Mooncalf

A/N: Hi, folks! So, new chapter. I don't know what I think of it. I'm feeling a bit lost right now with how to bring everything together, and I'm really worried that starting in Chapter Ten, people have begun to lose interest. If I'm losing you, let me know where and why. I'm a perfectionist and I actually like to edit, so if I'm going astray, I'm more than happy to fix what's broken. Only problem is, I don't know what's broken. Please believe me when I say I'm not sulking over not getting more reviews--I reread the ones I've got all the time and am absurdly grateful--I've never gotten this many before! So I want to do right by you by not turning boring halfway through.

And now, without further ado, onto the story!




Chapter Eleven


I woke to the sun searing my eyeballs through Marabell’s frilly purple curtains and her pointy black boots not-quite-kicking me to consciousness. I grumbled incoherently and burrowed deeper into my borrowed blanket. Her boot connected with my side again.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you sleep in if I’ve got to go to class,” Marabell sniped. “Now get out of bed!”

“I’m not in bed; I’m on the floor. Go away.”

“So help me God, Cam, if you don’t get your sorry butt up right now I’ll tell Pricipal Cureton where you are and to hell with the consequences!”

I made a rude gesture, pointless since the blanket covered everything but the very top of my head. Marabell yanked the blanket away suddenly, the rush of cold air shocking me into full consciousness and allowing Marabell to see the finger raised just for her.

“Rise and shine!” she chirruped.

I growled. Marabell laughed and left for class.

Pushing myself into a sitting position, I realized three terrible things. First, Marabell was a morning person. Second, the black hoodie I’d tossed over the white pillowcase had shifted while I’d slept, and the left side of my neck and jaw were burned raw with hives. Cute, I thought as I parted my hair deep on the right to help cover the damaged skin. Between the color burn and the deep scratch from the demon that was possessing Jane—which still hadn’t healed—I wasn’t exactly looking my usual best. Good thing I was hiding from everyone anyway.

Third and most terrible, I had no idea where to begin my search for the Nail-Knocker. I’d have asked Jack for advice, but no, I’d had to go and be all humane, firing him for his own safety.

Being surrounded by humans has definitely made me stupider.

Well, if I didn’t know how to find the Nail-Knocker, I supposed I had better take a closer look at what I did know. To facilitate my brainstorm, I unplugged Marabell’s computer from the Internet (Galmon Academy wasn’t high-tech enough for wireless yet. If the Guardians didn’t off me after this upcoming Trial, I’d suggest they make a donation to rectify that.), so I could hook my own laptop up and listen to my favorite online radio station. Pulling on my black gloves, I helped myself to one of Marabell’s notebooks and a pen.

I started my list by entitling it: “People Who Want Me Dead (Maybe).”

• The demon possessing Jane. Note that he has admitted to working with a second party—a “she.”
• This mary_gurl chick. Likely to be in cahoots with Jane’s body-snatcher, and therefore the one who somehow got access to my death certificate.
• The Nail-Knocker, who may or not be someone on this list, or could be someone I don’t even know about. Probably doesn’t actually want me dead, if I’m to assume that he/she wants my talents to use to tempt the good people of the world into damnation.
• The Guardians, maybe. They certainly haven’t been honest with me about the state of my soul, and they haven’t been exactly helpful about this Nail-Knocker business. Mary has implied that they’ve already rigged my Trial so I fail.

Not much I could do about Jane’s demon, since he could come and go to the Hell dimension at will. I had heard rumors of an incantation that could hold a demon’s spirit wherever it was, in its own body or another’s, but I didn’t know it. Once again, I could have used Jack’s expertise, but for my own weakness. The only thing I could do for Jane was avoid her, so the demon wouldn’t have a reason to target her. The Guardians couldn’t convict me of evilness if I discovered who the Nail-Knocker was and resisted their temptations. (And going to confession like Jack had suggested couldn’t hurt, either.) I’d already decided I couldn’t find out who the Nail-Knocker was at this point, though.

mary_gurl, though—I was certain she was in on this somehow, and her cryptic IMs suggested that she had information about this conspiracy against me. And since I had her AIM screen name, I had a way to contact her. How to get her to talk to me, though?

