The Book of Joby (118 page)

It was such a simple concept, really. Why did so many of his own employees seem to have such trouble grasping it?

Getting back into his body had been as simple as falling into bed. Getting out of the hospital with it, much less back to Taubolt, would be by far the greater challenge. Merlin found his flesh attached to a labyrinth of life support almost as tangled as the knots by which Lucifer had held him in oblivion. His poor body had become so atrophied that magic was required just to move it now. Still, there was cause for thanks. It seemed nurses came seldom to the bedside of a man who’d been a vegetable for months, so he suffered no interruptions while executing the demanding and often unpleasant tricks required to free himself without setting off alarms. The surprising lack of demonic guards was an unexpected blessing too. Apparently, Lucifer had been that sure of Merlin’s helplessness.

Since no one near him was alert to the use of magic, Merlin was able to wander from his room in search of an exit using nothing more elaborate than a few simple cantrips for disguise and misdirection. He stopped once along the way to steal a wallet and some keys, with silent apologies, from the pocket of a busy doctor—along with that man’s knowledge of where his car was parked. Merlin frowned on theft, but with so much strength required just to animate his wasted body, Taubolt was much too far away to leap to by any of the usual magic means. The good doctor would see his car again at any rate, and Merlin would be sure the tank was full. In fact, the man would hereafter find his mileage quite improved.

As dawn spread over Taubolt’s summer fields, Joby lay awake in bed, having failed to sleep at all for the third night in a row. The moment was at hand, but he felt too paper-thin to rise, though they were doubtless waiting at the school already—GB and his little band of “channel”—to be taken to the Garden Coast. Joby groaned, and rolled his face into the mattress.

He no longer cared what happened to himself. There seemed no self left for anything to happen to. He’d lost the last thing he had ever cared about
when he’d become so angrily absorbed in planning with GB that he’d
forgotten
Hawk’s ten o’clock deadline. He had intended to be there, to talk some sense into his son, make him see that nothing was ever that black and white, but, God help him, he’d
forgotten,
until coming home well after midnight to find all of Hawk’s things gone. Falling directly into bed, he’d thought of little else all night but what Hawk must have made of his failure even to appear.
No second chances.
Those words seemed etched into his soul now.

“What have I done?”
he groaned.

Forcing himself from bed at last, he stumbled miserably toward the bathroom. It was all a sacrifice. That was the only way to see it now. When he’d done what he was going to do, he’d probably not even have a soul left, but Taubolt would be saved. That was all that justified his very existence now: what countless others would gain when Taubolt had been cleansed of Hamilton and Donaldson and all their hellish associates.

Then he reached the bathroom, and found the battered little book that Hawk had taped onto the mirror. The only thing his son had left: Rose’s book of flower fairies! Seeing it pinned to the reflection of his own ghastly, pale face, every detail of Rose’s memorial service returned with razor sharpness—most clearly of all, the moment he had rushed to hug the son he’d feared dead.

Joby staggered back to sit roughly on the toilet, trembling with dismay as an unendurable parade passed before his inner eyes, of all the things he’d loved, but starved or thrown away to feed, instead, the things he’d feared or hated. The last balloon to pass was the memory of his tantrum in the fields the night before.
I’ve sacrificed my son!
he’d screamed. And it was true. That was precisely what he’d done!

For
what
?

To save someone
else’s
children? To save the
Garden Coast
; a patch of old trees and exotic flowers?
In exchange for his son?
What made the Garden Coast that much better refuge than a hundred others they might run to? Had Joby even asked? No! Suddenly it all seemed so preposterous! The entire scheme. The secrecy. The tragic, heroic poses! These were the stuff of adolescence! Fantasies that no one but a boy should be able to take seriously, yet Joby had let himself be led by just such an adolescent, when he, the adult, should have done the leading! How had he allowed it? How could he have
thrown away his son
for
this
? Had Hamilton been right when she’d accused him of not knowing how to act his age?

At the disgust even this brief thought of Hamilton brought him, the
remaining scales fell from Joby’s eyes, and he saw the awful truth. As stupid as these other reasons were, he’d let himself be led for an even more pathetic one: He’d
wanted
to believe the boy. He’d been so angry, so eager to blame and punish someone, so sure he knew who deserved that punishment, and . . . so sure that
he
was
right.
He’d thrown away the
son he loved
just to purge his little town of those he loathed, as if the world wouldn’t merely send another wave of loathsome creeps to Taubolt from its bottomless supply. GB had been wrong. It wasn’t just about who died. It was about who did the killing too, or Taubolt would be saved for nothing but a whole new generation of monstrous prosecutors—like Joby had become, or was about to. Hawk had tried to tell him that just yesterday, and it brought Joby grief to know now that he’d have heard his son if only he had listened with his heart instead of with his
righteous
anger.

