The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant

by Joanna Wiebe

  With a small sigh, Star sets it back on the table next to the printer. “Then, if you’ll permit me,” she says, “I recall your incantation from our years together. I can share it with you.”

  “That would be a lifesaver.”

  She sees me smile, and she beams. Her teeth make sharp little points and her eyes crinkle into thin slivers that glow yellow. But, that aside, she looks happy. A happy demon.

  “I heard you say it a thousand times, Master. But I mustn’t utter it,” she says. “Don’t want to turn to stone.”

  Holy crap, turn to stone? Even if Gia was a decently humane underworld leader, she seemed to have a few screws loose. No sooner do I think that than my head starts to throb. That’s the downside of empowering Gia: I’ve found myself sharing more and more of my private thoughts with her.

  Star grabs a sheet of paper, scribbles on it, and, with the deepest bow, offers it to me. Thanking her, I take it and leave her with her eyes still downcast.

  Feeling closer than ever to saving Ben, I dash up to the fourth floor of the library, the only place I can be alone to think. Problem is, I’m not alone. No sooner have I opened the door to the chilliest place on campus than I see Ben and Garnet walking toward the stairwell where I stand, dopily squinting at them. On instinct, I whip my incantation behind my back.

  “Stalking your ex, Miss Merchant?” Garnet asks me.

  I can’t help but look at Ben even though everything in my mind screams not to let on that I have feelings for him. My little plan is not so flawless that Garnet, on looking closer, couldn’t figure it all out. She would only have to ask Kate Haem and Eve Risset if they know why Ben Zin hates me so much, and that would be that. But even still. Even still. I look at him, and in doing so I risk blowing everything. It’s just that I so rarely get to see Ben up close like this. I need to soak this moment up, to capture it mentally so that, later, I can close my eyes and remember him. Rapidly, like a camera shutter on overdrive, I memorize his face. I don’t need to memorize his eyes. I already know them down to the lightest, smallest fleck.

  “Not exactly.” I step aside for them to leave.

  She doesn’t budge, even as Ben hurriedly walks by. I want to breathe him in.

  “That’s a beautiful cashmere sweater,” she says to me.

  My stomach knots. Oh, shit. It’s Ben’s! I glance between Garnet and Ben.

  “Um, yeah, it’s old,” I say.

  “I know it is.” Garnet’s face is red as, catching me off guard, she shoves me against the door. “Take it off. Now.”

  “She’s not worth it,” Ben tells her.

  “Yeah, but she needs to know that,” Garnet says and pushes my shoulder again. “Do you know that, Merchant? Do you know that you’re nothing and no one? Have you got a clue, you poor little screw-hard?”

  My skin tightens. I can feel Gia rising, but I push her down. This will all be over soon enough. Stopping behavior like this is the reason I’m here.

  “I’m not sure what a screw-hard is,” I say.

  Realizing I’m not going to fight her, Garnet scoffs, flips her hair, and joins Ben by the stairs.

  “Come on, baby,” she says as she takes Ben’s arm. “I never liked that sweater.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Ben says. I just catch the last words he utters before they disappear around the bend: “I don’t know why you’re insecure about her at all. She’s not even pretty.”

  I close my eyes.

  And breathe.

  And almost abort this whole mission. But I push past my wounded ego and step into the cold library.

  Rewriting Ben’s history and Garnet’s history takes longer than I’d expected. There are so many moments I need to erase and replace. My hand is cramped and it’s dark out when, at last, I light one of the many matches Ben and I have stored up here over time and, watching a flame consume their rewritten histories, recite my incantation:

  Omnia peccata in saligia

  Cum omnibus vitam saligia

  The paper burns until its glowing blackness reaches my fingertips. I place what little is left in my palm, give it a little blow to reignite the flame, and watch the significant moments in my history with Ben and with Garnet get reduced to ashes.

  “Done,” I say to myself. “Ben will forget me now. And Garnet will forget Ben and I were ever together. Everything we had and did never happened. They’ve been together all this time.”