This kind of deep thinking required food and shoes. I sent a thought winging to Marabell, so she would sneak lunch back to the room for me. Before yesterday, I never would have been able to convince Marabell—or anyone else, for that matter—to do a favor for me without being face-to-face. My power binge the day before had apparently opened the door to the full potential of my power. I wondered for a moment about the consequences of that, and then decided I had enough to worry about as it was. I’d just be grateful for the food. That primal need taken care of, I opened Marabell’s closet doors and began the happy task of trying on every dark-colored pair of shoes she owned.

After two pairs of strappy black heels, a pair of wedge mules, and some amazing red cowboy boots I would definitely be commandeering in the near future, it came to me: I knew exactly how to draw mary_gurl into conversation.

“I am a frigging genius,” I assured Grigori as I signed on to AIM. It didn’t look like she was online, but maybe she just appeared to be offline, so I sent my message anyway.

MostBrutish: mary_gurl, you said I’ve already been judged. I don’t want to be damned. How can I avoid that fate?

I didn’t get the automatic message saying she was offline, so she was invisible. I waited a while before deciding that she was ignoring me. Disappointed (and maybe a bit relieved), I turned back to Marabell’s shoes. Eight pairs later—who would have guessed that Marabell had sock monkey slippers?—the computer chirped an announcement that I had a new IM message. I tripped with one bare foot and one clad in a four-inch heel back to the desk.

mary_gurl: You are a monster. You are lying.

Golly gee, I wished I could have that kind of confidence in a decision I’d made so quickly about someone I had never actually met.

MostBrutish: Why would you think I’m lying? I mean, I’m not even seventeen yet. I don’t really want to die.

mary_gurl: You belong to the Devil.

Apparently, she hadn’t gotten the memo that my soul is my own.

mary_gurl: And you show how evil you are on a daily basis. You communicate with other demons directly. You consistently harm human beings and interfere with their free will. You break the laws of man, including those of your school.

Well, that last one really convinced me—I’m evil. There’s no hope for me; I skip class sometimes. I’ve clearly drawn my card: Go to Hell. Go straight to Hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

MostBrutish: How could you possibly know those things? I’ve never even met you.

mary_gurl: I have eyes that are not my own watching you. Unblinking eyes. Do not think your sins go unseen.

MostBrutish: You’ve got someone spying on me?! What the hell have I ever done to you, you holier-than-thou freak???

mary_gurl: You mar the soul of everyone you meet. Given the chance, you will damn them all.

I logged off. I certainly hadn’t won that round, had I? I gently shut the laptop and slipped off the single shoe I wore. It was a particularly pretty one, in a deep, dusty blue. Two thin straps crossed the top, seemingly held together by a delicate web of beads. Whatever else I might say of Marabell, she had good taste in shoes. She probably didn’t deserve to get dragged into this. The same feeling I’d had the day before, just before I’d gone on my bender downtown, swelled in my throat. I could feel a pair of giggling freshman in the hall suddenly fall silent and look with fear toward Marabell’s door, though I’d been silent.

I turned in Marabell’s desk chair and met Grigori’s eyes. He stared, wide-eyed and silent, back at me.

I had done a lot of research when Pops gave me the goldfish. That’s how I know that they only have a memory span of three seconds. But they remember better in cold water than in warm water. I know that a pregnant goldfish is called a “twit.” (I’ve met one or two of the human variety, too.) It was the first domesticated fish, originally in China. A goldfish can get seasick. It’s against the law for a fish to ride a public bus in Seattle.

And they don’t have eyelids.

I blinked first—naturally—as Marabell returned with my lunch. I turned my gaze to her.

“Here,” she groused, thrusting the plate in my direction. “I don’t know why I brought this for you. I probably should have let you starve, but I felt like I had to bring you something.”

