Body Surfing

“I’m that good.”
    He floored it then, and the car squealed into traffic.
    Both Mogran were so focused on each other—Leo in triumph, Jasper in horror—that neither saw the tiny Prius pull from the shade of a large maple and follow the stolen Sunfire down the road.

8
    J .D. Thomas noticed Q. was rubbing his temple again.
    “I think I’m gonna puke.”
    The antique limousine glided north on the Taconic State Parkway. Though the psychiatrist’s eyes never left the road, his attention was focused on the boy in the passenger’s seat. Q. had been nursing his head since they’d left Manhattan, and the doctor was starting to worry.
    “You’ll be fine, Q.”
    He glanced at the speedometer. Fifty-seven. He was impatient, but he had a charade to maintain. He eased his foot off the gas the tiniest bit, brought the car down to fifty-four.
    “I feel nauseous. Isn’t that a symptom of a concussion?”
    Rolling green countryside flashed by the Pierce-Arrow’s windows: a red-tailed hawk spun delicate spirals through the clear blue sky. A perfect day for a hunt.
    “Even if you have a concussion, your body will heal it. As the huntress said, Leo made you strong.”
    “I don’t get it! Why would she do that? Lock you up, knock me out? If she was going to ditch us, why not sneak away in the middle of the night?”
    “Ileana—” The doctor broke off as a car honked and sped past them.
    For the first time Q. took his hand off his head. “Look, if you want me to drive…”
    “Now now, Q. I’m no Dale Burnheart—”
    “Earnhardt.”
    “No Dale Earheart, but my driving skills are more than adequate.”
    The ancient limousine shuddered in the wake of several trucks hurtling past them. From the corner of his eye, the doctor saw Q. check the security of his seatbelt. He considered his words carefully. The boy could be a valuable tool in the coming struggle—impervious to possession by Leo, and Jasper’s best friend besides—but only if he considered the doctor an ally. And, if Ileana perished during the course of capturing the two demons, he was the Legion’s best hope for a new hunter. The doctor needed Q. to think of him as a friend or, better yet, a doddering but lovable uncle.
    “As I was saying. Ileana has reason to distrust gatherers. Her previous partner, a man named Alec Wilson, was killed by a gatherer who tipped his hand to a Mogran, and was possessed as a consequence.”
    Q. had closed his eyes and was rubbing his head again. The doctor frowned but kept talking.
    “Alec was unique as hunters go. Indeed, he was distinct as a host as well. His body had served as home to the demon Leilani for an astounding sixty-seven years. When Leilani finally took her leave, Alec’s mind retained extraordinary amounts of information. His testimony expanded the Legion’s knowledge of the Mogran’s history and behavior by more than fifty percent, and gave us more than a few clues into secular history as well.”
    Q. snorted. “Testimony? Did you have him on the witness stand?”
    “Not exactly. With Alec’s help, we developed a series of techniques involving psychotropic medication and neurolinguistic programming to get as deep into his subconscious as we possibly could. Some of the procedures were not exactly pleasant for Alec, but he understood that the information Leilani had left in him could serve as the Legion’s best weapon against the Mogran. In fact, it was Alecwho gave the Legion its first real understanding of the patterns of frenzy and lull.”
    “But wasn’t he, eighty? Ninety? I can’t imagine some old grandpa chasing demons all over the world.”
    “Do you remember the genealogical tables from the bible? ‘And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred ninety and five years.’ ‘And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years.’ ‘And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and—’”
    “Okay, I get it. But you don’t actually believe that, do you? I mean, the Jesus freaks don’t even believe that stuff. Do they?”
    “The bible has suffered from a deeply politicized canonization process and innumerable botched translations, but it remains a remarkably accurate historical document. With a little investigation—a little interpretation—you can find the truth behind most of what is written there. Some of the more arcane statements can only be taken on faith, of course, but once you know about the Mogran, you can forgo superstition and go straight to