The Exorsistah

by Claudia Mair Burney

  THE EXORSISTAH

  THE EXORSISTAH

  CLAUDIA MAIR BURNEY

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead,

  is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Claudia Mair Burney

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books trade paperback edition July 2008

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Designed by Jamie Kerner-Scott

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Burney, Claudia Mair

  Exorsistan / by Claudia Mair Burney

  p. cm

  Summary: Seventeen-year-old Emme Vaughn, a homeless girl who can see demons, has a chance

  to do God’s work by assisting a disgraced priest, a nun, and handsome Francis Rivers in performing

  exorcisms, but must first battle her personal demons, lack of discipline, and teen hormones.

  [1. Demonlogy—Fiction. 2. Demoniac possession—Fiction. 3. Exorcism. 4. African Americans—

  Fiction. 5. Christian life—Fiction. 6. Clergy—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7 .B92857Exo 2008

  [Fic]—dc22 2008004564

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6133-0

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-6133-1

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4165-6171-2

  To Gina Reed

  With great love

  And these signs shall follow them that believe;

  In my name shall they cast out devils.

  —Mark 16:17

  I hate demons.

  A dang-gone demon kept me from eating my French fries.

  I’d spent the whole day cleaning Kiki’s house from top to bottom, and after all that, sat in her kitchen peeling enough potatoes for an army. My black babydoll T-shirt and Apple Bottom jeans sagged on my body like all my diva had forsaken me. My hair hung in knotty, dread-like ropes down my back. I looked a hot mess, but I didn’t mind. ’Cause I was gon’ have a spiritual experience with my fries.

  As I watched them browning to golden perfection I threw my hands in the air and raised the roof just because they smelled so good.

  I dipped the spatula in the skillet and turned the fries over, then tapped off the excess oil to a beat as hot and poppin’ as the grease. I ain’t gon’ lie. I did a lil’ booty shaking, imagining myself in a pair of supah-bad kick-butt diva boots I saw at Briarwood Mall. Prada. Black and fine as me. Calfskin luxe, with a kitten heel short enough for me to kick some butt in—or run if I had to—and still look fly. I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d trade my black leather Timberlands for something so fantabulously glamorous.

  I was about to put the spatula back into the grease when the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. The room chilled in an instant, a twenty-degree temperature drop filling the kitchen with a weighty, suffocating cold. My lungs contracted like I had asthma.

  I don’t have asthma.

  You know how Spider-man has spidey-sense? Well, I’ve got demon-sense.

  I turned around real slow—I wasn’t in a hurry to see what had crept into the kitchen. That’s when I peeped Kiki’s husband, Ray, leaning against the door, leering at me.

  Now Ray ain’t no joke. Tall, brown, and round in the middle like a teddy bear, only nobody wants to cuddle with him. Not as big as Kiki—who weighed in at 510 pounds—but I didn’t want to rumble with him. He’d stuffed his hands inside the pockets of his Dockers. His wide girth strained beneath a white T-shirt. Eyes looked all crazy, and a demon the size of a Hummer trailed behind him.

  And all I could think was, Dang! That’s a big’un.

  Now I was used to seeing the freaky lil’ demons that always floated around Ray, but this one had to be twelve feet long. Blood-colored with a human-looking face. It had wings extending four feet on either side of its crimson-and-black body. I looked closer and saw the details of an intricate black design covering its back—almost like a beautiful tattoo. Its tail curled like a live wire around its round, paunchy body. I watched it slither past Ray then rush to the ceiling, writhing and baring its yellow fangs like it was trying to smile at me.

  Dang! I just wanted to eat! I hoped against hope that that thing and Ray would leave a sistah to cook her fries in peace.

  Nope.

  It wanted to play with me. Shoot, so did Ray. The demon stuck its forked tongue at me, and every time it did, its stank breath pummeled me like a fist.

  If you want a good reason not to go to hell, demon funk is a fine choice—well, that and the whole eternal damnation and separation from God thing.

  The demon presence wasn’t my only problem. Ray kept inching toward me lickin’ his lips like he was ’bout to use ’em.

  I balled up my fist.

  You don’t know me like that, Ray.

  I may not be able to physically knock a preternatural being upside the head, but I could bust flesh-and-blood Ray in his. Emme don’t play no more. I’d had enough of brothas pushing up on me like I asked for it.

  And I hadn’t had any food!

  Ray had better back on up.

  All the while, I had to make sure I kept up with the spawn of Satan. I swiped another glance at it and it winked at me, then did a little shimmy with what I supposed was its hips. Finally it zoomed over to hover behind Ray’s head.

  I hate a show-off, especially a demonic one.

  The demon snaked its head out and whispered something in Ray’s ear. I didn’t think it was asking directions to the nearest herd of pigs, either. Ray must’ve liked whatever it said. He gave me the once-over. Again. Bared his teeth. Then the demon peeked around Ray’s head and called me the “b” word!

  Hold up!

  Don’t nobody break on me like that, and for sho’ not a punk, useta-be angel.