  I walk to the window overlooking the quad and see, far below, Ben and Garnet kissing deeply. He kissed me like that on a few occasions, but he’ll never remember it.

  I press my palm to the window.

  “I’m not done yet, Ben. But it’s a good start.”

  THAT MONDAY MORNING, an unusually happy Garnet greets us in our morning workshop. Everyone seems to notice the improvement in her disposition, but none of them can attribute it to me. I wait for Harper to clue in—to realize I’m behind this—but how could she know? I also wait for her to mention my hairbrush, but she doesn’t.

  The day passes slowly. I’m anxious to see Pilot, get a tally on how many people he’s convinced to serve Gia, and move on with visiting the next staff member on my list. I just want to get this all over with, but classes and acting normal keep getting in my way.

  “You haven’t asked about Paul,” Molly says to me as we pack up after Superbia’s most recent discussion of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

  “The guy you gave the smartphone to?”

  “We went for a long walk together.”

  “Oh. Cool,” I say, my mind elsewhere.

  “Nice, Anne. Your interest in my life astounds me.”

  Ugh! Acting normal when I have so much on the go! If only I could tell Molly. If only I wasn’t 190 percent positive she’d flip on me and judge me into the ground for exploring my inner demon.

  “That sounded bad,” I say and put my book bag down, giving her my full attention. She’s quick to forgive. “So, you and Paul.”

  “Not really.”

  “But you just said!”

  “He’s cute. But I don’t think there’s anything serious there. I’m just having fun. You should try it.”

  “Well, he’s a senior with four months left to live,” I remind her. “You might not want to get too attached.”

  She zips her bag. “And you might want to read a book on sensitivity.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say in exasperation.

  She ignores me and leaves the classroom just as Superbia calls my name. I reluctantly meander to the front of the room.

  “Did you get a haircut?” Superbia asks me. “It’s a bit of a botch job.”

  My hand goes straight to the spot Pilot cut. For the briefest moment, I wonder if this is Superbia’s way of telling me she’s on my side now. My gaze darts to her clavicle, exposed in her boatneck sweater. But she’s still wearing Dia’s tattoo; she’s not mine.

  “If I were you,” she says, “I’d make sure no one important notices.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Are you enjoying the Wilde book?”

  I nod.

  “What’s your favorite line?”

  In the corner of my eye, I watch Molly walk away with a freshman just as Pilot and Harper appear at the doorway. They’re waiting to talk to me.

  “Miss Merchant?” Superbia repeats. “Your favorite line.”

  “I—I don’t have one.”

  “But there are so many!” She tsks. “For example, ‘Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth.’ Do you like that one?”

  “I guess, sure.”

  “Do you understand what it means? Do you see how, perhaps, it could apply in your life?”

  Pilot is coughing to get my attention.

  “Not really.”

  “Your PT is to look closer, is it not, Miss Merchant?”

  “It is. I will. I’ll
look closer. I’ll read that whole scene again tonight and look really, really close. Now, I’m sorry,” I say, excusing myself from Superbia. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Harper and Pilot loop their arms through mine the moment I enter the hallway.

  “What was that about?” Pilot asks me, flicking a glance back at Superbia.

  “My PT, I think. And something about sin showing on a man’s face. Not sure.”

  They walk me to the cafeteria, where we find a quiet table overlooking the gray ocean. I set my book on the table.

  “Why’re you reading that?” Pilot asks.

  “For English class,” Harper answers on my behalf. “Superbia assigned it.”

  “Interesting.” He turns the book over in his hands while I rummage through my backpack. “She was always your biggest supporter. Rumor is she wept when you left the underworld.”

  “Superbia did? What’s that got to do with this book?” I ask.

  “Not up to me to say.”

  “You’re my follower, Pilot. Can’t I, like, command you to tell me?”

  “Superbia ranks above you and me. I can’t tell you shit about her or that book she’s making you read.”

  “Wait,” Harper says. “Pi, did you or did you not tell me that this Saligia chick ruled the seven deadly sin ladies?”

