The Power: Berkeley Blackfriars Book Two Page 3

  “Some of them are Christians.”

  “None of them are here against their will. Also, have you seen any blood yet?”

  “I’m not watching, remember?”

  “I haven’t seen any blood, and I’ve been to plenty of these.” Susan was beginning to sound exasperated.

  “Someone is going to get hurt; it’s fucking karate.”

  “Ah hate when you get them shriveled black peanuts!” Dylan shouted his complaint. “There should be a ‘bad-peanut-exchange’ booth.”

  “It’s not karate,” Terry corrected her. “It’s aikido.”

  “Same diff,” Kat said dismissively, turning the page.

  “Different diff,” Terry insisted, but then he was on his feet again, whistling and shouting as the crowd stirred to life.

  “Oh God, you could have warned me.” Kat punched Susan’s arm.

  “That right there,” Susan said, rubbing her arm, “that’s violence.”

  “This man is crazy,” Kat breathed, barely audible beneath the shouting of the crowd.

  “What man?” Susan asked.

  Kat pointed at her newspaper. “This governor, Ivory. Did you see this? From Michigan. He’s talking about bombing Dearborn.”

  “Whaaaaat?” Susan said, looking over at the paper. Kat held the paper so she could see the headline: Governor Vows to Obliterate Michigan City. “What’s that about?”

  “It’s an anti-Muslim thing,” Kat said, turning the page to skim the rest of the article. “You know, Dearborn has the highest concentration of Muslims in the country.”

  “Yeah, so?” Susan looked worried.

  “So, he’s talking about…here, listen: ‘You’ve got to eliminate the rot at the root,’ he says.”

  “That’s folksy,” Susan called. “He’s not serious, though. He can’t actually be talking about bombing an American city. It’s a stunt.”

  “It’s gotta be,” Kat agreed. “But there’s a lot of people taking him seriously. Here’s a Catholic archbishop who’s ripping him a new one, and the senior rabbi of Temple Shek…I can’t pronounce it. Anyway, some high Jewish muckety-muck letting him have it. They’re not saying it’s a stunt.”

  “It’s a stunt,” Susan pronounced. The crowd roared. “Did you see that?” Susan slapped at Kat’s shoulder.

  “I’m reading,” Kat said loudly in an annoyed tone.

  Terry turned on her, “Look, Miss Faints-at-the-Sight-of-Blood, your boyfriend is up next, and we’re here to support him. You can’t do that hiding behind your newspaper.”

  “He’s going to get hurt,” Kat complained, turning another page.

  “We’ve been here two and a half hours, and no one’s gotten hurt yet!” Terry yelled over the crowd. “That’s the whole idea of aikido!”

  Kat rolled her eyes. “I thought it was karate.”

  “In karate, the goal is to hurt your opponent,” Terry corrected her, his voice containing an edge of exasperation. “In aikido, the goal is to keep anyone from getting hurt at all.”

  “What kind of martial art is that?” Kat asked, her face bunching up in incomprehension.

  “The kind that doesn’t like violence and tries to prevent it,” Terry said. “Something that you should approve of.”

  “Wait, how does that even work?” Kat asked.

  “Okay, see that guy in the far corner?” Terry pointed.

  “The fat one, old guy?”

  “Yeah, him. He’s the attacker; he’s called the uke.”

  “As in ukulele?” Kat asked, raising one eyebrow.

  Terry ignored her. “It’s his job to try to hurt the other guy, the girl, there. She’s called the tori.”

  “Oh my God!” Kat squealed. “That is a girl! She’s small. She’s going to get creamed!”

  “Just watch,” Terry said. “It’s her job to take the energy of her opponent and deflect it so that it doesn’t do any damage to anyone. Aikido is the art of compassion for your attacker. You don’t hurt him, but you don’t let him hurt you, either.”

  “So, how do you win?” Kat asked.

  “Well, you win here by scoring points. But in a street fight, you win the fight when your attacker gets tired and gives up.”

  Kat sat up straighter on the bleachers. “That’s kind of fucking brilliant.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to tell you.”

  “And Mikael is good at this?” she asked, a newfound awe coming into her voice.