  I rolled my shoulders back, straightened my spine, and stood my full 5′11." The demon turned around, showing the intricate design wrought on its back.

  Like a fool I stood there staring at it. The velvety blackness on its back seemed to shimmer. It looked almost animated.

  Shoot!

  That thing could have incapacitated me as I stood there gaping at it! Mama use to tell me Satan could appear as an angel of light. And I’m falling for that demon trick of trying to distract me from battle.

  I put my hand on the black onyx rosary beads my mother gave me before they took her away. She never taught me how to pray with them, but they comforted me anyway. Sometimes, when I touched them, I could hear her voice saying, “Pray for us sinners now, and in the hour of our death.”

  Shoot. This looked bad for me.

  I couldn’t do any serious spiritual warfare with Ray tryna molest me. Yeah, I could rebuke the demon, but Ray looked ready to get his swerve on, a very human condition.

  Clutching the crucifix hanging from my rosary, I felt the same sweet Jesus my mama kissed so many times before she prayed laid out on the cross between my fingers. That�
�s how I put my courage on. If the Lord could hang his broken body on a cross, I could tell a demon in my friend’s kitchen to bounce in His name.

  I shouted, “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus!” to ol’ lusty butt—the demon, that is.

  It winced. So did Ray, but neither of them left. Ray stepped closer to me. I knew it was a matter of moments before that man reached out to touch me in a sho’ ’nuff dishonoring way. I tried to push him away. Tried to stay calm.

  I didn’t want to start scrappin’ with Kiki’s ol’ man. Even though Ray had violated a sistah, I wanted to be respectful. But like I said, Emme don’t play.

  Finally I yanked the crucifix over my head and thrust it toward the demon, which wasn’t easy with Ray in my personal space. I’d try one more time before I started whuppin’ heads.

  “I said, I rebuke you! Get outta here in Jesus’ name, or you gon’ get your unholy butt beat. Do you hear me? I said, in Jesus’ name.”

  Ray laughed in my face. “Girl, that cross ain’t gon’ do nothin’.”

  “Jesus will!”

  The demon recoiled and slunk away, its red talons drawn up and tail tucked into its wide hide.

  Ray acted like I hadn’t said a mumbling word.

  He backed me up against the stove so dangerously close to the flame beneath the skillet I wondered when I’d catch on fire. Even though the demon had gone, I still needed help.

  Think, Emme—like you’ve got on diva boots.

  The hot oil.

  I could burn him. It’d be self-defense.

  My heart pounded against my rib cage like a convict in jail banging on the bars to escape. I let go of the crucifix.

  “The fries are burning. I gotta turn ’em off.”

  I gotta turn you off, too, I thought.

  He moved back enough for me to turn around, and I reached for the knob and twisted it to shut off the gas flame. The grease—still looked hot enough to do some serious damage. I could picture him melting, fries sticking to his seared flesh.

  I’m sorry, God. But I can’t take no more. I gotta do this.

  Gingerly, I grabbed the handle of the skillet with my bare hand. It felt hot, but not so much that I couldn’t handle it. Fear gnawed in my gut more than hunger did.

  I moved the skillet, maybe a half an inch. Rage stormed inside me. The acrid smell of burnt French fries hung in the air, mingling with the sulfuric stench the demon had left behind.

  Ray ran his hand down my arm.

  “You betta stop, Ray. Now.”

  “Why, baby?” he whispered in my ear. “I been thinking about you.”

  Let’s just say that made me burning mad.

  Fry him, Emme.

  Kiki called from upstairs. “Is something burning, honey?”

  I wanted to shout, “Your husband is and will be,” but what I yelled was, “Sorry.” And I was.

  “She’ll wait,” he said. “Especially for food.”

  His dis of my girl offended me. “Back up off me before you get hurt.” The mix of dread and anger, coiling in me like a snake, created a volatile combination.

  An inner dialogue started inside of me. You’ll go to Juvenile Hall if you hurt him, girl.

  They’ll have to find me first.

  Leave him be, Emme.

  Dang. I didn’t want to do that.

  Ray must have lost patience with me. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he sneered, “You’re a pretty little black thing.”

  My mind zeroed in on the word black. Growing up, the kids use to tease me about my skin color. Said I was so black you couldn’t see me at night. Or if I went to a funeral I wouldn’t have to put on clothes. Ray’s comment churned with theirs, making me even madder.

  He slid a hand around my waist. “Come on, let me take care of you,” he said.

  My mind darted back to the first time he’d said that. I thought he meant something else. Since I never had a daddy, I wanted to believe Ray could be a substitute one. I thought he might be different than the other men, that maybe I’d be safe hiding with him and Kiki until I aged out of the foster system. I had a little more than a month left. Then I could stop hiding, and we’d all be happy.

  Dang!

  Ray tried to kiss me. For a moment I couldn’t move. First of all because Ray’s breath was worse than demon funk. But more than that I hated the fact that I’d been in this predicament more times than any sistah should have to be. In foster home after foster home. On the streets. With a lust demon hovering overhead or not.

  Ray said, “I’ll give you some money.”