  “Yes, but Saligia gave Superbia and her sisters to Mephisto when she left the underworld. Now they’re Dia’s. It doesn’t matter who they serve, though. All that matters is that they don’t serve Anne now and they’re higher ranking than most of the demons here combined.”

  “Then let’s build my followers already and see if we can’t change that.” I find my mom’s barrette, the very one I tried giving Harper the other day, and set it on the book. “Let’s start with this.”

  Harper looks at the barrette. “I’ve given your proposition some thought.” She glances at me. “Does your offer still stand?”

  “You’d have to serve me, Otto. You couldn’t act like you’re helping me. You’d have to see it as me helping you.”

  “I know.”

  “Then my offer stands.”

  “I’ve got one condition before I stuff this ugly-ass comb-thing in my hair,” she says, holding the barrette. “If you’ve got so many followers, and they’re demon-types, summon one now.”

  She and Pilot sit back in their chairs.

  “You want me to dance for you. That’s not how it works.”

  “Because you can’t do it?”

  “This isn’t the movies, Harper. This is real.”

  “Summon. Someone.”

  “Harper, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  She crosses her arms. “I don’t want to serve a chick who can’t even get creative when the time comes.”

  “Well, what would you do if you were me?”

  “I’d use detangler, for starters.”

  Pilot chuckles. Some servant.

  “Do you want a life or don’t you, Otto?”

  “Try—try drawing someone,” Pilot suggests. “That’s your thing, right? Drawing?”

  “Well, she thinks that’s her thing,” Harper says.

  “This is exactly the sort of BS talk you’ll have to give up.”

  “Only if you summon someone. Now.”

  “Draw someone,” Pilot says. “Try it. And say your incantation.”

  If I screw this up, Harper’s gone and my hope for an instant human fanbase is gone with her. But if I get it right, she’ll buy into the plan and I’ll have a new uber-useful skill under my belt.

  So I unscrew the lid from the salt shaker and empty it onto the table. I push the salt around until I can see an outline of the face of my soft-hearted follower Star Wetpier. When Harper and Pilot both guess who it is, I decide it’s time to try. I mutter my incantation under my breath. Harper clears her throat, and even Pilot can’t sit quite still.

  A wisp of white smoke snakes between the tables. We notice it just as it nears ours.

  “Either the deep-fryer’s overheated,” Harper says.

  “Or this is working,” Pilot finishes.

  The smoke weaves our way and stops in front of me. It slowly takes the form of a human. In moments Star is kneeling before me, her head bowed. She asks how she may serve me.

  Harper’s mouth drops open.

  “I’m in,” Harper says. She pushes the barrette under her hair and arranges it so you can’t see any of my blonde under her ginger. “Let’s begin, Master.”

  twenty-one

  ‘T AIN’T NO SIN

  IN THE WEEKS AFTER HARPER AGREES TO HELP ME, I FEEL stronger and more like Gia, like the opposite of the timid girl raised in a funeral home. My heart is racing almost constantly now, my mind is more focused, and I feel like I could run thirty-minute marathons from dawn to dusk.

  When I’m in Dia’s office for our Saturday session, I feel more in control of our interactions than I ever have.

  Last night, I just lay in bed the whole night, plotting what I’d do today, watching Molly snooze across the room, and feeling like I might never need to sleep again. I’m getting my energy from all the students who’ve committed themselves to Harper and all the underworlders that Pilot, who’s remotivated by each new addition to our team, has brought on board. Still no Seven Sinning Sisters, but that’s for the best anyway. At lease I’ve got a solid collection of the more common demon-types around here.

  The only thing is that I haven’t actually done what I know I need to do.

  I’ve been putting off the acts that I don’t think I’ve got the stomach to do. The cruel stuff. Like walking into a room and torturing a demon. Star Wetpier was easy—no cruelty required. I’ve got a sinking feeling the others won’t go quite so smoothly. I’m actually going to have to hurt some people to get them to use their powers for me.

  The torture starts now.

  Like, right now.

