Last of the Mighty (5 page)

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“Welcome back, Ahhg.” Coach Burns caught me in the locker room while suiting up.

It was the third day after Merryn returned from her coma, and she'd forced me to go back to school. I was kind of looking forward to it. Jonesing to run into Tucker. With fists, knees, elbows, and feet.

“Saahhrry about your cousin. Haahhrrible thing.” He tightened his lips and pushed his knuckles into his hips, Superman style. Stared at me with one of those penetrating stares. “Let's tahhk.” He gestured to his office.

I shrugged and followed him. I hadn't seen Tucker all day, and my eyes searched for him as we crossed the locker room to Burns's tiny corner office.

“Where's Tucker?” I hoped he was in jail. Day after Merryn's attack, I'd called the cops with an anonymous tip regarding Merryn's assailant.

Coach Burns grunted. “Grandmother's birthday.”

So Tucker had escaped justice. Must've had some demon cohorts on the force. Human bite marks are as individual as fingerprints. Merryn had some on her arm. Any dentist, veterinarian, or kid with Play-Doh could identify the biter. Take a mold of the suspect's bite, compare it to the victim's wound, and bingo. Smiler's copper chums—let's call them Nightstick and Doughnut—must've tuned in to Demon Radio and got the news straight from the source. Probably offered to lead the investigation. Would've been easy to botch the evidence, ignoring Merryn's bite marks altogether. And since Merryn refused to tell anybody who beat her up, my anonymous tip to the cops was never corroborated.

Coach Burns opened his office door for me. It was faded blue with warped edges, peeling paint, and a murky pane of glass set into its top half. His scabby wood desk was a miniature city of high-rises constructed of neat stacks of paper. Varnished streets, worn and scaly, ran between them at ninety-degree angles. A couple of wrestling trophies were the village statues. A photo of his family was the downtown's JumboTron.

“You serious about wrestling, Ahhg?” He pulled out his old wooden chair, its legs singing like crickets as they dragged across the tile floor.

“Yes, sir.” I could tell by his tone that it was going to be one of those conversations where I would have to sit up straight and use “sir” a lot.

“How do you explain missing over three weeks of practice then?”

“My cousin—”

“You plan on attending a good cahhllege, Ahhg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you have any idea how much a cahllege education cahsts these days?” His neck was turning red.

“No. Not real—”

“A helluva a lot! That's how much!” He paused, took a deep breath, and softened, almost embarrassed at his outburst. “Listen to an old man.” He lifted his ball cap and smoothed a hand over the pink and white spots of his bare scalp. “I like you, Ahhg. Always have.” He set the hat back on his head and jiggled it into place. “And I wahnt the best for you. Haahnestly.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“It's no secret that schahhlarships are out there for a kid with your ability. It's a golden ahhpportunity, and I'd hate to see you piss it away.”

I knew what he was getting at. There was no way I could afford the tuition, books, food, rent, and all the other crapajawea needed to get through four years at a decent university. Surprising as it may seem, Mom wasn't a trust-fund nun with a Swiss bank account and rental property on Oahu. I was what you called destitute.

“Right now, you've gahht your pick of the litter. Penn State, Cornell, Stanford, University of Oregon, Notre Dame... They've all cahlled me, Ahhg. Each of ‘em interested in giving you a full-ride ticket.”

“That's…” I was stunned, had no idea. “Great, sir.”

He leaned forward. “One hitch, though.” His left elbow rocked a squat office building and sent its top floor tumbling into the abyss below. He ignored the destruction. “You have to wrestle, Ahhg. And wrestle well.”

“I will, sir.”

He nodded slowly, eyes stern. Wanted to make sure I was on the level.

“Good!” he barked, then shot to his feet, his swift motion stirring the air into the worst windstorm his paper city had seen all year. “Come on then.” He clapped me on the back and led me to the scale.

He weighed and measured me, recited it while writing it down. “Seven-one. Two-forty-nine.”

I'd grown. Hospital food.

Sure, I was still on the slim side, but at least it was one more inch and a few more pounds for Tucker to worry about.

Merryn had her hospital bed propped to a sitting position with her laptop open. As promised, she'd done her homework on Shemja-za. She cleared her throat and read from the screen. “Semjaza is also known as Shamazya or…Shemjaza.” She lifted her eyebrows at me, all dramatic and know-it-allish.

I'd already done the research on Shemja-za. Of course I had. He was Chool's father, and I'd been poking around for anything that might give me an edge in my impending war against the Nephilim. But Merryn the reporter was so dang cute when she got all jacked up on her own smarts, I wasn't about to stop her.

“A fallen angel,” she read, “and according to Jewish and Christian tradition, one of the three leaders of the Watchers. The other two were…” she scanned the notes she'd written on a yellow pad. “Uzza and Azazel.”