If demons were about to burn the Garden Coast, both that news and GB should be taken straight to Jake, who was neither demon spy nor gossip, and had proven more than able to shield many other children from attack. Had there been any doubt before, Joby knew now that the biggest ass in human history was himself.

Leaping up, he headed for his room to dress in desperation. There had to be a way to fix this. First, he’d have to go stop this madness and get GB under Jake’s protection. However much the boy might hate him for it now, he’d be grateful later. And if not? Ah well. Joby had broken everything else he valued, why not this friendship too? Then Joby would find his son, wherever he had gone, and tell Hawk he’d been right. It couldn’t really be too late to choose! Were such bonds broken so quickly? God, he hoped not.

As he yanked his shoes on, Joby decided to call Laura if their son refused to listen. He had hurt her, yes, but she’d never been a petty or vindictive person. Surely she would help him. As he rushed outside to jump into his car, Joby dared to hope. He’d missed Hawk’s deadline, but he hadn’t done the things Hawk had been trying to prevent. Wasn’t that the choice his son had given him; come with me, or do your thing? The clock might have run out, but Joby prayed the choice was still in motion.

As she looked around at Merlin’s living room, Kallaystra couldn’t help but be impressed. More than half the house was literally made of magic. The old man had clearly lost none of his prowess since she’d been sent to lure him into confinement the
last time
Arthur’s endeavors had collapsed. She ran her fingers down a door frame of remarkably believable wood, marveling at
how much power must be woven into this structure, amazed, despite herself, that any mortal man could be so
potent.
What a shame to waste that virile body on a coma. He’d even been strong enough to leave his house protected by a self-sustaining spell that had forced her to incarnate not three steps into his yard. She’d just had time to will herself into Nimue’s form one more time for old times’ sake, as it took hold.

Tique had intercepted a phone call that morning, to Joby’s cottage from the hospital, nervously reporting that Mr. Rand was missing. Incredulous that Merlin had escaped, Lucifer had sent Kallaystra and the Triangle to watch the several locations he thought Merlin most likely to return to, though Kallaystra could not imagine how even such a powerful enchanter would pose much threat wearing a body as far gone as his must be now.

The thought was hardly done before a door slammed shut somewhere in the back end of the house. Kallaystra whirled in alarm. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Then Merlin stepped into the room and pulled up short, looking as surprised as she was.

“Nimue!”
Merlin exclaimed angrily.

“Merlin!”
Kallaystra gasped.

He was terribly pale and thin, but she wasn’t reassured. Any man who’d gotten out of Lucifer’s captivity and moved that frail body all the way from Santa Rosa, not to mention having made this house from virtually nothing, might be an opponent to concern her even in such weakened condition. “You do seem remarkably improved, but not as well as you pretend, I think,” she said.

Merlin leaned against the wall behind him for support, as if hoping she would not notice his discomfort. “I warn you, demoness, weak as you may think me, I’ve surprises still tucked up my sleeve, and I will not go back a
third time
to that—”

“Perish the thought!” Kallaystra cut him off with an upraised hand. “As it happens, I was just lamenting your wasteful coma.” She looked down shyly. “I’ve always regretted what happened, you know. In all these centuries, I’ve never found another lover who came within light-years of moving me like you did,” she said breathlessly. Glancing around as if to make certain no one listened, she said, “Lucifer is quite distracted at the moment. I’m sure he has no idea that you’re here. I could help you get to someplace he would never look.” She gave Merlin her most seductive smile. “Then, later, when it’s safe, maybe we could make another try at—”

“If you wish to stop me, do so,” Merlin said impatiently. “I’ve not come all this way to trifle with
you
. My grandson needs me.”

“Your grandson,” Kallaystra sighed. “I could hardly believe it when they told me. Who
was
the lucky woman?”

“I have things to attend to,” Merlin said coldly. “Let’s get this combat over with.”

“Combat?” Kallaystra laughed. “In your condition? What bravado!” she said duskily. “I can think of far more enjoyable alternatives to combat if you’re feeling that frisky.” That was when she noticed he no longer looked so pale. In fact, his color was improving even as she watched. “What are you—” Then she realized, and knew it was too late to stop him. As if to confirm her theory, a rumbling crash came from the kitchen. “So that’s why you came here first.” She smiled.

“I think you’ll find my
condition
much improved now,” Merlin said, still leaning on the wall, but not in weakness. Above them came another crash, then a horrendous cacophony from the far side of the house. Kallaystra suspected that the room they stood in might be the only one still “remodeled.”