Last of the Mighty (8 page)

God, He knew exactly where to hit, didn't He?

I shook Phaeus's hand and the deal was sealed. It was what I'd wanted for as long as I could remember. To meet my father.

“Augustine Caffrey, you honor your bloodline. Your training begins tonight. Smiler. Knock.”

Tucker stepped forward and rubbed at the blistering burn on his wrist. An eager grin smeared on his face.

I looked to Phaeus. “W-what?”

“You are to exorcise the boy's demons. Shemja-za and Chool will not interfere.”

“What about you? You gonna help me?”

“It is not permitted.”

“What if he kills me?”

“Then you have failed your training.”

“What about that extra spiritual protection stuff?”

“Access to your augmented guard is to be cut off whilst engaged in a training exercise.”

“So you'd let him kill me?”

”If God delivers you into his hands, then that is His will.”

“I will knock him!”

Guess who that was?

Tucker cracked a fist into my sternum before I even knew the fight was on. The force of it drove me through the window above the couch. Stilettos of glass everywhere. I landed in a bed of them on the hard patio. Rounding my spine, I used the momentum to do a backward tuck-and-roll through the shards then propelled myself over and up to my feet.

By the time my vision returned, I was crouched, and looking straight into the jagged mouth of window I'd just come through. Only now it was Tucker coming through it, diving straight for me face-first with his arms wide.

I broke left.

Too late.

His forearm clocked me in the throat.

I went down and he was on me like an octopus, his legs twining around my waist then hardening into iron. My right arm was caught inside the circle of his legs, my elbow pinned to my hip. His arms strapped firmly around my shoulders, and neck, cocooning me until I could hardly move. His fingernails gouged at my face, going for the eyes, furrowing out ditches in my cheek. Tucker's stranglehold on my wrist prevented my free hand from helping. It was as I had feared, Tucker was thrashing me. Stronger. Faster. Invincible.

I ratcheted my face away, swinging my head this way and that, Tucker's spider fingers crawling, always crawling, intent on blinding me. With my eyes shut and my chin nearly to my chest, I threw back my head with everything I had.

My skull smashed into the concrete of Tucker's brow. Shockwaves reverberated in my brain. Nothing but ringing and pain and flashing light. It was worth it. Tucker's grip loosened and I wriggled free.

I rolled away, dizzy. Tried to stand, but couldn't balance and fell. Hazy images of Phaeus, Shem, and Chool watched us through the broken window

Senses clearing, I got to my feet.

Tucker was on all fours, still shaking it off. I gave him a taste of his own. A boot to the ribs. He rolled onto his back, moaning. I did the flying Chool and my knees came down on his chest.

Blood gushed from his eyebrow and trickled from his lip. For a moment, I saw only Merryn. Her face after Tucker had bashed her.

Fury raged in my chest, swelling my biceps and curling my hands into stone. I went into an anger-fueled trance. An uncontrolled flurry of knuckles and elbows and God-knows-what-else battered Tucker's face and head.

It wasn't long before I snapped out of it. Looked down at Tucker's busted nose and bloody face and instantly regretted my overreaction. I felt pity for him. Tucker had suffered through a brutal beating while Smiler and Knock hadn't felt a thing.

Time to change that.

With the ace up my sleeve.

Or rather, the nail in my pocket.

After Amos had driven me home from the wrestling meet, we'd gone to his room and talked for hours. Came up with a solid offensive to dispose of Tucker. Or, more specifically, to dispose of Smiler and Knock.

You already know about the Eucharist that cooked Tucker's arm and the exorcism lingo that Amos had taught me.

He'd also given me his trusty nail, what he called the Fourth Nail.

“The Fourth Nail?” I'd asked.

“Yep,” he had answered, swaying in his rocking chair. Like only a cretin wouldn't know what the Fourth Nail was.

I pushed my face at him, my eyebrows arched in a way that shouted what-are-you-talking-about?

“Fourth Nail o' the cross, son. Took me some nineteen years to find her.”

He explained that four nails, not three, were used to crucify Jesus. Contrary to what most crucifixes tell you, Jesus's feet were not overlapped one on top of the other. They were placed next to each other, side-by-side, with one nail through each foot. Four nails.

I could spend all day telling you how far and wide Amos had gone to find the Nail and how he'd been fooled by some forgeries along the way, but that's a book all by itself—Amos Booth and the Raiders of the Lost Nail. End result was that he'd actually found the genuine article. A holy relic with the power to exorcise demons. Don't ask me how he knew it was the real deal. He just said he did.

“Now ya be careful with it, son,” he'd said, handing me the Nail. “An' remember, don't have to go stabbin' him like a wild pig. That'd kill th' boy. Grazin' the skin'll do fine enough t' send them demons to Pit. Jus' get some blood on her and the Nail'll do the rest.”