I imagine she had, with the compulsion I’d sent her. Oh, good, she hadn’t even included any animal byproducts. Which left, as usual, tater tots, overcooked corn, and yellowing lettuce. Maybe I should have let her let me starve.

I grunted an acknowledgement and tucked in. I ate quickly, and Marabell didn’t disturb the silence while she gathered the books she’d need for her afternoon classes. I hardly noticed her presense until the soft snick of the door closing signaled she had gone. I chased the last leaf of lettuce onto my fork, brought it to my mouth, and chewed, all the while pinning Grigori with my stare. As far as a fish can show expression, he looked pretty darn worried. Smart of him, really. He swam into his skull hideaway. I smirked.

Swallowing the last of my lunch, I said, “Oh, you are going down, my fishy little friend.” Grigori’s whole body bobbed as he gulped audibly.

“Well? Are you going to tell me everything?” I asked with a pleasant smile.

He swam to the top of the bowl and said simply, “No.”

I nodded. “I thought that’s what you would say. Don’t you think it’s interesting how many brands of lipstick have fish scales as an ingredient?” Grigori said nothing.

“You know, this whole mess didn’t start until you died and came back all undead. When you were a normal fish, my life was pretty okay, you know? And then you died, and I actually felt sort of bad about that. But you came back, and that was cool. Weird, but cool.” The orange fish just looked at me.

“So I really think you owe it to me, since I’ve been feeding you bugs and everything, to tell me who you’ve been reporting to. Tell me!” I whispered furiously. Still Grigori said nothing.

Pulling myself back, I sniffed with grand disinterest.

“Okay. I didn’t want it to be this way, but you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance to tell me the truth.” I picked up his bowl and left the room, convincing people to clear out of the hall as I went. I sent a wish ahead, and the kitchen staff left their posts and as a group, decided they needed a cigarette in the parking lot. Even the ones that didn’t smoke. Upon reaching the kitchen, I set the fishbowl on a table and scooped Grigori out.

“I can’t tell you anything, Cam,” he protested.

“That’s okay, I understand.” Pinching his tailfin between my fingers, I strolled over to one of the huge stainless steel sinks. I twisted the faucet on high.

“If you just let me go down the drain, I’ll just have to come right back,” Grigori informed me.

“I know.” I reached over the sink and flipped a switch. The industrial-grade garbage disposal roared to life. “Unless the body you inhabit is too mangled.” It wouldn’t kill him. It would ruin the fish body he was in, but he wouldn’t die. Which wasn’t to say it wouldn’t hurt, because it would. A lot. And it would continue to hurt a lot until he could find another body to inhabit. It probably wouldn’t be too convenient to find a new body in the depths of the sewer systems—with his fish body in the shape it would be in, even rats would be able to fend off a possession.

“But you see,” I continued, winging the conversation from vague memories of mafia films, “If you don’t tell me who you’re spying for, then the only thing I can do is ensure that you can’t come back and do it again. So why don’t you just make this easy on both of us and tell me who mary_gurl is?” I lowered Grigori nearly to the mouth of the faucet as a little extra encouragement and tried hard to quell my nausea. He’s not a normal fish. He’s a demon spy sent to bring me down. I’m not going against animal rights; the fish I had is already dead. If only my talent worked on other demons.

“I can’t tell you that!” he cried. “She’s not the one I work for!”

That took me aback. “Then who do you work for?”

*****

The Guardians, as it turned out. They had known all along that I was in contact with my father, and that he had given me the goldfish. When Jack heard Marabell complaining about me taunting her with the carcass in the bathroom, he told the Guardians, who allowed Pops to return the fish to me (undead, of course), in return for periodic reports from said fish on my behavior. Knowing Pops and his chronic over-protectiveness, he probably thought it was a grand idea to have another set of eyes “looking out for me”, or some such bull. The Guardians’ motives for employing a demon (even such a minor one as an undead goldfish—turned out, Grigori really had been returned to his own body, not possessed with another spirit) were inscrutable. Were they really looking out for me, the way my father undoubtedly thought they were? Or were they looking for ever more reasons to make me fail my upcoming Trial, now only days away? And most worrisome of all: if Grigori wasn’t spying for mary_gurl, who was?

