Misfit (13 page)

She stares at him for a long time, waiting for him to defend himself. But he doesn’t. He just stands there with that stupid tough-guy look of his. That hurts a lot more than she thought it would.

“Dad?” she says, her voice starting to crumble.

It hangs in the air like that for a moment, then he looks away and quietly says, “Silver. It has to be a silver knife to cut through your skin.”

There’s a brief flutter of hope in Jael’s chest, but it sinks immediately. “We don’t have any silver, do we?”

Without a word, her father leaves the kitchen. She hears his slow, deliberate footsteps as he walks into his bedroom and pul s open a dresser drawer. A few minutes later he comes back holding a narrow ivory case. He takes the lid off and holds it out to her.

Inside, on a red satin cushion, is a smal silver knife with a bone handle.

“This . . .” She takes it from him. “This was . . .”

“Your mother’s,” says her father. “She used it only for her own bloodletting, when spel s cal ed 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.

“Wil 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?”

“Literal y, it means, ‘Come to me, Dagon, Fish King.’”

“Wel , can’t I just say that?”

“Formal prayer in Latin always worked best for me,”

he says.

“Wel , 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 wel s up. A single drop fal s into the bowl of water and she says, feeling a little sil y:

“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 fol owed 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 smal er to squeeze me out of?”

“Sorry,” says Jael. She feels a strange thril 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 actual y 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.

“Wel . . .” 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 real y 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’l bet,” says Dagon. Then he laughs in a sea-lion bark. “I mean, you are a succubus after al .”

“Oh God,” says her father.

“Those poor teenage boys!” says Dagon, stil 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 real y short, the boys would leave me alone?”

“Wel , you’l never be a wal flower 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 cal s out.

But she doesn’t answer. Instead she goes into the bathroom and pul s out the clippers her father uses to cut his hair. A moment later, a shower of black, frizzy locks start to fal 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 fol ows 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 stil and silent, she remembers al 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 fal 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. Al beauty, and al ugliness, is subjective.

There is no other kind.”

“Wel , anyway, it didn’t do much good for me today,”

she says.

“I thought the boys were fal ing al over each other.”

“Except the one guy that I actual y like,” says Jael.

“Oh?” says Dagon, cocking his head to one side.

“There’s a guy?”

“Yeah, wel , I know you can’t lie, but don’t mention it to my dad. He’d total y flip.”

“I’l 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 . . . wel , 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 actual y start using it on purpose, look out world.”

“Yeah, wel , I don’t think I’l ever use it on purpose.

That would be total y 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 al 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 hal way toward the kitchen, where her father stil is. “Kid, you have to stop listening to these mortals. They have no idea what they’re talking about.

Especial y the priests.”

“But . . . isn’t that what Hel is? The place of eternal torment?”

“Hel ’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?”

“Wel , do people go there?”

“No idea. Never been there.”

“Um . . .” Jael rubs her temples. “I’m total y confused now.

If Hel doesn’t exist to punish the wicked, what’s it If Hel 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’l try to figure out yours.”

“Fine,” she says. “So what do you do in Hel , then?”

“I’m Hel ’s baker.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“So when I saw you in that place with the giant shel s and al , that was your kitchen?”

“I share it with Hel ’s cook, Nysrock, but otherwise, yep.

That’s my domain.”

“Wow,” says Jael. “How bizarre. I mean, you don’t real y think about Hel 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. “Wel , 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 Hel , and I don’t want to risk anyone catching sight of you.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how I feel about going to Hel 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.

“Wel , 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 wel 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 wel . Come inside and I’l show you row upon row of finely crafted pottery, al 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 al 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 gal ery.”

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 pil ars 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 wal s. 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 al these bowls and cups here,” said Dagon. “My people make an excel ent alcoholic beverage.”

“And you encourage drinking in the temple?” asked Astarte.

She shook her head. “Next you’l institute holy prostitution.”

“It worked for you,” said Dagon.

“That was Greece,” said Astarte, as if that explained it perfectly. “I’m done with al 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 wil 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 recal ing 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 snorted. “Al Hebrews think they are a favorite of Heaven.” He paused in his pacing and frowned.

“Stil , this one seems able to show some proof of it.”

“Are the Hebrews a real threat to your people?” asked Astarte.

“Not real y,” 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 tel ing 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 Achil es.”

“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?”

“Wel , I’l 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’l bet you could find out what it is easily.”

“Brother, real y. We both have better things to do than waste al 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 wil get delusions of grandeur and it wil be clear to everybody that their distant god in Heaven isn’t going to protect them from a god right here.”

“These Hebrews real y got under your skin, didn’t they?”

she asked.

“Please, sister. It wil be such an easy task for you.”

“Perhaps . . . ,” she said.

“You’l 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 wil turn to more important matters.”

“Do you require anything else?” asked Baal. “Or should I begin the arrangements for tonight’s feast?”

“Yes, please, by al means,” said Dagon, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

Baal made his slow, creaking way out of the temple.

Once he was gone, Astarte said, “Do you trust this one?”

“Baal?” asked Dagon. “Of course, of course. Believe me, there isn’t much activity going on in that stone skul of his.”

“I see,” said Astarte. Then she smiled. “Wel , brother dear.

As slow as he moves, the feast probably won’t be ready for hours. Would you mind pointing me toward a fruit tree so I can tide myself over until then?”

“Would a fig tree do?” he asked, returning her smile with a grin.

“You know that’s my favorite,” she said.

“Yes,” he said as he put his arm around her shoulder and led her out of the temple to the orchard. “I remember that wel .”

“It was a rather pivotal moment in humanity, wasn’t it?”

she asked.