****

With my knees on Tucker's chest, I reached into the pocket of my jeans and removed the Fourth Nail. Hid it in my fist.

Amos had warned me to be as secretive as I could with it. Apparently, Demon Radio, The Symphony, The Committee, whatever you call it, was like the Internet—on Red Bull. Once a demon discovered a holy weapon was being used against them, news of it spread. Everywhere. Instantly. If Smiler or Knock found out about the Nail, Amos and I would never be able to use it again. Not with the element of surprise anyway.

Tucker was coming around. Groaning. His head lolling.

I looked for a place to pierce his skin.

“Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man.” More words from Amos.

The neck seemed too dangerous. A fraction too deep and the Nail would end Tucker.

“I command you, the unclean spirits of…”

I settled for his hand.

“Smiler and Knock…”

I lifted his wrist.

“Depart!”

I readied the Nail.

“In the holy name of…”

I lowered it toward his palm.

“Jesus Chri—”

A sledgehammer rocked me in the temple. Tucker's roundhouse fist. Landed just before the rusted Nail-point did.

My weapon jarred loose and bounced on my palm and fingers. Barely conscious, I tried to close my hand around the Nail. Couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything. My hand, fingers, arm, and head were all numb.

Next thing I knew, Tucker and I had reversed positions. A storm of fists hailed down on me.

I protected my head and face with my forearms, wrists, and elbows.

Between blows, Smiler said, “Something…smells…about him, Knock.”

“It is only the blood of a Mighty!”

When the chance came, I scanned the ground beside me, hoping for the dropped Nail. Wasn't there.

“No, my friend, it is something more… A threat I sense.”

“It is only Phaeus in your nose.”

Tucker's jackhammer punches were punishing my elbows and forearms. They wouldn't hold much longer.

“Perhaps you are correct, Knock, but prudence suggests a measure of caution.”

That's when I felt it. The Nail. In my hand. I hadn't dropped it after all.

“Knock!” he barked, and cuffed my ear. “Knock!” Calling his shots, he thwacked my shoulder. “Knock!” My other ear. “Knock!”

Something in my left forearm snapped. Bone. A splinter of it poked up and through my skin just a few inches above the Nail in my fist.

I squeezed the Nail—more pain, bones grinding—and went for it.

A wild scream—mine—as my left fist shot from its head-protecting position, and arced toward Tucker's chest.

A clout to my eye.

The world went black.

Was the Nail still moving? Had it hit the target? Was it even still in my fist?

More wild screams.

Not mine.

Not Tucker's.

Smiler's.

And Knock's.

The Pit scream of two demons being flung into the Abyss.

Tucker slumped. Teetered. Then toppled to the ground beside me. Passed out.

Or dead.

I shoved the Nail back into my pocket and scrambled out from under Tucker's rubbery legs. Blood had crawled out of him and onto his shirt. A crimson cloud grew around the slit near his ribs made by the Fourth Nail.

I checked his pulse.

He was alive.

Phaeus ducked through the broken window and strode toward us. Kneeling next to me, he said, “A fine victory Mighty One.” He touched my broken forearm. “Well done.” It healed instantly.

He hovered his palm above Tucker's Nail wound. The blood flow ceased. He placed a hand on Tucker's face. His broken nose mended. The cuts, swelling, and bruising were all made well.

Tucker blinked. Slow at first, his eyes moving from one corner of sky to the other. He looked at me, confused. “Wh-hat are—” He saw Phaeus. “Where am I?” He gaped about the patio, the yard, the broken window.

I could tell by his face he was searching himself for Smiler and Knock. Couldn't find them.

“Are th-they…gone?”

Phaeus confirmed it with a nod.

“You sure?” His eyes begged, puddling with tears.

Phaeus smiled. “I am certain.”

Carefully, cautiously, Tucker made it to his feet. His hand kept squeezing into a soft fist then releasing. His lips quivered, eyes darted. “Is the girl…” His voice began to shake. “All right?” The sobbing began.

I put a hand to his shoulder. “She's fine.”

He looked relieved. Then, “And the”—his shaky hand fluttered to his face—“the wrestler?” Shame bent his mouth.

“He's…in the hospital.”

His body folded, and nothing could stem the tears that followed. Crumpling to the earth, Tucker rocked and cramped and seized. His miserable howls were those of the dying, his tormented roars of those in Hell.

“I was…so b-bad to them.” He coiled, rolled, and heaved.

His remorse and repentance was so touching, perfect, beautiful, and bare that I, too, began to weep.

