Chapter 1

With her heart beating fast and furiously, and her legs sprinting underneath her, Jean Marcato raced through the streets of Asmodeus.

Don’t stop, she told herself, whatever you do, don’t stop. Just keep kicking up your heels and breathing in the air and running like the wind. If you stop…

It means certain death.

She tried not to think about dying—being doused with gasoline, lit on fire, beaten with chains, or boiled in scalding water. She wouldn’t mind dying if it were quick and painless. Death would mean that she could be with her mother, with Jesus Christ and with all the saints, in a place where she would never be hungry or thirsty again.

Keep running, she thought, don’t look anywhere but straight ahead. If you look into the eyes of the hordes of people walking aimlessly along Avenue Kinshasa, they might guess what you’re fleeing from. They might come after you, looking for a reward.

She kept going past Liberty Market, past the Ville Ebone, the Boulevard der 66, past the 13 story Halloweena building, past the Hotel Global, past the Avenue Belphegor, past the post office and the commercial stores and the municipal offices.

Pretend you’re running in a marathon in America—in that land far away where children are expected to go to school and people who hurt children are put in jail. I’ll be the first to finish the race and everyone will cheer me on and chant my name. I’ll get a trophy and a lot of money, then I’ll come home to my own country, and I’ll use my power and my fame to change things.

She thought she heard someone screaming at her. She didn’t answer.

She just kept sprinting past the beggars in the street, past the half-finished cinder block compound that called itself a church, past the children covered with scabies and biting fleas, crying for their mothers who would never come home, past the cheap hotels, the night clubs, the discos, past the soup kitchens, the street vendors, and errand boys.

Past the city, onto the dirt road leading to her aunt’s hut.

Just three kilometers to Beelzebub, she thought, I can do this.

She could do it, even though her breath was coming out in spurts of great big gasps now. She could feel the hole in the bottom of her unlaced sneaker growing wider and she was covered in sweat. When she ran, her arms brushed against her body, and she stank so bad that she was feeling nauseous and sick.

Two more kilometers to go. She could manage that with her eyes closed. She had practiced lots of times while her mother sat on the ground and watched as Jean flew back and forth and her mother counted the seconds so Jean would go faster and faster.

Jean had to go faster; faster than all the crazy people who might be chasing her.

She was too young to die.

She was fifteen years old.

One mile to go and then she would be safe. Her aunt would help Jean. She would give her something to eat, even if it was just rice and water. Jean would hide until she was older and stronger. Somehow she’d find work and she’d save every penny. She’d go to America.

If they didn’t catch her first and electrocute her.

She was almost there. She could see her aunt’s hut in the distance. The door was partially open. Her aunt would be happy to see Jean because she loved Jean’s mother, who had been her baby sister.

Jean started to slow down, her steps smaller and more deliberate, catching her breath moment by moment.

I’m safe, she thought, thank you, Jesus.

Jean had no way of knowing that her aunt had died three days earlier.