at his throat. Their spirits are weak, now. Easily commanded.
“Leave Gaia or I will destroy you,” she says.
They disappear.
Jael turns to Belial. He has also shed his mortal form, and his razorlike body glitters coldly in the streetlight.
“Well,” he says. “It appears I may have underestimated you.”
“You and me both,” says Jael, and hits him in the face with a fireball.
He hisses with a voice like steam, clawing at his face. Then he hurls a sheet of ice at her, but she waves her hand and it melts, the water splashing the concrete in front of her. She tosses another fireball at him, but he’s ready for it this time and easily knocks it aside.
Jael gathers the silver wires that still hang from her wrists and comes at him, skating on a layer of air. He pauses for a moment, confused. It’s all she needs. Just as she’s about to run into him, the air flips her up and over him. As she passes over his head, she loops the wire around his neck. She lands behind him and pulls as hard as she can, ignoring the searing pain in her wrists. The wire pulls tight around Belial’s neck. He claws at it for a moment, panic on his face. But then his eyes narrow and he grabs at the wire between them and hauls Jael toward him.
“Please,” she says. “Help me.”
The earth rumbles beneath them. Belial’s eyes go wide for a moment. Then the ground beneath him splits open and swallows him up to his shoulders.
“You can’t kill me, you idiot!” he snarls.
“I don’t need to,” she says. She winces as she pulls the wire from her wrists. Then she gives it a jerk hard enough to make him gasp.
“What are you . . . going to do,” he wheezes. “Wish me away
. . . like you did . . . those fools?”
She takes a deep breath, gathers everything she has, and screams, “I banish you!”
He flickers, then disappears.
For a moment, there is silence. Jael takes a slow, deep breath as the adrenaline begins to fade and the pain in her sliced wrists gets louder.
But then Britt turns from the statue, wobbly on her broken leg, her face a mass of blood and dirt. She laughs like crackling static. “Stupid halfbreed!”
“Get out of her!” shouts Jael, and grabs Britt.
“Come in and make me,” Britt snarls.
Jael dives into Britt’s soul. The mess she finds is even worse than Ms. Brougher’s. It’s one giant frozen mass of jagged edges.
The air is biting, noxious, and Jael almost gags.
A large white worm burrows into the soul as if it were dirt, leaving gaping holes behind. It pauses for a moment, waving its eyeless face in her direction, then quickly turns and begins to tunnel deep into the center of the soul.
Jael scrambles across the soul, slipping, stumbling. She catch the worm’s tail just as it’s about to disappear. The worm feels like she’s grabbed the coils of a deep freezer. It’s so cold, the skin on her hands starts to crack and split. The thing wriggles like a cord of stringy muscle as she hauls it up out of the hole.
It whips around and catches her cheek, leaving a long, red ice burn. She stumbles backward, still holding the worm, and her foot touches a small section of a memory that hasn’t been frozen over.
Abruptly, she is inside Britt’s kitchen when Britt was five years old. Britt sits at the table, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while her mom sits on the floor with a bottle of wine in one hand and a phone in the other. The sound of the dial tone is so loud it almost drowns out Ms. Brougher’s quiet sobs.
This was the moment that Britt understood that parents are just people. That they aren’t invincible, and there are many things they can’t, or won’t, fix. . . .
Jael is back among the icy shards of the soul. She staggers across the uneven surface as she tries to hold on to the wriggling worm and keep her footing at the same time. The worm bunches up, then snaps its midsection at her face. She jerks back, just barely avoiding it. But she slips and falls into another memory.
She is at Britt’s eighth birthday party. The sound of girls’
laughter can be heard in another room. But in this room, the bathroom, it is just Britt, biting her lip so she doesn’t cry, and her thirty-year-old cousin telling her she’ll go to Hell if she tells anybody . . .
Jael comes out of the memory gasping for air. The worm has its tail wrapped around her neck. Ice spreads out onto her shoulders and up to her chin. It feels like her head is being squeezed from her body.
She tries to gather some heat, but there’s nothing in this place to pull from. It’s going to have to come from within. But she can barely stand. She needs . . . something. She’s hungry.
Empty.
She nearly falls into another memory, but she catches herself on a small frozen shard of Britt’s soul that juts out from the rest.
That’s all she’d need. Just a bite. Just something to bring some warmth back in. If she doesn’t do it, they’ll both be dead anyway.
The worm squeezes harder, and the skin on her neck cracks like frozen concrete.
Jael breaks off a tiny piece of Britt’s soul and swallows it. It hits her stomach like a bomb, sending warmth and raw power out to every inch of her body. She rips the worm off her neck and holds it up above her head.
Belial’s voice shrieks, “I will destroy you! You freak! You abomination! You—”
“Go to Hell,” she says.
Fire engulfs the worm, and then there’s nothing left.