She looked funny when she spoke because she'd been ordered not to open her recently popped-back-into-place jaw too wide. I don't know why keeping a slit-mouth mattered more now than it had a few days ago—when shoving down In-N-Out's Two-by-Four as fast as she could with her yapper cranked open to the size of a pizza box.

“And listen to this,” she said, like a ventriloquist. “‘The Lord said to Michael.” She was reading the Wikipedia page. “'Find Shemja-za and the others who have defiled themselves by laying with women. And when their children have slain each other and they have seen their loved ones die, bind them fast for seventy generations in the valleys of the earth.” She quoted the source, “Enoch, chapter ten.”

I couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm.

“Could be worse.” Merryn pulled up another Wiki page. “If Chool was Azazel's kid instead of Shemja-za's… Check it out. ‘And the Lord said the whole earth has been corrupted by the teachings of Azazel: attribute all sin to him.'” Merryn closed the laptop. “If Azaz-hole really is to blame for all sin, then he is one major jerkenstein. Kinda like,” she folded her arms, “you.” She shot me with the stink-eye.

“Whattaya talkin—”

“You suck. That's what.” She glanced away briefly then knifed me again with her eyes. “You thought I wasn't gonna find out? Staying here every night for three weeks?” Shook her head, hurt. “Why'd you lie to me?”

Great. First the warm reception when I revealed my secret roots, now this.

“Umm…” What was I supposed to say? Didn't seem the ideal time to tell her I'd been in love with her since I was nine. “I was, uhh…” I made a vow, there and then, to tell Merryn the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Everything. For the rest of my life. “I'm sorry. It won't happen a—”

A rap of knuckles on the open door saved me. Uncle Will.

He smiled from the doorway. “Hey, Og.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “What a surprise to see you here.” His sarcastic grin winked at me. He smirked his way to the bed, hugged Merryn, and kissed her on the forehead.

Merryn got straight to the task of gathering intel. “So, Dad, Ugh and I were talking.” Merryn bounced her eyes off mine, a look that said she'd forgiven me for the rude gesture of remaining at her bedside for eighteen days and nights. “About the flood.”

Right. The flood. As long as I was forgiven, I'd play along.

“The Flood of Noah.” Uncle Will slipped into his silky, professorial voice.

“When did it happen again?” Merryn wrapped a strand of hair around her index finger. “Wasn't it like three thousand B.C.?”

“Lesser scholars routinely place the flood between twenty-three and twenty-five hundred B.C. They, however, are imbecilic underwits.”

Merryn's eyes did the why-can't-I-ever-just-get-the-short-answer roll.

“The exceptionally pinheaded push the date out to the thirty-fifth century B.C., which is preposterous, because if one—”

“Daaad.” Merryn had been working on her just-get-to-the-point look and this was the best I'd seen. Stern, but not too harsh, with a little understanding tossed in.

Uncle Will got it. “Personal research tells me the Flood of Noah began on the fifth day of the second month of two thousand eight hundred sixty-one B.C.”

“Or somewhere around there?” Merryn was messing with him now.

“Your garden variety flood researcher generally makes use of a standard fudge factor between sixty and ninety years. The great Dr. William Caffrey, however,” he threw his arms up like an Olympic gymnast who'd just landed a perfect dismount, “doesn't do fudge factors.” Then he bowed to Merryn, me, and a vast imaginary audience that was apparently applauding him. “Thank you. Thank you. Mercí. Gracias. Arigato.”

“And what about a generation?” Merryn grinned as Uncle Will continued to blow kisses to his adoring masses. “According to the Bible?”

Generations. Merryn's angle was beginning to make sense.

Book of Enoch said the Watchers were to be imprisoned in the earth for seventy generations, a prison term that began at the time of the Flood.

Here's the logic: The archangel Michael was told to imprison Shemja-za and his Watcher buddies after they had “seen their loved ones die.” The forty-day flood was the final blow to the human wives and children of the Watchers. So if the Watchers witnessed these deaths, they had to be on earth when the flood began. That meant the Watchers were bound in the earth soon after the rains had stopped in two thousand eight hundred sixty-one B.C. Assuming Uncle Will's flood date was correct.

“Seventy years,” said Uncle Will, “is widely accepted as the length of a Biblical generation. Surprisingly, this time, I concur with the ignorami.”

I did the math. Seventy times seventy was forty-nine hundred. Flood at twenty-eight sixty-one B.C., carry the two…minus the square root of pi…divide by April…

If the great Dr. Caffrey's numbers were correct, then the Watchers would be trapped in the earth for another forty-five years. Then how was it that Shemja-za was already free? I mean, he had to be on earth to sire Chool, right? And if Shemja was free, did that mean all two hundred Watchers were also roaming the earth, making more little Chools?

Merryn gave me wide, urgent eyes. She typed Flood Date + Fudge Factor = 1980ish! into her laptop and tilted it toward me. I nodded, but wasn't about to bring up Shemja-za, Chool, and the probability that the Watchers had already been let out of their prison. Merryn and I had made a pact not to tell her parents anything about that stuff. Not yet anyway. They'd wig. For sure. Especially since their daughter had just gotten the shiitake mushrooms beaten out of her by a demon-possessed kid.

