by Jon Skovron
“So . . . should we do something?”
“Did you thank her for healing your wrists?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“Then you should do that.”
“Right.”
After dinner that night, Jael and her father wash and dry the dishes together.
“I still can’t believe it,” he says as he rinses the last dish and hands it to Jael to dry. “That we don’t have to hide from Belial anymore. What an incredible relief.” He shuts off the water and turns to her. A broad smile creases his face, and for just an instant Jael sees the man her mother loved.
“Yeah,” she says. “About that, Dad . . .”
“What?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.
“Well,” she says, “Belial isn’t the only Grand Duke of Hell.”
“Sure.” He nods. “There’s Lamia, Grand Duchess of the West; Aguares, Grand Duke of the East; and Beelzebub, Grand Duke of the South. And that’s not even mentioning the less-civilized provinces outside the duchies.”
She stares at him.
“What?” he says. “You thought I didn’t know? That I was under the impression that our troubles were over?”
“Um, kinda,” admits Jael. “You’re acting like it’s all no big deal now.”
He holds out his hand to her. Hesitantly, she puts her hand in his, and he brings her in close.
“It’s a very big deal,” he says quietly, his eyes locked to hers.
“Don’t ever doubt that. Every moment we live is a moment stolen from fate. The difference is that before, I didn’t think we stood a chance. That we would be cut down by the first marauding demon to cross our path. But now you have shown me that we do have a chance, however slim.
“Your mother went on and on about your potential and I always thought it was just the normal talk of an adoring mother.
But now I believe her. And your uncle. And you. Now I have hope. And for an aging, jaded demon hunter, that’s a big deal too.”
“It’s so crazy to think that you used to be some kind of international demon hunter,” Jael says.
“Oh, sure,” he says. “Your mother and I . . . we were quite the team.”
“Wow,” says Jael, and shakes her head.
He smiles at her teasingly. “What, you think we fell in love and then immediately had you?”
“How would I know?” says Jael. “You never talked about her.”
“Yes,” he says, his smile fading. “You’re right. Because I didn’t want to lie to you about her, but I also didn’t want to tell you the truth about her either.” He shakes his head. “Probably not one of my better decisions.”
Remember that it has been difficult for your father as well, her mother had said in that first letter. He has carried a burden no mortal should ever be asked to carry.
“It’s okay, Dad,” she says, and pats his hand awkwardly.
He looks back at her, a hint of gratefulness in his expression.
“Sometimes I think I wasn’t really cut out to be a father,” he says.
She smirks at him. “Ya think?”
He smiles ruefully. “I’m a pretty good demon hunter, though.”
“Good,” she says. “I might need one at some point.”
“Which reminds me . . . ,” he says. Then he turns abruptly and leaves the kitchen. She hears him rummaging around in his room for a moment, then he comes back with something long and thin, wrapped in a wool blanket.
“I should have given this to you already,” he says. “Then maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt so badly last night.” He shakes his head and sighs. “But I was still holding on to the illusion that I was the strongest one on our team.”
“Team?” asks Jael.
“Before, I gave you the knife that was your mother’s. That’s used mainly for sacred rituals and magic. But this . . .” He unrolls the wool blanket to reveal a sword-length silver-bladed crucifix, the crosspiece forming the hilt. It gleams brightly in the light.
“This was mine, and it is used mainly for kicking rogue demon ass.” He holds it out to her.
She stares at him for a moment, not quite able to take it in.
“You’re . . . serious?” she asks.
“Jael, my daughter. You are now officially one of the most feared and hated beings in Hell. A status, I might add, that I once proudly held. It’s time for you to learn how to defend yourself.”
Sometime around midnight, Jael decides to ask for a thunderstorm. She doesn’t want to make a habit of messing with the weather. It seems irresponsible. But tonight she feels a little bit like celebrating.
She opens the window over her bed, takes out the screen, and climbs up so that her feet dangle over the windowsill. She takes a moment to breathe in the cool night air, then she asks the evening winds if they know how to make a thunderstorm.