  “He’s a black belt,” Susan affirmed.

  “Why don’t I know all of this?”

  “I don’t know!” Terry shouted back. “Maybe because you put your fingers in your ears, shouting ‘la-la-la-la’ every time the subject comes up.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do so.”

  “Pig.”

  “Jackass.”

  “Weasel.”

  “Capybara.”

  “Oh, good one,” Kat said, grinning. “You win.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, guys, hold up,” Susan said. “There’s Mikael.”

  Dylan and Terry both leaped to their feet and started screaming and whistling as Mikael entered the floor. His shock of unruly black hair made a dramatic contrast against his white, pajama-like gi.

  “I’m afraid to look,” Kat said, burying her face in her paper.

  Terry snatched the paper from her and threw it under the bleachers.

  “Hey!” Kat protested.

  “Oh, grow a pair of fucking ovaries!” Terry shouted. “This is your boyfriend. You can stand to watch for the next five minutes.”

  Kat slunk down and crossed her arms, pouting. But she watched. The crowd eventually settled down and took their seats again. Kat felt a rising anxiety as she saw Mikael approach his opponent. Then another person stepped out onto the floor. And another.

  “Wait!” Kat shouted, “that’s three against one!”

  “Yes,” Terry answered. “It’s called randori, multiple attackers. It’s the category Mikael is competing in today.”

  “Oh shit. I remember him using that word, but I didn’t know what it meant,” she said into Susan’s shoulder. “This is fucked up.”

  “He’ll do fine,” said Susan, patting her shoulder. “I hope.”

  “Oh thanks,” Kat said. “Oh my God, look! They’ve got sticks!”

  “Yeah!” shouted Terry. “Aikido was designed originally to defend against sword attacks with one’s bare hands. The sticks are vestigial of that.”

  “TMI,” Kat said, batting Terry away. She held her breath.

  Mikael bowed to his opponents and then stepped back. Like lightning, however, he lunged toward the first attacker, who threw a punch at Mikael’s face. Mikael dodged to the left, met the man’s fist in the air with his open hand, and guided it past his body, throwing the man off balance. The uke rolled away and got to his feet again.

  By that time, Mikael had turned toward another uke, a woman about twice his weight. She punched at his chest, but his hand was quick, deflecting the blow up, her hand shooting over his head instead. At the same time, his elbow caught her on her collarbone. Mikael yanked at the deflected hand, still held firmly at the wrist, twisting her counterclockwise as she fell.

  “Oh my God!” Kat shrieked. “He’s really good!”

  “That’s what we’re telling you!” Terry called back, not taking his eyes off the tournament floor.

  Kat could scarcely look away, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Dylan wrestling to fish his cell phone out of his pocket. She looked over as he put it to his ear and saw his mouth form the word, “Hello?”

  She looked back to see Mikael throwing another opponent end over end. He landed with the sound of root vegetables hitting a kitchen counter. Dylan stood up in his seat, but he was the only one. Kat looked over and saw the look of alarm on his face.

  “What is it?” she called.

  “Gotta go,” he said, pocketing the phone and starting to climb down from the bleachers. “It’s Dicky.”

  2

/>   BRIAN SLID a tray containing a freshly thawed turkey in the oven for a long, slow bake. He closed the door and straightened up—as straight as his hunched back would allow—and breathed deep in satisfaction. He knew his housemates would return from the tournament excited and famished, and Mikael would be ready to eat half the turkey by himself.

  Tobias scratched at the door and barked.

  “Stay out there!” Brian called. “You’ll just be bored silly if I let you in.” A few dishes were scattered across the table, left over from breakfast. He smiled the weary smile of a man whose work is never done, and placed his earbuds in his ears, starting up this week’s Kabbalah Today podcast. He carried the dishes to the sink for a quick rinse before placing them in the dishwasher. As he ran a glass under the water, he caught a yellow flash out of the corner of his eye.