She brushes her hands across Britt’s spirit. It leaps back into life, flickering and dancing with a joy so beautiful and hypnotic, Jael wants to reach out and—
No. No more. She’s had a taste and she wants it all, but she wrenches herself out of Britt’s soul and stumbles back out onto the asphalt.
Britt lies in a heap on the ground. Jael drops down next to her and leans against the rubble of the troll’s massive fist.
“J-J-Jael . . .”
Britt looks up at her through unfocused, blood-encrusted eyes.
“It’s okay, Britt,” pants Jael. “I . . . we did it.”
“Jael, I’m . . . I’m . . .” She shuts her eyes and tears cut through the drying blood to stream down her bruised cheeks.
“Hurt.”
“Yeah,” says Jael. “You are.”
Jael’s body still buzzes with power, so she shakes off her own pain, kneels down, and gently picks Britt up. Then she turns and sprints all the way to Swedish Medical Center in Ballard. It’s late and no one’s out. She skates down the middle of the street on a cushion of air, careful not to jostle Britt’s broken leg. The whole time, Britt presses her face against Jael’s shoulder and whimpers quietly. Jael doesn’t know whether it’s out of pain or fear. Probably both.
In a few minutes, they’re at the hospital. She walks through the sliding-glass doors of the emergency room and lays Britt on the counter. The nurse stares at her.
“Broken leg,” says Jael. “Among other things.”
Then she turns and runs out before they can stop her.
As she speeds up Seventeenth Avenu
e, she thinks, Broken soul, too. But who’s going to fix that?
She continues north toward home. But the burst of energy is nearly spent. The pain in her throat, hands, and wrists becomes more and more insistent. She feels cold again, dizzy. It gets harder for her to stay upright. She’s lost a lot of blood. By the time she reaches her house, the air not only supports her feet, but her hands as well, as she fights to stay upright. She staggers through the door, her vision dim and her own harsh gasps like thunder in her ears.
Her father runs toward her, yelling her name. She tries to reach out to him, but she misjudges and falls flat on her face.
She tries to push herself up, but her hands aren’t listening to her anymore.
“Father . . . ,” she whispers.
Strong, fishy-smelling arms lift her up from the ground.
“I’m cold . . . ,” she says.
Her uncle wraps her in blankets while her father rummages through the closet for first-aid supplies. The two of them are yelling at each other. She can’t really make sense of it. But she sees the tears in her father’s eyes, the anguish in her uncle’s expression, and she understands.
“It’s okay,” she says hoarsely. “I did it.”
They stare at her.
“Did . . . what?” her father asks.
“I kicked Belial’s ass,” she says.
Then she passes out.
HEALING 19
Jael’s father insists that she stay home from school the next day, and she doesn’t argue. Her throat is so sore she can barely swallow, and her wrists hurt so much she can’t even lift her bag.
She lies in bed, her wrists bandaged in big lumps of gauze, and her neck wrapped in gauze from her collarbone to her chin so thick that it looks like a neck brace. She thinks it’s a little excessive, but it gave her father something to do other than freak out while she told him what happened. Or most of what happened.
“I’ve made as many fruit smoothies as I could,” he says as he peeks into her bedroom. “I put them each in individual glasses in the fridge.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I put a pack of straws on the kitchen table,” he says. “So you don’t have to keep lifting the glasses.”
“Cool.”
“Try to avoid using your hands. Get as much sleep as you can,” he says.
“Will do.”
“Dagon will be by in a little while to check on you.”
“Great.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a doctor?”
“Dad, how are we going to explain to them that if they want to stitch me up, they’re going to need a silver needle to pierce my skin? I’ll be fine. It’s healing really fast.”
He lingers in the doorway. “Can I get you—”
“Go to work, Dad.”
“Okay, okay. See you tonight.”
A little while later, Jael makes her way down to the kitchen. She has to eat almost constantly while her body directs all its energy toward healing itself. She tries not to think about the fact that the little piece of Britt’s soul she took is helping her recovery as well. She only hopes that Britt can recover too.
She grabs a smoothie from the fridge and sits at the kitchen table, staring out the window at the mottled, slate-gray clouds.
“And there is the greatest niece who ever lived!”
Dagon appears next to her, his grin so wide she can see halfway down his throat.
“Hey, Uncle D,” she says.
“Belial is trying to hush it up, but the rumors are flying all over Hell.”
“Why didn’t you tell me I could do something like that?”
asks Jael. “Banish demons.”
“Because I had no idea you could do something like that,” says Dagon. “I don’t even think Merlin could banish a Grand Duke.”
He sits down at the table. It’s too small for him, and he looks like an adult in a kindergarten room.
“Can Belial . . . come back?” asks Jael.
“Nope!” says Dagon. “No one you kick out can come back. Unless you invite them back, of course.”
“Yeah, well I’m definitely not going to do that,” says Jael.
