Last of the Mighty (13 page)

Azazel had his son Barphook drive me home. The two Viking redheads, Uzza and his boy Tartys, volunteered to ride along as well.

Oh joy.

During the drive, I stole glances at Tartys and Barphook's deformed faces. Wondered why I, a fellow Nephilim, had not been blessed with the rugged good looks so common among my Half-Soul brethren. Didn't dare ask though. As a matter of fact, I didn't say much at all. Neither did anyone. Instead, I played with my new built-in iPod.

We made it to Saint Perpetua's without incident. I crept up the stairs to my living quarters, fearing that Amos's bed would be empty. Entering the hall, I saw the door to his room cracked open. I peeked in.

The big, snuffling bear was hibernating beneath the covers. It was as Azazel had said. Amos was fine.

I put a hand on his shoulder to let him know I was alive.

He stirred, cranked open his eyes, and mumbled, “Og,” grinning at me. Then he immediately rolled over and was snoozing again in no time.

A couple of shadowy items were on his nightstand. I leaned in to see the Fourth Nail and that old leather whip I'd grabbed out of the Plexi case. Amos must've dug them out of the chaff the boulders had left behind.

Looking at the whip and the Nail gave me an idea. One that would help me in my plan to destroy Phaeus.

I flopped into bed, hoping to see my dad tonight in my dreams. Wondered if he was upset at me for finding out. Gadriel obviously didn't want me to know he was my father or he would've told me.

Lying there, I fine-tuned my game plan to get to Phaeus. My strategy was to play along and continue on the “way of the Mighty,” as he'd put it, enduring his training exercises. The only hitch was that I would purposely mess up somewhere along the way and nearly get killed during a training exercise so that my dad would come to my rescue. Because that was the only way Phaeus would show—if my dad and I were together. And when Phaeus arrived, I'd be ready.

****

Trundling off to school the next day, I took my usual shortcut through the church cemetery. Stopped to say hi to Mom. Told her I'd met Dad. That and how I was going to Pit that lying jack-wipe Phaeus. It was the only way to save my father. And myself.

By the way, I'd come to a decision about Azazel. If you know me, and hopefully after this long you do, then you shouldn't be too surprised that I chose to side with the Watchers.

Kidding.

Like I said a while ago, I was a guy who had always cast his anchor upward. A solid—okay, solid-ish—Christian who would die doing the right thing rather than take an easier road that led to Hell.

At wrestling practice, we found out the wrestler who Tucker had destroyed at the meet was going to be okay. Two broken collarbones would prevent him from wrestling anymore this season, but the kid would be good to go next year.

Practice was a roller-coaster. There were the ups when I was so focused and in the moment that there was nothing in the world but wrestling. No Watchers or demons or deals with angels. Only the studying of my opponent's eyes, the catlike circling, and the slight give of the mat beneath my feet. The furtive search for an opening, the juke, the shoot, the takedown, the pin…

But then came the downs. Cruel and crushing. When the weight of the past few days would shift, topple into my heart, and drag me to Hell. On the mat, I lost concentration and would wake to find myself three feet out of bounds or an inch from defeat. I'd been a naïve and trusting fool. Phaeus had played me for an idiot, and now I was the biggest laughingstock The Symphony had ever seen. Worse, I was a Nephilim. A Watcher-born atrocity targeted for extermination by God's law. A filthy Half-Soul.

The only thing that kept me going was the promise of seeing Phaeus go down. Hard.

I was heading home after practice when someone called to me from behind. Now that I had The Committee under control—currently blasting some Foo Fighters—I knew the voice was real. It was also familiar.

“Yo, Disgustine,” it said, a smile stuck somewhere between the syllables.

I grinned and turned around. I fired back the way I always did when hearing that particular nickname. “What's up, Squarryn?”

Merryn and I hadn't had any alone time for a few days. She'd only heard my Cliff's Notes version about Tucker, Smiler, Knock, Shemja-za, and Phaeus—the one I'd told in the car on the way to Mandinka's. Itching to get the whole story, she pressed me for all the deets. I held back a little at first, just to see her squirm. In the end, I gladly surrendered them. Gave her more than she bargained for when I continued on to the dream forest.

Told her I'd met my dad.

“Are you cereal?” She planted herself in front of me.

“Totally Cheerios.”

Merryn the reporter scanned my face for lies. “Okay. That's it! We're goin' to G's.”

G's was short for Mama G's, the local pizza place.

“Like on a date?” I asked.

She smiled, coy and so cute, then whipped out her cell and dialed up her dad. “Lemme get approval from corporate first.” While waiting for him to answer, she said to me, “And no way you're givin' me the Bruno version on this one.”

Not that Bruno Mars sang short songs. But what did the guy stand? Like five-one. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Merryn got the okay from Uncle Will, and by the time we got to Mama G's, I'd finished with nearly everything—The Poet, the Ducks, Uzza, Azazel, the landslide, even my new iPod.

The hostess, tall and pretty, maybe nineteen, seated us at a table in the back. It had the same red-and-white checkered tablecloth as all the others. Same empty wine bottle with a burning candle stuck into its spout. Same streams of wax flowing down the bottle-green glass until they cooled and turned to fossils. But it wasn't a sought-after booth or window seat. More like one of the worst tables in the joint.