****

It took a while for Tucker to get himself together. Phaeus and I watched, close by, as he prayed and cried, prayed and cried.

The Committee had been steadily upping its volume since the casting out of Tucker's demons. I couldn't tell whether the six or seven voices were speaking independently or with each other, but all were abuzz about Knock and Smiler and a certain Mighty Man.

“The seed of Jashobeam has conquered.”

“There is rumor of a holy weapon.”

“Smiler and Knock cannot be found.”

“Azazel fears the Gibbor has sent them to Pit?” (Gibbor was the singular form of Gibborim.)

“How could it be?”

I can tell you. A normal exorcism banished a demon from its human host. After that, the evil spirit wandered the earth. Invisible. Some preferred wandering forever, going from place to place, tempting us, deceiving us. Others liked to live inside a host, an animal, or human. Thing about the Fourth Nail was it didn't just run the demons out of town, it sent them directly to Pit, like Phaeus's blade and all holy weapons. That was Amos's theory anyway. Seemed The Committee was proving him correct.

I turned to Phaeus, anxious to know the next steps. “So, what happens now? With this whole way of the Mighty thing? You gonna teach me how to fight demons or…what…exactly?”

“Heaven will not do for you what you can do for yourself.”

“What does that mean? I'm on my own? You're not…”

“Fare thee well, Augustine, and do not forsake your training. A second task approaches.”

“But you can't just…”

But he did.

In a burst of light, Phaeus was gone.

It was past midnight when I dropped Tucker off at his place and drove away. The house lights were on. His parents were up, nervous, pacing, waiting for the teenager who hadn't been himself for months.

After dropping him off, I parked the Falcon around the corner. I snuck to his window and hid in the bushes, peeping in.

The picture inside was that of the Prodigal Son returning. Painted with hugs and tears, laughter and regret, apologies and forgiveness. Framed with the love of family.

I missed my mom.

****

I padded quietly up the stairs leading to my lavish pastoral living quarters at Saint Perpetua's, not wanting to wake anyone at this hour of the morning. Amos's door was ajar. I lightly tapped on it, as promised.

His heavy eyelids struggled open. His empty gaze was glossed over with the sweet afterglow of peaceful dreams. I felt sorry for stealing him away from his tropical isle, or perfect steak, or whatever it was that Amos dreamed about.

“Og.” He gave me a weary, welcome-home smile.

I placed the Falcon keys and the Nail on his bedside table. “Thanks,” I whispered. “We'll talk later.” I gave him a sleepy goodnight salute then dragged my butt the three doors and forty-eight miles up the hall to my room.

Crawled into bed. Thoughts of my dad, Tucker, and all the fun of the past couple hours crawled in with me.

Why all the sudden interest in my father? First Uncle Will and now Phaeus. Sure, I'd been dying to meet him, but was I ready? I mean, he had ditched my mom when I was still an infant. What kind of person did that? Especially to someone as sweet as my mother?

I needed more time to work out some issues and process the reality of a face-to-face. I wondered if confronting death at my next task would be easier than confronting my father. Still, I kept an open mind, considered that my dad might be a great guy. Guess I'd find out soon enough. If I finished Phaeus's tests.

And what about these tests? Evidently, I was in training. You know how that goes. Starts out easy. Then gets more difficult each week until game day. Then they really pour it on, every victory leading to another battle, with each opponent getting bigger, meaner, and deadlier as you approach your goal.

The likelihood of surviving my next trial was slim. I would've failed my first, and easiest, test if it hadn't been for Amos. Without his help, I'd be with Mom right now. Phaeus's upcoming “training session” was sure to be tougher than The Tucker Test. If I was useless against two demons, what was I going to do about twenty? Or a hundred?

I was going to have to train. Harder than ever before. Because not only my life depended on it, but so did Merryn's.

I closed my eyes and thought of her.

Tomorrow, Saturday, I was going to tell her about Shemja-za, Tucker, Phaeus, and the whole enchilada. She had been so wounded when I'd downplayed the amount of time I'd spent at her hospital bedside. As toothless as I thought my white lie had been, the fib had gnawed a hole in her. I'd never let that happen again. Time to make good on my vow to always tell Merryn the whole truth. Except the part about me being incurably in love with her.

For the next forty minutes, I was pushed from one side of the bed to the other by my concerns about my father and how to prepare for the next battle.

Finally, I drifted off.

Yet not before The Committee wished me a good night of its own. A shrill and screechy voice speaking in rhyming verse, like it was The Raven from that creepy poem by Poe.

It said,

“I see him coming for another test,

this last of the Gibborim.

And though he be sturdy,

our number is thirty,

and death will be waiting for him!”

Nothing like some charming bedtime verse to ease one into the land of pleasant dreams.