The Book of Joby (46 page)

“He was there then, wasn’t he?” Gabriel asked. “With us in the glade when Joby threw his books away. That’s how they disappeared.”

“It would seem so,” mused the Creator. “He hides quite well, you know, even from angels.”

“But not from You, My Lord,” the angel pressed. “Why did You not just tell me?”

The Creator shrugged. “I just assumed that if he’d wanted you to know what he had done, he’d have told you himself.”

Disguised as a pigeon, Gabriel had watched the confrontation between Merlin and Malcephalon from atop a nearby record store, but, unlike Malcephalon, Gabe had quickly guessed who the old woman must really be. The sudden cessation of Merlin’s anguished pleas to Heaven on his grandson’s behalf, the angel now realized, had coincided too perfectly with “Mary’s” appearance. The book’s unexpected reappearance had removed any remaining doubt—regarding Merlin’s involvement, at least.

“But . . . does all this not suggest he’s been planning to disobey You from the start?” Gabriel asked anxiously. “He serves Heaven and received the same command all others did, not to interfere unasked, yet he disobeys. What are we to do, My Lord?”

“You know I’m not allowed to answer such questions, Gabe,” the Creator chided. “Keep this up, I could get confused and say something I’m not allowed to. Then Lucifer would win. That what you want?”

“No, My Lord. Of course not.”

But can that be what You want, Lord?
Gabriel thought, unable to expunge the shameful thought.

As worded, Lucifer’s condition forbidding the Creator’s servants from helping Joby uninvited had applied only to immortal beings, but Merlin, though uniquely long-lived, was certainly not immortal. It had been the perfect loophole! The one remaining mortal able to hide from angels and contest with demons would have been free to help Joby, had the Creator not gratuitously upped the ante by addressing His command against unsolicited aid to “all serving Heaven.”
Why had He done that?
The Creator
never
used words carelessly!

No one knew better than Gabe that the Creator’s decisions were infinitely above any angel’s right, or ability, to question. And yet, for the first time in all the angel’s eons of experience, there it was . . . doubt. Gabriel didn’t want it, didn’t know what to do with it. But now it
was
and could not be unmade. Could the Creator
want
Joby to fail? Had He given up on creation? . . . Or was there something else between the lines here that Gabe was failing to perceive?

“You won’t punish him then?” Gabe dared to ask.

“I can hardly imagine doing so would not constitute an expression of My will in this matter,” the Creator replied patiently.

Gabe looked down uncomfortably, wondering how much of his own
newly minted doubt the Creator had already divined. “Lord,” he said, as dry of mouth as an angel is capable of being, “these conditions You have agreed to are so impossibly unfair. It might seem to some . . .” He shook his head. “No. It is
I
who wonder. Have You intentionally set this contest against Joby for some reason?”

“Why would I do that?” the Creator asked casually.

“I cannot imagine, Lord. But . . . it seems to me that Joby would certainly have failed had Merlin
not
disobeyed Your command.”

The Creator shrugged. “He may still fail. What is it you really want to know?”

“Is that what You intend, Lord?” Gabe pleaded in sudden desperation. “That he fail?”

“I can’t tell you what I
intend,
Gabe. You know that. I’m quite out of the loop until this wager is ended, though I may have much to say then, if anyone is left to hear it. How about a hand of cards, Gabe? Would that cheer you up?”

Gabriel could hardly believe his ears.
Cards?
The Creator sounded almost cheerful! Didn’t He care at all?

“My Lord,” he said palely, “I fear I have no appetite for cards. May I decline?”

“Why, of course, Gabe.” The Creator sounded nonplussed. “Would I
make
you play? How much fun would that be?”

Williamson hovered anxiously amidst the cloud of demons wreathing Joby’s bed. Despite Malcephalon’s efforts to dissuade him, Joby had hung the old woman’s charm around his neck on a strip of ribbon, where, to everyone’s livid consternation, it had blunted their influence ever since. The boy had even considered going into a
church
to
pray for guidance
! It had taken the combined strength of six different demons just to make Joby tired enough to come here to sleep instead. Adding insult to injury, the thing cast off a prickly energy difficult for Williamson, or even his superiors, to endure.

“Impossible!” Malcephalon kept hissing. “This cannot be happening!”

The Triangle, who might ordinarily have made quite a joke of Malcephalon’s disgrace, were too dismayed to do more than grumble agreement.

To Williamson’s concealed satisfaction, Malcephalon was in dire trouble for having failed to recognize the old woman’s purpose and power in time. In fact, the once-dominant demon hadn’t a friend in Hell now.

It seemed the old sorceress had left the world without a trace. Since she’d tried to send the boy to Taubolt, most thought it likely that’s where she’d gone as well. Lucifer had ordered that Joby be allowed nowhere near the
coast on pain of punishment far worse than death. Ironically, that very command had caused Williamson to realize that his long-awaited chance to grab the ball had finally come. It was common knowledge by now that not even Lucifer had been able to find the place, or Joby in it. Thus, if Joby were to get back there now, and Williamson were with him when he did, Lucifer, for once, would be powerless to prevent Williamson from calling the shots alone and engineering Hell’s victory all by himself. Not even Lucifer would be able to deny him credit then! The one remaining problem was how to get sufficient time alone with Joby.