I was so wrapped up in these questions that I completely forgot to convince Marabell to fetch me some dinner. She brought a plate for me anyway, and hardly complained when she found me wearing her red boots.

“Dude, what happened to your face?” was the only thing she asked, referring to the color burn I’d gotten from her pillow. It had already mostly healed, I knew, but remained red and angry-looking. By tomorrow, it would be completely gone. In the meantime, I convinced Marabell to forget about it. The burn was the least of my problems. I had a lot of problems. And I was tired of brooding about them.

Without Jane or Jack to hang out with, and with no homework to do, and with Grigori safely ensconced beneath a heavy winter jacket in the depths of Marabell’s closet, there was little to distract me. Except tormenting Marabell, which just happened to be one of my favorite pastimes.

“So, dish. What’s the deal with this boyfriend of yours? D.J., or whatever his name is.” I waggled my eyebrows obscenely.

“His name is J.D. And he’s none of your business.”

“Mhmm, sure. Now, I know that I didn’t see much of him besides that quarter-second of him slobbering all over you, but it seemed to me that he didn’t really look like a senior, like us. What’s up with that?”

I almost laughed aloud when she turned fuchsia. “He’s, um, a sophomore. But he’s not immature at all.”

“Sure he is. Cradle-robber,” I teased. She glared at me. I continued, “I bet he’s really happy to have a surrogate mother while he’s away at school.”

I laughed and blocked the flying book with my backpack.

“Well, we can’t all have guys like Stick, you know,” she said with a wink. “Anyway, I don’t have to put up with this. I’m going to pretend to go to the library and sneak off to hang out with J.D.”

“The youngun,” I agreed, but my mind was whirling. What had she meant with that comment about Jack? And what was up with the wink? Why was she winking at me? People should never wink at other people. The second party is forced to wonder if the first party knows or suspects something that the second party is utterly unaware of.

And the second party doesn’t like it. Especially not after a day like the one I’d endured. I snorted, annoyed with my own angst, and flopped onto my floor-bed. I’d knotted the sleeves of my hoodie to keep it in place, protecting me from further color burns.

The altercations with mary_gurl and Gigori must have taken even more out of me than I’d thought, because after briefly wishing that Jack could advise me what step to take next, I slept. Just a little nap, I promised myself. Then I’d figure out what to do about mary_gurl, her spy, and the Nail-Knocker.

*****

Someone was looking at me. I could feel it through a haze of sleep. Someone was watching me. Someone was watching me, and reporting what I did to someone who didn’t wish good things for me. I struck out blindly, but connected solidly. The “oof” the blow generated sounded masculine. Anyone of the masculine variety in the girls dorm was either very confused or out to get me, so I punched him again.

“Geez, Cam, stop hitting me, would you?!” Jack whispered furiously, holding my fists captive.

“Gwuyudoinear?” I said.

“Huh?”

I pulled a fist from his grasp and wiped sleep out of my eye. “What are you doing here?” I repeated more clearly, now that I had a few more functioning synapses.

“Finding you,” he said, looking at me like I was dumb. “What were you thinking, Cam? Everyone’s really worried about you. Cureton even had to call the police!”

I waved his reprimand off.

“I’ve got more people and demons spying on me than ought to be legal,” I said. “Did you know that the Guardians hired Grigori to spy on me?”

“Your fish?” he asked, eyebrows rising into the stratosphere. “Why would they do that?”

“I dunno,” I said. “You work for them. You tell me.” But he could only shrug helplessly.

“Here. I brought this for you.” He thrust something cool and round into my hand—an orange.

“Oh. Huh. Erm, thanks?” I turned on Marabell’s small desk lamp and began peeling the most edible thing I’d encountered all day. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I noticed Marabell took a plate a food back to her room with her after lunch and dinner today—even though she’d already eaten.” Oh. I’d have to compensate for that from here on out, I realized.