  “Hey, what are you doing in here?” he said to Tobias, his hands on his hips. Tobias wagged his tail and barked once, loudly. As the rabbi on the podcast began to chant his ritual opening, Brian wrinkled his brow and went to investigate the screen door. The latch worked fine. He looked at Tobias. He looked at the latch. He looked at Tobias. Tobias barked. “How did you…?” he said, but then he waved it away. “Probably didn’t latch right when we came in this morning,” he said out loud, as much to himself as to the yellow dog.

  Tobias barked again and stood at the door.

  “Crazy dog, you just wanted in!” Brian complained.

  Tobias looked at Brian, and then at the door. He barked.

  “No,” Brian said and leaned against the counter with his arms crossed.

  Tobias barked, more insistently.

  “No,” Brian said again, more calmly. Then he cocked his head as he watched Tobias approach the screen door, rear back on his hind legs and, fumbling at the handle with both paws, scratch down the screen as he fell forward.

  “Hey, don’t damage the screen!” Brian shouted at him.

  Tobias reared up and once again fumbled at the handle with his paws. This time, however, he triggered the button, and the door swung open with force as he fell against it.

  “Well, I’ll be damned…” Brian said, incredulous. He followed Tobias into the backyard. Tobias led him to a spot near the back fence and barked, nudging at something with his nose. Brian saw nothing but matted grass.

  “What? What are you barking at?”

  Tobias looked back and forth, and barked with what seemed to Brian was frustration. The dog tried another tack—he ran over to where a large, framed mirror was propped against the house, near the back door.

  “What’s this?” Brian said, picking it up. The rabbi in his earbuds was explicating the gifts of Binah, so he did not hear the tiny voice calling for his attention. “I must have missed this coming in this morning,” he said, looking from the in-law cottage he shared with his partner, Terry, to the back door of the old farm house the order called home. “Pre-coffee, don’t you know?” he said to Tobias. Tobias barked once, and apparently satisfied, he stood by the door, wagging his tail, waiting to be let in.

  “Um, I’ve got my hands full,” Brian said to the big yellow dog. He held up the picture frame. He waited to see what Tobias would do. To his amazement, the dog reared up, felt at the handle, and swung the door open. Then he wedged his body in the crack and stepped sideways to open the way for Brian to go in.

  “Fuck me,” said Brian, stepping up into the house.

  3

  WHEN DYLAN ARRIVED at the Oakland boarding house where Richard was staying, he found a gaggle of people standing out on the lawn. Some of them looked panicked, some of them frightened, some merely concerned. When their eyes lit upon Dylan’s robust form, the double breast of his black cassock flapping in the breeze and sweat streaming from his brow, some of them glared as if he were somehow to blame. Who knows? he thought. Maybe I am.

  “Ah’m Father Dylan, Richard’s order mate. Ah got a call. Can someone tell me what’s wrong with him?” he asked breathlessly. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. No one said anything to him, but one woman pointed up at the steps of the slightly dilapidated Victorian.

  “Uh…okay, thanks,” Dylan said, and made for the steps. Huffing and puffing, he made the landing. The door was wide open, so he knocked to be polite, paused a few seconds, but then went on inside.

  Around a corner he caught sight of three people standing outside a door, stock still. “Hah, Ah’m Father Dylan Melanchthon, Richard’s number one. Is somethin’ wrong with Dicky? Ah’m a little—”

  A man about ten years younger than Dylan put a finger to his lips, cutting him off. A young woman of about twenty, slim with red hair, stood with her ear to the door, her eyes wide. The other woman was closer to Dylan’s own age and degree of plumpness. She looked scared.

  Dylan froze and listened. A loud “thump” sound came from the room. “What was that?” Dylan asked, concerned.

  “We don’t know,” the older woman replied. “But whatever it is, it’s hitting the ceiling. The neighbors are out on the lawn, fit to be tied. It’s been going on for an hour and a half now.”

  “How long between bumps?”

  “It’s not regular,” the younger woman said, her ear still plastered to the door. “But every couple of minutes. Sometimes less. Sometimes more.”

  Dylan looked at the young man and pursed his lips. “Is this Richard’s room?” he asked. The man nodded. “Do you have a key?” Dylan asked. The man shook his head. “He padlocked it from the inside.”