But I was on a date with Merryn.

To me, there wasn't a better table in the world.

“Can't believe it.” She looked at me, letting it all sink in. “A Mighty Man-Nephilim cross, huh?” She squinted, regarding me with pity or revulsion, I couldn't tell. “You sure about that?”

I was so excited to see Merryn, so nervous to be on a date with her, that I'd forgotten just how despicable it was to be a Nephilim.

She leaned back and folded her arms in front of her, shaking her head.

Her body language hit me like an axe, bloodying my chest.

I was already teetering on the unsteady edge of my emotions and Merryn's lean-back and arm-folding hurled me into the bottomless pit. Her body screamed that she just wanted to get away from me. Her arms in front of her were there for protection. The subconscious back-and-forth sway of her chin was saying, “No, no, no.” She was repulsed by my Nephilim presence.

With my throat closing and heart shattering, I said, “We don't have to stay here if you don't wanna.” I glanced at the candle. Wax fell like tears down the sides of the bottle. “I-I'd understand. I'm a freak.” I lost control of my lips, the upper one beaking out and the bottom one jagging all over. “I mean if-f you n-never…wanna see me again…” I couldn't look her in the face. “It's cool. I get it.”

Merryn slanted in, stared at me, and bit into her slice of bacon and onion. She kept her silent glare going the whole time she chewed. “I don't believe you think I'd be like that.” Her eyes went damp. “Maybe we should leave.”

I was a Nephilim, the Apocalypse was coming, and now I'd made the love of my life cry.

“Merryn.” I took her hands in mine. I wanted to tell her that I'd rather die than face another second knowing I'd never see her again. Wanted to hug her so tight that we'd melt into one. To yank my heart out so I could show her that her name was etched all over it. That it only beat because of her. “I'm… I'm just… Wes Craven. That's all.”

At least it wasn't a lie. Because I was scared. Scared of losing her. Of scaring her off if I let her in on my real feelings. Scared that after she honestly thought about it, and considered what I was, she'd run. And never look back.

Merryn squeezed my hands. Tight yet tender. She reached up with her thumb and wiped away a wet something from my cheek. Then placed another wet something exactly where her thumb had been. A kiss.

A sun ignited in my chest and spread its heat into my belly, down my thighs, and all the way to my toes. The entire universe went warm. Stayed that way for the next few minutes.

Dumbfounded, not quite believing what she'd done, I pointed to my cheek, then to her, then back to the spot where she'd laid one on me.

Redness rushed to her face. She fumbled for her Coke.

I rewound the scene. Merryn leaning in. Her breath hot on my face. The scent of her perfume. Tips of her hair tickling my neck. Then her lips landing on my cheek as softly as a butterfly.

Amazing.

The remnants of her lips were still there, lingering, tingling, her lip prints thumping with each beat of my heart. Burning and flashing like a neon sign.

I read that the teenage brain is clinically bipolar. Maybe, maybe not. All I knew was that a moment ago, I had been buried in a pit of despair, and now I was bouncing on a cloud, on top of the world.

“Hey, guys.” Somebody standing over our table jolted me from the charm cast by Merryn's kiss.

I looked up.

Tucker. Smiling. But hurting too. Fists in his pockets.

I stood up and shook his hand. “What's up, Tuck?” I bent forward for the shoulder bump. “Good t' see ya.”

“Og.” His eyes welled up. “Thanks again, man. That was the cool—”

“No worries, bro.” But I knew he wasn't here to see me.

He turned to Merryn. “I am…so sorry.” His chin fell to his chest.

Breaking down. Remorse. His shoulders wobbled, eyes streamed, voice broke. “I'd give anything to go back and—”

“It's not your fault.” Merryn was up and hugging him. Her eyes matching his tear for tear. “It's not your fault at all.”

“But I hurt you so much.” Hugging, rocking, crying. “I h-hit you.”

“It's okay. I'm over it.”

But Tucker wouldn't be consoled.

I watched in awe at Tucker's emotional daring. He let it all hang out for the whole restaurant to see. It was heartrending. Inspiring too. To know that humanity was still capable of such perfect penitence.

Merryn squeezed him tight before taking a step back. “Look at me, Jonathan Tucker.”

He lifted his face.

“I'm fine. I healed.” Her eyes didn't let go of his. “I have nothing against you. And besides, I got to miss a buncha school.” She flashed a grin.

Tucker chuckled. “Thank you.” He sniffed. “Thank you so much.” He hugged her then turned to me. “You guys are perfect for each other.”

I smiled at Merryn, my hand moving automatically to the place where she'd kissed me. My fingers outlined the impression of her lips on my face.

I belonged to her now.

And had the brand to prove it.

Thankfully, Merryn and I didn't have to play Tab o' War with the restaurant check. Turned out Tucker had arranged to pay for our meal. I did sneak a tip on the table, though, just in case Tucker was an under tipper. You never know.

Exiting Mama G's, I held my elbow out to Merryn and made that sideways triangle that she could slip her arm into. “M'lady,” I said.