They aren’t sure, they say, but they’ll ask.
She waits. After a little while she begins to wonder if the air has already forgotten. But then the winds rise up around her, peppering her with mist. The wind brought back spray from the sea. So she asks the spray if it can bring her a thunderstorm.
It says that it may take some time, but it will try.
So Jael waits some more. The wind laughs joyfully as it reports on the progress. The sea is talking. The clouds are coming. The wind cannot recall something like this happening for a very long time. Its laughter grows loud and rough, swirling among the trees and ruffling the grass with an almost manic playfulness. It licks at the bottoms of her dangling bare feet and slides in between her toes.
Dark clouds gather, first in small clusters, then in fronts that roll in like a stampede of galloping horses. A few raindrops strike her shins. The clouds crowd in eagerly, bustling and rubbing against one another until they form an impenetrable wall of dark chatter. A single bolt of lightning slices through the sky, followed a few seconds later by a crack of thunder. Then the sky opens up and rain comes down in torrents.
Jael lies back on her bed with her feet still sticking out of the window. The rain blows into her room and drenches her.
She breathes in deeply and sighs.
In every drop of water, gust of air, speck of earth, and crackle of lighting, she hears the same thing: this world is alive.
And it loves her.
A little while later, the storm notices that Jael has fallen asleep. The rain tapers off. The clouds sneak away like they’re trying not to wake her. The wind caresses her cheek one last time, then disperses in all directions. It carries with it the memory of this funny girl with the sad green eyes. And it carries with it a little bit of hope that things might change. That the world might become what it was supposed to be.
In her dreams, Jael lies on a wintry field in the midst of a small cluster of hedges. The roots of these hedges all mingle and overlap. She puts her ear to the soft snow in the spot where they are most concentrated. She can just barely hear a faint song rise up through the earth.
“Mother,” she whispers. “I love you.
a c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s
thanks to everyone who helped me tell Jael’s story. to Zach morris, mark levine, scott pinzon, Heidi r. kling, pam bachorz, adam meyer, debbie levy, deborah schaumberg, michelle Zink, lauren bjorkman, kurtis scaletta, aprilynne pike, and megan crewe for their thoughtful criticism and encouragement during revisions. to the debs, a marvelous group of writers that I feel so lucky to be a part of, for their unfailing support.
to emily sylvan kim for finding the right home for Jael’s story. to barry lyga and david levithan for their sage advice on the often baffling world of publishing. to my editor, maggie lehrman, for once again pushing the story to be its very best. to my publisher, susan Van metre, for allowing me to tell the stories I’m most passionate about. to my mother, Gini, and my stepfather, tom, for supporting me during my own teenage quest for identity. to my father, rick, for getting me hooked on epic fantasy stories in the first place. and to my sons, logan and Zane, who keep it all in perspective.
&nb
sp; lastly, I want to thank doctor paul Jurkowitz, my high school religion teacher, for his knowledge, his humor, and his spirit of adventurous inquiry.
a b o u t t h e a u t h o r
Jon skovron has never really fit in and has no plans to start now. after twelve years of catholic school, he went on to study acting at a conservatory program for four years before returning to his first love, writing.
misfit is his second novel. His first novel, struts & frets, was published by amulet in 2009. the washington post book world said, “skovron perfectly captures that passion—
sometimes fierce, sometimes shy—that drives so many young artists to take the raw stuff of life and transform it into something beautiful.” bestselling author cory doctorow said, “struts & frets will feel instantly authentic to anyone who’s ever felt the pride and shame of being an outsider.” Jon lives with his two sons outside washington, d.c. Visit him at www.misfitbook.com.
this book was art directed by chad w. beckerman by chad w. beckerman. the text is set in cochin, a typeface designed by Georges peignot and named for the eighteenth-century french engraver nicolas cochin. the font incorporates a mix of style elements and could be considered part of the neorenaissance movement in typography. It was popular at the beginning of the twentieth century.
the display type was designed by sammy Yuen Jr.
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