The Book of Joby (50 page)

“I would not presume to eclipse your own brilliance, Bright One,” Malcephalon intoned savagely. “Pray, reveal your own vastly superior plan.”

Kallaystra barely concealed her shock. What in Hell was Malcephalon thinking?

“You
dare
?” rasped Lucifer.

“
You
dare?” Malcephalon replied. “You, who do virtually nothing but
observe
as others labor on your behalf?
I
did all the work,
Bright One,
while—”

“Slowly, stupidly, and unsuccessfully!” Lucifer snarled.

“It is child’s play for those who risk nothing to criticize those who act!” Malcephalon snarled back.

With a startled curse, Kallaystra fled to the margins of the room as Lucifer’s hands shot up to attack.

“Risk this, you traitorous imbecile!”
Lucifer screamed, launching a wall of green and amber gas hotter than a star at the coal black demon.

Malcephalon was as fast. The gaseous cloud met an ethereal barrier of crackling blue and white with a detonation heard throughout Lucifer’s domain. The walls of this and every other room in Hell shuddered and dissolved as Lucifer’s carefully sustained illusions of space and material substance became momentarily tenuous. Struggling to place herself further from harm’s way, Kallaystra turned back to watch the conflict in dismay. They would tear all Hell apart!

With a celestial roar of rage, Lucifer abandoned the illusion of human form, his skin seeming to rupture before an explosion of inner white light. Where Malcephalon had stood, darkness deeper than that between the stars strove to swallow and quench Lucifer’s deadly radiance. Vast arcs of raw power slithered and snapped across the indefinable spaces that were Hell’s real fabric, catching multitudes of mortal damned in the inexpressible torment of that crossfire.

Struggling with everyone else to avoid the onslaught’s deadly backwash, Kallaystra suddenly found herself with an open shot at Malcephalon’s metaphorical “back.” Realizing that she might be next in line for Lucifer’s wrath, merely by virtue of her onetime friendship with the moronic demon, she wasted no time in clarifying her position. Summoning every shred of force at her command, she launched it all at Malcephalon’s unprotected flank.

There was a barely audible gasp of astonishment as Lucifer’s unimaginable brightness flared around Malcephalon’s position. Then, unearthly silence.

A moment later, Hell’s vast labyrinth of corridors, chambers, and severe furnishings shivered back into being, and Kallaystra found herself half-embedded in one of Lucifer’s office walls. Disengaging herself, she stepped forward as confidently as she could to stand before the victor.

“God, that felt good,” Lucifer murmured dryly, shrugging back into his
illusory form. He turned to stare humorlessly at Kallaystra. “Very astute decision, my dear.”

There was no sign of Malcephalon. Angels left no bodies when they died.

“Though bitter experience leaves me less than hopeful,” Lucifer muttered, “I suppose I must pursue the one tiny shred of potential salvage from this catastrophe: angels cheating. You’re certain that’s what Williamson said before he was destroyed?”

Kallaystra merely nodded.

“Did the ass elaborate at all?”

“No, sir,” she replied, knowing every word was dangerous at present.

“Then I’ll have to go abase myself again, I suppose,” he sighed, “as fruitlessly as ever, I am sure.” Without sparing her another glance, Lucifer walked past Kallaystra to lay a hand on his office obelisk. “Tique, Eurodia, Trephila, a word, please.”

The Triangle appeared, looking as pale and shaken as angels can.

“There have been some changes,” he told them calmly. “Malcephalon is no longer in charge of this campaign.”

“There were . . . rumors,” Tique joked nervously, then looked quickly at the floor.

“I’ve not forgotten who else decided to leave the boy alone that night,” Lucifer said flatly. “Let Malcephalon’s fate serve as an object lesson. . . . There will be no further fooling around. Is that clear?”

Kallaystra found herself nodding with the others.

“Sir,” said Trephila, always the boldest of the three, “I’m told the Enemy promised us access to Taubolt should the boy return. Does not the . . .
situation
there constitute a breach of that promise? Could we not—”

“Sadly, no,” Lucifer cut her off. “He said we could follow. He did not say we’d enjoy it. We must do what we’ve done before,” he replied. “Send mortals in to neutralize the Cup, and its . . .
company,
” he sneered, “before going in ourselves to finish the job.”

“But . . .” Eurodia looked caught out, and fell silent.

“But?” Lucifer insisted.

“I . . . I only meant,” she stammered quietly, “is there still time for that?”

“An excellent question,” he mused grimly. “If we do run short of time now,” he looked pointedly at each of them, “so do you.”

“What are we to do?” Trephila asked with admirable dignity.

“Though we cannot go there yet in person,” Lucifer said, “I don’t see why we shouldn’t send Taubolt a neighborly little greeting of some sort. I think
a bit of meddling with the natural order might be in line. You three are fairly fond of that, aren’t you?”

The Triangle nodded again. Tique even managed to smile.

“I’m putting Kallaystra in charge now.” He turned his uncomfortable gaze upon her. “We’ll need a moment or two to strategize.” He turned back to the Triangle. “Then she’ll tell you what to do.”

How wonderful,
Kallaystra thought as the Triangle vanished,
to be rewarded for loyalty with command of a full-blown disaster.

Joby clutched the table edge, while Father Crombie clung to the kitchen door frame as the small house gradually ceased to groan and sway around them. After the moment of breathless silence that always seems to follow earthquakes, the tension broke, and they both began to laugh.

“Wow! That was a pretty good jolt!” Joby said, as the adrenaline hit him.