“And even if I hadn’t figured it out from that, you called me a few hours ago,” Jack disclosed.

“I—what?”

Jack chuckled softly. “That’s a great look for you,” he said, and I snapped shut my hanging jaw.

“I called you?”

He nodded. “In my head. It was weird.”

Something fell in place in my head, like a puzzle piece. “There’s a reason no other Cambion made it to their seventeenth Trial, isn’t there? And it has something to do with the fact that suddenly, I have long-distance and sometimes accidental influence on people.”

“You’ll only get stronger the closer you get to your birthday,” he affirmed.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

I pumped a fist into the air. “That’s freaking awesome!”

“But dangerous.”

“Well, yeah. Because if I let someone manipulate me into manipulating others for evil. But otherwise, it’s just sort of cool.” Jack rolled his eyes.

“Where’s Marabell?” he wanted to know. I told him I didn’t even want to guess.

“Hey, how’s your shoulder? And how did you get in here? You couldn’t have possibly come in by the roof.”

“No, I snuck in when everyone was asleep, the way most humans do,” he laughed. “And my shoulder is fine. It’ll be a few weeks, and I’ve got to do some physical therapy exercises, but nothing too major. When the nurse looked at it today, she said it’s actually a lot better than she thought it was originally.”

“Good.” Then he shifted, and I felt the truth—he was lying. It was hurting him pretty badly. “Why do guys always have to act so macho?” I asked in a huff as I blocked his pain receptors.

Jack sighed. “Because we feel pretty wimpy if a girl’s got to fix us up. But thanks.” He didn’t actually sound very grateful.

“Whatever. You couldn’t pull off the macho act anyway. You can’t even open a jar of salsa by yourself.”

“Are you talking about that one time in Spanish class? Because I had just come from the Chem lab, I’ll have you know, and I didn’t want to eat without washing my hands after handling the equipment in there. It would be unhygienic. I could have opened that jar if my hands hadn’t still been wet.”

“Oh, wow. Now I’m so impressed by your manliness,” I said with an amused snort.

Suddenly, his palm was pressed to my mouth. “Oh, hush. You could let me keep my masculine delusions for once, you know.”

Right. Sure. Whatever he said. I couldn’t say anything at all at the moment. I worked hard to keep my breaths steady, so he wouldn’t guess that one stupid, meaningless little touch had my head reeling. I suddenly realized that we were sitting pretty close to each other within the small circle of light provided by the desk lamp. And Jack had very big hands.

He pulled it away and after a moment of silence, the room grew back to its normal proportions, complete with oxygen.

“Well.” Jack cleared his throat, which made me want to laugh. At least I wasn’t the only one thrown by that strange little moment. “I was wondering if anything had developed—since you stormed off yesterday to wreak havoc downtown.”

Right. I forced my brain back on track. “Um, well, Pops snapped me out of it before I caused any permanent damage—beyond a bit of destruction of government property,” I added, thinking of the mailbox. “But no one got hurt. Except you. Moron. I told you my dad would do that.”

Jack gave me a funny look, and I didn’t dare poke around his head, even though I could now.

“And I talked to Mary today. Instant message. She let it slip that she’s got someone spying on me. I thought she meant Grigori, but he’s spying for the Guardians. And I still don’t know who the Nail-Knocker is. But I think if we find out who Mary’s spy is, we can track him to her, and maybe find the Nail-Knocker that way, by working backwards.”

“We?” Jack asked.

I shook my head. “Me. Just me. I fired you, remember?”

“You can’t fire me. You don’t pay me or make me fill out a W-2 form. So you’re just going to have to deal with my help. It’s late. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Jack—I can’t go to classes. I don’t know who the second spy is, but only you, Marabell, and Grigori know I’m here. As long as I stay here, they can’t find me.”

Jack frowned. “You can’t hide forever, Cambion.”

“No. But I can lay low until I’ve got a plan.”