  Like I was a hooker?

  “Okay,” I said to get him off me. I had my chance. All I had to do was pick up the skillet and stop being a victim.

  Only I didn’t think the Lord wanted me to fry a brother.

  We wrestle not against flesh and blood.

  But since flesh and blood touched me inappropriately, I gave Ray something to remember me by: a swift elbow to the neck that left his ol’ nasty self hacking and coughing.

  I bounced.

  The lust demon had, hopefully, gone back to whatever hell it came from, and Ray would no doubt think twice about pushin’ up on Emme Vaughn—if I ever saw him again—which I probably wouldn’t. Problem solved.

  But that left me with my next dilemma. Where the heck was I gon’ to go now?

  I was officially homeless.

  Again.

  Dang!

  Three o’clock in the morning, and I was standing in the book aisle at Walgreens reading a stupid bestselling book called The Demon Hunter. I still looked like the “Queen of the Damned,” only not as good as Aaliyah did in the movie by the same name. I doubt she had grease from fries she didn’t even get to eat splattered on her clothes.

  But Walgreens stayed open twenty-four hours. It gave me an alternative to wandering around Ann Arbor in the middle of the night. Even though The Demon Hunter—written by some dude named Hayden Roth—was ridiculous, reading it helped distract me from what went down at Kiki’s.

  No customers slogged around the store at that hour. Just me. The non-customer. The only other people in the store were two employees: the manager and a squirrelly white dude who seemed like he was too young to work anywhere. Boy cashier looked all of twelve years old, with a shock of dark hair sprouting right out the middle of his head. Harry Potter glasses. Afraid-of-the-dark timid-looking. Took all I had in me not to yell “Boo!” and watch him catapult toward the ceiling. Who hired him to work the midnight shift? It was beyond me. Not that he actually worked. Real labor might have interfered with his reading time, and I’m not talking enriching, educational reading, either. No, boyfriend stood a few feet away from me with his face buried in the latest issue of the National Enquirer.

  The manager kept disappearing for long periods of time behind a set of double doors that led to God only knows what or where. Shoot, I just assumed he worked since managers are supposed to do that. Dude’s skin suggested he needed a Bahamavention or something that involved sun, lame recreational activities, and fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.

  I could stand a Bahamavention myself, only make my drink virgin, ’cause Emme Vaughn imbibed not the fruits of the vine. It’s not good for a sistah to have her perception altered. Ever. What happened at Kiki’s house was proof enough that somebody would always try to exploit you if they think they can get away with it. Unfortunately, most haters think they can.

  Hunger twisted my gut. “That big freak made me burn my fries,” replayed in my head like a glitch in a CD, over and over.

  I should have grabbed a National Enquirer, too. Instead I tormented myself by reading Hayden Roth’s new release.

  People read this madness everywhere. According to the back of the book the New York Times called Roth “America’s Scariest Writer.” I wanted to call him something, too, and it wasn’t “America’s Scariest Writer.” But I’d have to repent for that, and I had enough to talk to God about as it was. Like where I was gon’ live. And why He let ol’ trifling, nasty Ray pu
t his hands on me.

  I tried to get into the novel, even if it was whack. I could tell by the arrogant tone of the book that Roth hadn’t seen any demons for real, because if he had he wouldn’t be writing fairy tales.

  I wanted to rip that so-called demon hunter book to shreds and tuck its feathery remains behind the romance novels. Fluff up the love books. What the world needs now is love sweet love. My mama used to sing that song.

  I was mad at Mama, too! Why couldn’t she have faked it like I did? Told the people in the hospital what they wanted to hear? We would have a little apartment or something now. And we’d have each other.

  I turned my anger back on Roth’s book. Sneered at it.

  Shoot. Let me get a book published. I sho’ wouldn’t write about demons. I’ve been seeing the foul things since I was five years old.

  But if I did write about demons, I’d call it The Demon Huntress. I’d bring it. My junk would be live. The New York Times would call ol’ Roth “America’s Fakest Writer.”

  “Pow, demon!” I said out loud, doing a Karate-chop move with my hand.

  Poor National Enquirer Boy sucked in his breath and dropped the tabloid, his face even whiter than before—if that was possible.

  Guess I startled him. I tried to offer him some reassurance. “I was just daydreaming. It’s cool.”

  He scooped up the Enquirer and skittered away like a roach when somebody turns on the lights.

  I turned back to the books and magazines, imagining The Demon Huntress on the racks with the others. New York Times bestselling, fierce action novel with the beautiful protagonist, Emme Vaughn—diva in kick-butt Prada boots, whuppin’ all kinds of devil head.

  In Jesus’ name!

  I kicked one of my black Timbs into the air.

  Yeah right. Like homeless high school drop-outs get to be published writers. Dreams seemed pretty useless. I thought of the Langston Hughes poem Harlem, the one that starts out, “What happens to a dream deferred?” In the poem, he doesn’t answer his own question. I wondered if Langston left the answer to our imaginations so maybe we’d keep dreaming despite our messed-up situations.