“My goodness, yes.” Father Crombie smiled. Somewhere nearby, a dog began to bark, then another farther off. “Let’s hope that was centered nearby, or some other town may be having a very unhappy Christmas indeed.”

“Well,” Joby said, looking around. “Looks like you came through it okay.”

“Yes. Nothing seems to have fallen.” Crombie smiled again. “Should make for a lot of talk tomorrow, though . . . which,” he said, looking at his watch, “it will be in just a few hours. As I was saying when all the excitement started, here are directions to Mrs. Lindsay’s inn.” He held out a small scrap of paper. “She’ll want help with the wood and things, and after that quake, she may even have some cleaning up to do tonight.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, Father,” Joby said, rising to take the directions. “This is so kind of you both. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“When you’ve gotten settled, come back and keep an old man company. That will be more than sufficient thanks. Any chance I’ll see you at Mass tomorrow?”

Joby hadn’t been to church in years, but could deny this man nothing after all he’d done. “Absolutely,” he said. “This is already the best Christmas I ever had.”

“Which makes mine the same,” said Crombie. “Merry Christmas, Joby.”

“Merry Christmas, Father,” Joby replied, and stepped out into the night.

The sound of surf seemed magnified by the darkness as Joby stood, letting his eyes adjust. The air was redolent of sea smells and wood smoke. He looked up and drew a sharp breath. So many stars! Below him, the quaint town twinkled in holiday lights, seeming to mirror the sky.

“I’m living in a Christmas card,” he murmured happily.

West of town, the sea was gilt in ghostly silver, the horizon washed in mist aglow with starlight, and . . . there was someone standing motionless atop an isolated knoll out on the headlands. Despite the darkness and the distance, Joby suddenly felt certain he was being watched in return. As he stepped forward, straining to see the figure better, something dark rushed by in eerie silence just above his head. He whirled to see an owl’s silhouette against the starry sky, gliding over the cemetery toward the woods east of town. Laughing at the scare it had given him, he turned back to find his watcher on the headlands gone. Had he just imagined it? Shaking his head, he hefted his duffel bag and started down the hill. Out of the kindness of her heart, Gladys Lindsay was waiting up for a stranger on Christmas Eve.

Brightly trimmed in small white Christmas lights, the Primrose Picket Inn was impossible to miss. The two-story white Victorian slumbered under the expansive arms of two ancient cypress trees. The glow of all those lights revealed well-tended gardens, as inexplicably full of flowers in December as every other garden in the town.

Up on its porch, Joby let the inn’s large bronze knocker fall twice before wondering if he’d wake Mrs. Lindsay’s guests, then lowered it with care, hoping he hadn’t already offended his new benefactress.

His worry vanished when the door was opened by a smiling, white-haired woman not much more than five feet tall.

“You’d be Joby, I assume!” she enthused. “Come in! You must be freezing!” She hugged herself and shivered as Joby came in with his duffel bag.

“Thank you so much for putting me up like this,” Joby said.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Winter’s slow here, lots of empty rooms just gathering dust. Father told you I needed help with a few chores, didn’t he?”

“Absolutely. I’m happy to help out any way I can.”

“Well then,” she chirped, “I’m getting the best of this bargain.” She gave him a quick look up and down. “Father didn’t tell me you were so handsome!”

“Well . . . thank you.” Joby smiled uncertainly. “Looks like you made it through the quake all right.”

“Oh yes! Wasn’t that something though? I just now got the last of my guests back to bed. Up jabbering like excited children. You’d think they’d never felt a little shake before. Father Crombie said you’re tired from your trip, so I won’t talk your ear off.” She turned spryly away. “I’ve made up your room on the second floor.”

She led him past a small rosewood table in the entryway. It was graced with fresh-cut flowers on a white lace doily. An old postman’s clock ticked quietly on the wall above it. The short hallway opened on one side into a large sitting room papered in Victorian floral patterns and comfortably furnished in dark, well-polished antiques. Joby paused to get a better look. Etched-glass lamp shades fringed in dangling crystal pendants glowed softly on the walls. The embers of a generous fire smoldered behind an old wrought-iron grate under a large carved mantel. Large windows were curtained in ruffled white lace. A colorfully lit Christmas tree stood in the corner, draped in silver rain and old blown-glass ornaments. Its resinous scent filled the room.

T’was the night before Christmas,
Joby thought. It was the kind of house one found in fairy tales, not in real life. “This is beautiful,” he said aloud.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Lindsay smiled, her wizened face radiant with pride. “This room is full of wonderful memories for me, especially at this time of year. You picked a good time to come.”

She turned and started up a banistered flight of hardwood stairs. Joby followed her to the second-floor landing, where she opened the last door they came to, reached in to flip the light on, and waved him in ahead of her.

Just inside, Joby halted in surprise. This was no tastefully generic guest room, nor Spartan servants’ quarters. Bookshelves above a pine desk were crowded with sporting paraphernalia, model airplanes, an insect collection, a harmonica, a corncob pipe, and what looked like prom pictures of a lovely red-haired girl in turquoise satin on the arm of a jet-haired boy with movie-star good looks.
Huck Finn, Little Big, Once and Future King,
and
A Separate Peace
shared the higher shelves with old high school math and science texts. In one corner sat a small wood-burning stove, its pipe chimney rising to pierce the ceiling. The large, high bed was covered in a thick quilt sewn in fan designs of russet brown and hunter green.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Mrs. Lindsay said. “It was my son’s room before he went off to college.” She paused, seeming awkward for the first time since Joby’s arrival. “If all this stuff bothers you, there are other rooms, of course.”

“No, this is great,” Joby said, “if your son doesn’t mind. He’s not coming home for Christmas?”