It was a cheap way to get her to walk arm-in-arm with me. Far less chancy than going for the handhold.

She looped her arm in mine and off we went.

We spoke of Winter Formal and what we'd wear. We flirted and sparred and joked. And when I finally went for her hand, our fingers entwined so perfectly that it was like they were built to hold each other's.

On the doorstep, I said, “I owe ya one.”

“One what?”

“One of these.” I dropped my backpack, leaned down, and kissed her.

Not on the cheek though.

On the mouth.

For more than a moment.

The sun in my chest sparked again to flood my body with the most euphoric warmth I'd ever felt.

For twenty minutes, we kissed and hugged and laughed and smothered the awkward joy between us with more kisses. Until Merryn got a text from Uncle Will telling her that it was getting late.

I picked up my backpack, waved goodbye to Merryn, and managed the four steps off her porch without falling. I walked, backwards, waving and mugging and smiling, until Merryn closed the door on the best night of my life.

****

Fifteen minutes later, I was still warm and skipping—well practically—as I neared Saint Perpetua's. Merryn and I had texted each other a dozen times and had officially signed off for the night. For the fifth time.

Rounding a corner, I heard loud voices. Thirty yards away, a scared and defenseless girl was struggling to fend off the groping hands of three gang bangin' males.

The small Latino gang appeared to be human. Couldn't have been Watchers or Nephilim because the girl was the only one over five-nine. Bummer. Was hoping this was Phaeus's next test. The one where I would lure him to me. And Pit him.

The boys saw me coming while I was still twenty yards out. They had the bandannas, tattoos, the low-slung baggy pants, and that bad-ass swagger so common to the Norteños, La Raza, Sureños…pick a gang.

Strolling toward them, I spread out my arms, wide and jovial, put on a silly grin, and said, “I'm in love!” Then I did a happy little hop—mostly to throw them off, but partly because I could still feel Merryn's lips on mine.

The gang regarded each other in confusion. I didn't care. As long as my oddball behavior distracted them enough so I could get the drop on them.

Approaching, I winked and finished my previous thought. “And I think she loves me too!”

The gang mumbled in Spanish amongst themselves. Complimentary things, no doubt. I could tell they liked me. Who could resist a man in love?

Apparently, they could.

“Kee' moving, hoto, jus' let eet be, mang, and you migh' leeve to see tomorrow.” He showed me his knife.

A double-take at the girl told me she was the tall, pretty hostess from Mama G's who had shown Merryn and me to our table. There was a slight twinkle in her eye as she recognized me.

“Diggin' your ink,” I said to Knife, looking over his tats. I threw in a goofy smile to keep him off balance then put a few holes in him with my finger guns.

My new buddies eyed each other with the classic is-he-trying-to-get-killed?

Knife came closer, swinging his blade in my face. He looked absurd because his arm was stretched up as high as it could go. Might've even been on his toes.

I put up my hands in surrender and said, “It's cool, I'll leave. But first—”

My hands shot to his wrist and twisted the knife away. Chopped him in the forehead with the butt of the handle. Drop kicked him in the groin. He went down, hands on package, groaning.

The Committee turned up Kings of Leon, and I was ready to scrap in a nano.

Knife's two pals reached around the backs of their pants to draw their weapons. The one nearest to me came out with a pair of nunchucks. The other, who was holding onto the girl, kept patting the small of his back in search of the bazooka or whatever he was packing back there.

His empty hands came forward with the same question as his face— Where'd it go?

“Looking for this?” It was the girl, with a handgun trained at the guy's chest.

Somehow, she'd managed to pickpant him while he was restraining her.

While Nunchucks and Empty Hands faced each other and rattled off a string of foreign words, I moved to the girl's side. She was okay.

They didn't even consider throwing down with us. After a glimpse at the girl with the gun and the seven-foot hoto with the knife, the two picked up their friend and left without so much as a threat.

I was let down by the inaction. I wanted to practice for my brawl with Phaeus. Also would've been nice to blow off some steam. Release some anger at my newfound Nephilimity, the Pit being opened in a matter of months, and the fact that gangs thought they ruled the world.

On the upside, too much bloodshed might dampen the warm fire that had been burning ever since Merryn branded me with her lips.

I accompanied the hostess home. Her name was Keira, and she was even prettier up close. Eighteen years old, six-one, a lean body with all the right curves, dark hair, Egyptian eyes, and olive skin.

Olive skin. What is that anyway? The olives I ate were either dull green or Sharpie black. Her skin was neither. Let me rephrase with something more generationally relevant.

…Egyptian eyes and skin the color of a Starbucks, no-foam vanilla latte.

We walked and small talked. She was in her first year of college, trying to earn some cash for a car, hoping to become a waitress soon…that kind of thing.

At the edge of an industrial area, Keira stopped in front of a huge, old warehouse and said, “Well, here it is.”

“You live in the old paper factory?”

“Wanna see it?”

“No, I—” But before I could refuse, she grabbed my hand and tugged me inside.

That's when I heard it.

Not out loud, but in my head.

Keira's voice.

Speaking in The Committee.

Saying, “He's heeee-ere.”