  I can’t put it off another day.

  It’s April already—Ben’s only got so much time before he’s on the chopping block. Time for me to twist a few arms, and then some. To work up the courage, I down a half-dozen espressos. Pilot pats my back like he’s the coach to my boxer. We’re sitting in the cafeteria, with sunlight flooding the room through the enormous windows overlooking the shoreline, where the seniors are enduring the first of Dia’s feats of strength: very simply, balancing on one foot on a pole in the water. Last man standing gets the gold star.

  “Think of it as a feat of strength,” Pilot says. “You need to win more followers. Bend them to your will.”

  Pilot doesn’t know that I’m currently stalking Miss Vale Tuefurre—a Dia follower—because I need her to help me with Ben. He can’t know that. I sit next to him. Watch Vale chop vegetables in the cafeteria. Chew my nails. Shake away my nerves. Glance out at the water, at Ben balancing uncertainly on a post. And stand.

  Pilot locks the door to the cafeteria.

  I march toward her.

  There’s no turning back now.

  I’m here to torture her to get her to do what I need her to. Vale Tuefurre: reveal future.

  Vale doesn’t even see us coming. One second, she’s chopping carrots into coins; the next, Pilot is muzzling her, and I’m on her back, wrestling her. I do it all without apology. The Scrutiny challenge taught me not to apologize.

  Vale is no small lady, so the struggle is ugly and anything but dignified. She’s slippery. She almost darts away, but Pilot catches her arm and tugs her back. She reminds him that he’s crossing a line because he’s lower-ranking than she is. But I’m not. So I take her from Pilot. I scramble to tug her arms behind her and shove her against the counter, and I command Pilot to help me lift her onto it. He pins her long enough to let me crawl up and over her.

  “Commit to it, Anne,” he demands when he sees me blanch.

  “I am.”

  But I’m not. It’s just so twisted. I can feel all her bones shifting under me as she writhes around. And she keeps snapping her sharp little teeth at me. It hits me t
hat I might not be built to pin demons and force them to work for me.

  “This is how things get done in the underworld,” Pilot reminds me. “She likes pain.”

  Windows wrap the kitchen and sit flush with the countertop. The window behind Vale’s head is open. So I tell Pilot to help me shift her, and soon she’s crying out with her head dangling out the window. Her neck sits on the windowsill.

  She stops cursing me and instead stares in terror as I grasp the window sash high above her throat. I don’t apologize, but I do close my eyes when I bring the window down on her throat. Her cries garble. Oh, God, I can’t bear the sound. I have to force myself to stay on her, to keep the window down, and not run off freaking out. I dare to open my eyes again.

  Her eyes are bulging.

  I can’t look.

  “Yes, Anne, exactly,” Pilot encourages. “But really put some muscle into it next time.”

  “I don’t think I can, Pi.”

  “You can. Even if you have to think about something else the whole time. Even if you have to think about, like, art or something.”

  Vale’s fleshy throat is constricting beneath the window sash. I lift it just enough that she can scream, but that draws the eyes of a dozen Cania seniors, including Ben, balancing on ever-shrinking perches in the ocean not far from us. They see me straddle the screeching chef, and they watch me tug down the sash until it pushes divots into her neck. Her scream is cut short. Her throat can’t move. Everyone who was watching looks away one by one. Even Ben, out on the water, looks away. Because looking closer is a fool’s errand.

  I remind myself that this is all for Ben. And, suddenly, I can manage the task. Putting a demon through hell is practically easy when I think of it that way.

  “Pilot,” I say, “go watch the front door.”

  “It’s locked. Don’t worry about it.”

  I swivel to glare at him. Saligia must be starting to come through because I don’t even need to say another word. He leaves us to do as I commanded. And I turn back to Vale, who’s shaking like the bacon she fries every morning.

  Think about art, Pilot said. So I do. But I think aloud.

  “The Scream is so overrated, isn’t it?” I’m not even sure Vale can hear me from that side of the window. “It’s too literal. The man is screaming.”