  “Shit,” Dylan said. “Waal, with yore permission, Ah’m just gonna break the door down. Is that all right?”

  The young man exchanged looks with the two women, and they reluctantly agreed. “You his roommates, then?” Dylan asked. They nodded.

  “All right. Well, stand back—this may take a few tries.”

  Dylan backed up as far as he could to get a running start. He pushed off the far wall and aimed his shoulder at the far right edge of the door. He heard a crack and felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder.

  “Was that you or the door?” the man asked, wincing.

  “Ah’m hopin’ it was the door,” said Dylan, rubbing at his shoulder. For once, he gave thanks for his ample weight—it seemed to cushion him from the worst of the impact.

  Dylan backed up and took another running start. He hit with even greater force, and a visible crack appeared in the door.

  “Ahhh!” Dylan shouted, and shook out his arm. “Motherfucker, that hurt!”

  “Are you supposed to swear?” the younger woman asked, eyeing his cassock with suspicion.

  “Don’t Richard swear?”

  “Yeah, like all the time,” she said, her eyes shifting from side to side. “That’s weird, too.”

  “Nah, we’re in the same order. Cussing is part of our charism,” Dylan said. He backed up again for another run.

  “What’s a…charism?” the young woman asked.

  “It’s a gift,” Dylan said, concentrating on the door.

  “Cussing is a gift?” she looked confused.

  “Some people got it, and some people don’t,” Dylan said and launched himself toward the door.

  The door swung open and cracked against the far wall as it hit. Dylan danced around, yelling, “Shit motherfucking passion of Christ!” He rolled his arm around in its socket but soon turned his attention to the room. It appeared to be empty. Dylan looked around, confused. The shades were drawn, and water damage streaked the plaster walls. A mattress lay on the floor, covered only in a fitted maroon sheet. He looked back at the door where the three roommates stood peering in. They were looking up, their mouths gaping open. The younger woman looked down at Dylan and pointed up, above his head.

  Dylan looked up, and there was Richard, floating in the air near the ceiling. A blanket hung off his body, and a bicycle helmet was firmly strapped to his head. Dylan watched as the body lowered slightly but then floated upward rather quickly, Richard’s helmet colliding with the ceiling with a loud, ominous �
�thud.”

  “Aw, shit, not again,” Dylan said, his hands on his hips.

  The older woman stepped into the room, cautiously approaching Dylan. “How?…What?” She looked down at him. “What are we seeing?”

  “Uh…yer seein’ a guy, like, a floating guy”—Dylan looked from side to side like a trapped rodent—“with a fine grasp of helmet safety.”

  “How is he…How does he do that?”

  “Waal, he isn’t, actually.” Dylan turned to the young man. “You’n gotta broom around here?”

  The man peeled his eyes away from Richard and in a few moments threw a broom from the doorway at Dylan. Dylan missed it but picked it up from the floor. He held the broom over his head and guided Richard until he was floating just over the mattress.

  “Uh…okay, Duunel. Enough’s enough,” Dylan spoke to the demon sharing Richard’s body. Richard had been hosting Duunel for nearly six months now, ever since they had foiled the plans of a local tycoon to eliminate all children, dogs, and avocados from the face of the Earth. The demon had taken up residence in an innocent little girl, and Richard had persuaded it to inhabit him instead.

  “You let him down, right now,” Dylan continued, “or you’re gonna be one sorry-assed hellspawn, and I ain’t lyin’. Richard has a deal with you, but I sure as fuck don’t. Drop him. Now.”

  Like a sack of bruised plums, Richard fell onto the bed. His mouth was open, and a snore emitted from it like only those with sleep apnea can manage.

  “Now you let him wake up, you shit-for-brains snake!”

  Richard’s eyes snapped open. “Dylan,” he said, looking around, getting his bearings.

  “Dude.”

  Richard sat up and unsnapped his helmet. “You broke my door.”

  “You got the whole neighborhood out on the lawn talkin’ ’bout poltergeists.”

  “That’s not good.” Richard rubbed at his eyes. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Yer damn tootin’,” Dylan agreed. “And a doobie for mah nerves is what Ah’m thinkin’.”

  4