I scolded myself for not putting the pieces together. I'd been so consumed with Tucker and Chool that I hadn't seen the big picture—all the Watchers were free.

Aunt Laurel showed up two minutes later. Not once did she and Uncle Will leave the room so Merryn and I could talk about our newfound info.

Not that I was complaining. It was nice hanging out with them. Uncle Will ranted about some unfair goings-on with “the blow-hards” at work. Aunt Laurel bought some snacks from the hospital vending machine, and we all rock-paper-scissored for the best treat. Merryn won. She always won. I came in last, got the granola bar. We told jokes. Made fun of Merryn's slit-mouth speaking style. Talked about wrestling, college scholarships, and a bunch of other things that didn't matter. But they did matter.

Because for a second, it felt like I was part of a family again.

The next morning, I got up before the sun to train before school. My workout du jour focused on speed and strength. It was a program designed by Masutatsu Oyama in the 1950s. Oyama was a karate master who used to fight bulls. Bare-handed. Killed three of them, each with a single strike. The others he wrestled to the ground then used a fist to break off the bull's horns.

I'd just broken my fifth branch of the day with a knuckle strike when Shemja-za and the Watchers crept into my mind. I was hoping Uncle Will's flood numbers were right and that most of the Watchers were still in lockdown. Maybe Shemja had been the only one to escape. And even if all the Watchers were on the loose, what'd that have to do with me? For now, I had enough going on with Tucker and Chool.

Couldn't find Tuck-face at school again. Wasn't too upset because I knew I'd see him tonight, at our first wrestling match of the season. Coach Burns had already told me Tucker was wrestling, and I was going to ride the pine. Said I had to heal a bit more and prove myself in practice. Since Burns was always so mega-stressed before a match, I didn't give him any grief.

When I got to the hospital for some Merryn time before the match, my aunt and uncle were already there. Merryn was checking out. Her torso was wrapped in a cloth bandage and her wrist was in a splint. Three faint scars, where Tucker had bitten her, were carved into her upper arm. Other than that, she appeared fine.

I was amazed at how well she was handling it, both physically and emotionally. Why hadn't she broken down and cried on my shoulder about how scared she'd been? How she thought she was going to die and wished I'd been there to protect her? I wanted to hear that. Wanted her to know that she could shed tears in front of me, lose her composure, express her fears, and show me her softer side.

Of course, I was happy to see Merryn healing so well and to hear that she'd been given a clean bill of health. But part of me, the ugly, selfish part, wanted Merryn to stay in there for another week, month, or year. It'd been awesome dropping in on her at any time, having an excuse to do that whenever I wanted. To know she'd be in and we'd be able to talk for hours. That I'd get to see the way her nose flared right before she laughed. How her thumb and forefinger would absently tap together, three times, when she got nervous. And to feel my heart heat up when her lips parted and her smile lit up my world.

Now she'd be busy with homework and friends and essay contests. I'd have to think up excuses to see her. We'd be interrupted by the noisy buzz-shudder of incoming text messages and callers with their own individual ringtones. That and the kajillion other fifth-wheel intrusions that've been squashing the beginnings of love relationships since the dawn of time.

It'd never be the same.

As we were leaving, Nurse Jackie caught my attention and subtly motioned for me to meet her in Merryn's empty room.

Once inside, the nurse looked around nervously and whispered, “Unknown,” then put a finger to her lips.

Took me a second to figure out that Nurse Jackie had been busy on the second floor. My dad's name was not listed on the Certificate of Live Birth.

I wasn't thrilled with the result, but hugged Nurse Jackie, touched by the gesture, and thanked her anyway. I kissed her on the cheek and left to meet my aunt, uncle, and Merryn at the elevator.

In the parking lot, Uncle Will and I held the doors of his Jeep Cherokee open while the girls climbed in. After we closed them, Uncle Will smiled at me and gave me a clap on the back.

“Thanks for staying with her, Og. It means a lot. To all of us.”

It was my pleasure, but I thought it would sound stupid to say it. Stalkerish. So I just kind of half-grinned with my eyebrows tall and arched while my chin began to wobble with an idiotic up-and-down seesaw thing. It wouldn't stop either. I'd turned into one of those bobble-headed dolls you see on car dashboards. I know. Real smooth. Definite son-in-law material.

We rounded the Jeep to the driver's side.

“Sure you don't want a ride?”

I glimpsed Merryn through the window buckling up in the backseat. How could anyone pass up an offer to sit next to her?

“Oh why not,” I said, and slid my hand into the door handle.

Before I could unlatch it, though, Uncle Will gripped my arm.

“Og.” It was low and hushed. One of those stay-away-from-my-daughter tones. “When you have some time, I'd like to talk.”

Bummer. I always thought Uncle Will liked me.

“It's about your father.”