“Adam certainly thought so,” said Dagon.

Astarte found Samson in an inn on the outskirts of Ashkelon.

He sat by himself in a corner, away from the others.

His long hair flowed like a waterfal over his thickly muscled shoulders and down his broad back. She could see at once that there was something different about this mortal. Someone had touched him for a very specific task, and that task was near completion.

She sensed that she would be the catalyst to bring it to a close.

She hated the feeling that she was just a pawn, with little choice of her own. But she had seen heroes before, and fate always seemed to snap at their heels like a rabid wolf until the day the hero grew weary or clumsy and fel into its slavering jaws.

She walked slowly over to his table. It wasn’t until she stood directly in front of him that he looked up from his plate of bread and meat.

“Samson,” she said, looking directly into his rich brown eyes. “May I sit?”

He looked her over slowly, making no effort to hide his interest. His hunger.

“Yes,” he said, and gestured for her to sit. Then he began to eat again.

He reminded her of a lion—large, powerful, and regal, in a coarse sort of way. What puzzled her was that he did not seem like a troublemaker. Rather, he seemed to be the sort who had to be provoked. Perhaps even led. She wondered by whom.

“Are you a whore?” he asked her. There was no judgment in his tone. Simply a desire for clarification.

“I do not require money, if that is your question,” she said.

He nodded and stuffed a chunk of meat in his mouth.

As he chewed, he said, “What do you require, then?”

“Ultimately, I require . . . attention,” she said. “As long as it is sincere, how you choose to administer that attention is entirely up to you.”

He nodded again and took a large gulp of wine from his cup.

“How do you know my name?” he asked.

“How does anyone not know it?” she asked.

“Is that so?” he asked with only faint interest. “Am I famous?”

“Or infamous,” she said.

He smiled at her for the first time. “I like you,” he said.

“What is your name?”

“Delilah,” she said.

It didn’t take long for him to ask her up to his room.

Once there, he wasted no time in satisfying his hunger. In fact, it was over rather quickly. And she told him so.

“Rest a short while,” she advised as they lay together in the dark.

“You did not feel attended?” he asked.

“Not hardly,” she said.

“I am sorry,” he said, staring up at the ceiling.

She sat up and placed his head in her lap. “You carry a heavy burden,” she said as she stroked his long hair.

“What do you know if it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “But it is clearly written in everything you do.”

He was silent for a while as she continued to stroke his hair.

At last he said, “Yes.”

“But surely you have nothing to fear,” she said in a slightly teasing tone. “Everyone knows you have no weakness.”

“Oh,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I have a weakness.”

“For beautiful women,” she suggested.

He laughed again. “Besides that.”

“And what, pray tel me, would that be?”

“Ah, you are a tricky one,” said, but he stil smiled.

“I’m glad you noticed a quality other than my breasts,”

she said.

“If someone were to bind me with fresh bow strings, I would lose my strength.”

She laughed. “You, however, are not tricky in the slightest.

You don’t actual y expect me to believe something like that, do you?”

He laughed delightedly. “I truly do like you,” he said. “It is a shame you are a woman. You have the spirit of a warrior.”

She looked down at him, one eyebrow arched. “Is it real y a shame that I am a woman?”

“Of course not,” he said, reaching up to touch her cheek for a moment. “Now, truthful y, if you were to bind me with new rope, I would lose my strength.”

“That one is even more ridiculous than the first. I sincerely hope you are never cal ed upon to lie in order to save a life, because that person would surely die.”

“It is true that I have not been gifted with cleverness,”

he said. “What you see before you is al there is.”

“I find that refreshing,” she said.

“I have been dedicated to my God since the day of my birth.

A Nazarite always strives for truth and simplicity in al things.

And that is where my weakness truly lies. My God gives me my strength and if I ever did something that broke one of my Nazarite vows, such as cutting my hair, He would most certainly take away my strength as punishment.”

“So it wil grow until the day you die?” she asked.

“God wil ing,” he said.

She remained silent after that, and continued to stroke his hair until the tension in his face eased and he drifted off to sleep.

Even after that, she continued to look down at him.

“You have been here the entire time,” she said quietly.

Baal stepped out of the shadows, his brown liquid eyes glittering in the darkness.

“Yes,” he said. “Your reputation is wel deserved.”

“And yours, apparently, is nothing but a facade,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

The feast to celebrate the capture of Samson was held at the Temple of Dagon in Gaza. Revelers traveled from Ashkelon and Ashdod, as wel as Ekron, and even far-off Gath.

Despite the fact that it was the single largest gathering of Philistines in more than a century, Baal managed the festivities with his unflappable authority.

Dagon sat at his chair by the altar, surrounded by thousands of cheering, singing Philistines.

The upper levels were crowded to overflowing with those who had come to celebrate the downfal of their common enemy.

They drank from large casks of wine, cheered on the dancers and musicians, and laughed delightedly at the acrobats.

“Isn’t it wonderful, sister?” Dagon shouted to her over the din.

She looked back at him, her eyes sad. “Is it?”

“Come now, you’ve got to give the mortals a feast now and then to keep them happy.”

“What of the mortal in your dungeon? What about his happiness?”

“Bah! He is only one mortal. You said so yourself.”

Dagon took a long drink from his cup. “And besides, he kil ed many of my people.”

“I wonder if perhaps he was manipulated into it,” she said.

“He did not seem to me the type to go looking for carnage.”

“Did he get to you, my sister?” asked Dagon with a teasing grin. “Have you fal en for some mortal?”

“Perhaps a little,” she said. “Even so, you cannot deny what a sad thing it is to see a hero brought so low.”