“So . . . that’s it, then? It’s over?”
Dagon’s smile fades. “Oh. Well, no. I mean, the other Grand Dukes aren’t going to be pleased. It makes them all look bad. And a lot of their power is based on intimidation.”
“Other Grand Dukes? As powerful as Belial?”
“Yeah, there are three others,” he says. “And they each have a few generals. And all the lesser imps, of course. Then there are those outside the control of the duchies. Like . . .”
He glances at her and she must be looking a little panicked because he stops, and then says. “Well, Hell’s a big place.
Lots of people are going to want to take a shot at you.”
“Yeah . . . ,” says Jael, suddenly feeling tired.
“Listen,” Dagon says. He leans in very close, his black eyes glinting. “Jael. Life does not give you too many victories, especially ones like this. You better damn well appreciate them when they happen.”
She lowers her eyes. “You’re right,” she says. “I know I should. But . . . there’s something else. Something I didn’t mention when I was telling you and Dad what happened.”
Dagon waits.
“Things were pretty bad and I didn’t think we were going to make it, so I . . . I ate a piece of Britt’s soul to give me a boost.”
Dagon leans back, his chair creaking loudly.
“Ah,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that explains a lot.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“Well, you didn’t eat the whole thing, did you?”
“No, no, just a little piece.”
“She’ll probably be fine, then.”
“So . . . it’ll grow back?”
“No. She’s never going to get that piece back. Something will always be missing.”
“But what?”
“Who knows? Mortals are funny things. You might not even notice a difference in her. Most likely, it’ll be a smaller change than the one you’re going through.”
“Me?”
“Oh yes. A demon isn’t really an adult until they’ve tasted a mortal soul. It’s a rite of passage.”
“But I don’t want to eat people’s souls!”
“And you don’t have to do it ever again,” says Dagon.
“But you did it. You’re on the other side of the line now.
You understand the real relationship between demons and mortals—predator and prey.”
She knew it all along on some instinctual level. From the first time she saw Rob’s soul. Even now, despite her guilt, she feels the hunger deep inside, and it brings a flush to her cheeks.
“You look tired,” says Dagon.
She nods.
“I have to get back to work, anyway. Why don’t you lie down for a little while.”
“Yeah,” says Jael. “Good idea.”
He helps her over to the couch, and she immediately drops off to sleep.
When she wakes up a few hours later, Dagon is gone, but there’s an old yellow envelope sitting on the coffee table next to her. It’s sealed, and it has the jagged red handwriting that she recognizes as her mother’s. The bandages make it hard for her to get the envelope open, but eventually she figures out that if she coaxes a little steam under the flap, the glue dissolves.
Dearest Jael,
If you are reading this, then you have truly become a demon. Whatever state of existence I am in, know that somehow, some way, I am proud of you. This letter has been in Dagon’s safekeeping all these years because there are some things no mortal can handle, not even your father.
Understandably so—one of those is the consumption of mortal souls. Most demons look at it in the same way that mortals look at eating the flesh of animals. Some do it, others do not.
Even in my darker days, I always viewed it as a
terrible thing that should only be done in the most dire of situations, and even then done as delicately and as sparingly as possible.
I have no doubt that you would not have done it unless it was absolutely necessary. Even so, you probably feel a tremendous amount of anxiety about it. And that is good. You should never be comfortable with it.
As you explore your new power and identity as a demon, don’t forget that you are also mortal. It is vital that you do everything you can to maintain that balance. Of course, since it is so rare for someone who is both demon and mortal to survive as long as you have, I don’t really know how you should go about doing that. Hardly anyone does. When you are ready, seek out the demon known as Abigor. He was Merlin’s father, and perhaps knows better than anyone what surprises and challenges might be in store for you. He owed me a few favors and has already pledged to assist you, should you call upon him.
Continue to deepen your connection to the elements. That is essential. But it is just as vital that you maintain strong bonds with your mortal friends. Do not use this experience as an excuse to avoid them. Cherish and protect them at all costs. If you give yourself in love, you will never lose yourself.
Love,
Your mother,
Astarte Thompson
A part of Jael wishes she had this letter before. But she knows that she wouldn’t have been ready for it. She’s barely ready for it now. She sinks back into the old stuffed sofa and closes her eyes, trying not to recall the warm rush of Britt’s soul coursing through her.
Then she hears Rob’s familiar footsteps come up to the front door, and a hurried knock.
As soon as she opens the door, he starts talking in one hurried rush. “Bets! Are you OK? You were all freaky on the phone yesterday, then you didn’t show up this morning like you said you would. Your dad passed me in the hall at school and didn’t tell me anything, just said, ‘Come over!’ Don’t people know how much that can freak a guy out? I was all set to skip school, but Father Aaron was watching me like a hawk. Like he knew something was up, too! Why can’t anyone just tell me what happened?!”