“Watching him snore is a bore!” Tique whined. “If you can’t get that thing off his neck, Malcephalon, then—”

“He can’t wear it forever!” Malcephalon cut in angrily. “The moment it comes off, he will pay dearly for that old hag’s cheek.”

“Well, he’s not likely to wear it into his morning shower,” Eurodia said. “Why can’t we just come back then?”

“What!”
Malcephalon snarled. “Leave him here unguarded all night so the Creator’s cheat can come steal him away for good? Are you mad?”

“Who suggested leaving him unguarded?” Eurodia sniffed. She waved contemptuously at Williamson. “If anything happens, our security camera here just squeals and we’re back in a snap, right? So why hang around and watch the child sleep?”

It was too perfect! Trying to sound offended, Williamson whined, “You guys can’t just leave me here alone with this thing he’s wearing. It’s not
my
fault we’re in this mess, and what if—”

As expected, Malcephalon whirled to face him in a rage. “
You dare assign blame here, worm?
If we tell you to watch, watch you will ’til Hell freezes, or you’ll grace our dinner table for as long! Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Williamson whimpered, silently congratulating himself.

“See ya in the mornin’,
bug.
” Tique smirked and vanished.

“Watch well, fool,” Malcephalon warned. “Hell’s master is as close to fury as I have seen him in an age.” Then Malcephalon vanished with the others.

Williamson glanced at the digital clock glowing beside Joby’s bed. Seven hours ’til dawn. There might just be time if he could force the boy’s hand quickly. With a smirk, he began humming at the walls, extending his modest little lure down into the building’s filthy bowels.

Joby was grudgingly tickled from sleep by a feather-light touch on his bare shoulder. Reaching up to brush it away, his hand found something brittle
that wriggled frantically under his fingers. With a jolt he was awake, swatting in revulsion at his shoulder as he threw the covers off and leapt up to slap the light switch. In the sudden glare, he saw the cockroach scuttle through a crack beneath the floorboard.

Joby sat down heavily on the bed, nursing a hellish head rush, and looked at the clock. Nearly midnight. Vowing to seek employment as an exterminator himself in the morning if his sleep was not quickly retrieved, Joby reached up, turned off the light, and settled hopefully under his covers again.

Only then, lying in the darkness, did he notice the soft, sporadic tapping sound. At first, he thought it might be rain on the windows, but it seemed to come from too nearby. He got up again, went to the doorless jamb that separated his sleeping quarters from the kitchen, and reached through to flip the light switch just inside. As illumination flooded the room, he jerked his hand back with a gasp, and stumbled back in horror.

Roaches rained from the ceiling, swarmed across the countertops, and scuttled across the kitchen floor in frenzied retreat from the light. Joby leapt back farther, looking down in alarm at his bare feet, then around the pantry space in which he stood. For some reason the incomprehensible invasion seemed confined to the kitchen despite the absence of any door to hold it there. He had no intention, however, of waiting around to find out how long this fortunate condition would persist. As he’d struggled that evening with Mary’s advice about Taubolt, Joby had kept wishing for some kind of sign to guide him. Well, if this wasn’t one, he didn’t know what was. Holding her yarn charm against his chest with both hands, he knew Mary had been right. He had to get out of here! Now!

After yanking his clothes back on, Joby grabbed the duffel bag he used as a suitcase from the pantry cupboard he used as a closet, cramming as much of his warmest clothes inside it as would fit, glancing periodically at the kitchen doorjamb. After one last look around the pantry, he grabbed his newly recovered storybook, and shoved that in his bag just as a roach scuttled down the pantry cupboard door, and free-fell to the floor. Joby whirled to find several more insects scuttling from their kitchen stronghold. As he’d feared the tide was starting to advance.

He dashed into the living room and looked around. His rent was due in less than a week, and he had nothing to pay it with. In truth, there was nothing here he really wanted that much anyway. Jogging into the bathroom, he shoved his toothbrush and a few other things in with his clothes, then fled
his apartment without looking back.
Let the roaches have it all,
he thought. It felt almost good to be so free.

Half an hour later he was standing at a sodium-lit freeway on-ramp with his thumb out. Despite the hour, or maybe because of it, it was hardly any time before a small blue compact pulled over and waited while he ran toward it with his bag. Joby pulled open the passenger door to find a young man with dark, curly hair, and coffee-colored eyes grinning at him from behind the wheel. “Where you headed?” he asked.

“Up the coast,” said Joby. “But I’d be happy just to get across the bay for now.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day. That’s where I’m goin’.”

“Across the bay?”

“Up the coast.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I don’t kid ’til after eight
A.M
.,” the guy said. “Where to on the coast?”

“No place you’ve heard of,” Joby answered. “A place called Taubolt.”

“No shit!” The driver laughed. “That’s exactly where I’m headed!”

“No way!” Joby said. “No friggin’ way!” He laughed, throwing his bag in the backseat, and climbed in. “God! I ask for one little sign, and now I’m livin’ in the tabloids!”