by Joanna Wiebe
That’s not true.
But it will sound like the truth.
“So what do you want me to do?” I ask. “How do I get them to stop following me?”
Dia sighs with relief. I’m sure he thinks the reason he’s weak is because I’ve taken so many of his followers. But I know better. His strength won’t return when they do.
“They are connected to you by your hair,” Dia says faintly. “It’s what I’ve always loved most about you.”
Hiltop lifts a pair of shears from the mantel. They glint.
“Cut it off. Now. All of it.”
twenty-six
SAMSON
THE SMELL OF BURNING HAIR SEEMS LIKE IT MIGHT HAUNT me forever as I balance myself against the front doors of Goethe Hall and tell myself that what I feel now, this listless and faint energy I have, is normal; it’s what everyone feels; it’s what I used to feel; I’ll get used to it again.
Behind my eyelids, I see myself standing in Dia’s office, before one of his many mirrors, and holding Mephistopheles’ shears. They made me do the cutting. Mounds and mounds of my blonde curls fell to the ground. Dia called Invidia into his office and had her shovel my hair into the fire. I felt the powers of my followers leave me immediately, like Samson must have felt after Delilah cut his hair.
Hiltop was pleased.
Invidia did not look displeased. I always sensed she’d be the hard nut to crack of the Seven Sinning Sisters, given her history with Gia and Dia.
Dia looked healthier after my hair-chopping, but not by much. When Hiltop and Invidia left, Dia seemed surprised that I’d have the willingness to sit and work more on his portrait, but with the unveiling in two days, I had little choice. I told him he still wasn’t allowed to see the painting. But recognizing my new weakness and the futility of my commands, he tore the sheet off it. At the sight of his own beauty, captured in ways only Oscar Wilde, Molly, and I could imagine, he staggered backward and clutched at his chest.
“It’s as if you’ve seen every side of me,” he said, wistfully letting his fingertips hover over the oil smears, the coal smudges, the faint watercolor, the raw edges of torn photos, and the lines of my thick pencil. “It’s genius.”
“But don’t you think…” I let my voice trail.
“Don’t I think what?”
“That it’s not wholly you. It needs to be the greatest version of you ever made, something even better than your real self. Something even more beautiful to you than the purest soul.”
“But how?”
I gave it some thought. Or pretended to.
“Leave it with me,” he said, still transfixed by his own image. “And then you must meet me tomorrow—”
“You’ll be busy getting ready for the party tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes! Right. Okay, then meet me Saturday, just before the unveiling, for the final strokes.”
I agreed and left him to spend the night wishing he could be as beautiful as the sight he saw in the painting. He knows that beauty is impermanent. But he forgets that my gift has always been to cast souls from one object to another. I can only imagine that Superbia has been trying to tell me how to destroy him since the day she held up a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray for our class.
As I walk across the quad now, I expect people to point and laugh at my newly shorn hair. My wild, enormous hair and the strength I felt, the prideful ways I used to strut, are gone, hobbled.
But nobody points and nobody laughs.
Yes, they stop and notice my jagged haircut, the longest pieces of which are no more than an inch in length. But it’s as if they know why I did it, that it wasn’t by choice, that everything here is an act of sacrifice. Seniors, juniors, sophomores, and freshmen alike see me, drop their eyes, and raise them again to shrug or half smile or do whatever gesture it is that best expresses in that moment just how powerless we are here.
Molly says, “Oh, girl,” when I swing open our door.
The news of my changed appearance spreads fast. Harper comes storming in just minutes later and stops short. Plum is right behind her. I am sitting on my bed, rereading Faust—my eyes are on the line “Des Chaos wunderlicher tochter,” which Teddy quoted to me back in September—as they stare at my shorn head and abruptly leave.
Molly says everything she can to convince me I’ll rock this look. It’ll grow on everyone. Short hair is totally in. And it suits my face.
“My mom used to braid my hair,” I say to her.
“Well, I’m sure your mom would do awesome stuff with your short hair, too.” She snoops through her makeup bag until she finds a pair of eyebrow scissors. She sits me on a chair in the middle of the room, throws a towel down, and starts flipping through some of her celebrity magazines for inspiration. The snipping begins. “You’re gonna rock this look—trust me.”
“They did this to take away my followers.”
“I remember a time when severing ties seemed like a crazy idea,” she says, “but it was for the best.”
“You mean with Ben.” I want to believe this is for the best, like severing Ben’s ties to me was, but I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel like I did then. “We were so close. I almost got Dia, you know? You should’ve seen him today—he was so weak looking. And he told me I already had four of the Seven Sinning Sisters serving me. Four.”
“Who’s to say they don’t serve you now?”
“They need to be adorned with a marker of mine. That was my hair. When I used Meph’s shears to cut it off—well, I felt the energy leave my body, Mol, so I think that’s that.”
“But if they love you, they’ll want to serve you.”
“They can’t love me now that I’ve let two devils get the better of me. I’ve shown weakness.” The collateral damage of this battle: “I won’t be able to help Harper or Pilot get a new life.”
“They’ll be fine.”
“They’ll hate me.”
“So it’ll be like it used to be,” she says as she searches for pomade.
“I can’t end Dia now,” I say. “Not without Saligia’s ability to cast souls around.”
“Who said you don’t have that power anymore?”
She’s right. I’m still Saligia inside, even if my followers are gone.
“Look,” she says, “you’re almost done with Dia’s painting, right?” She waits for me to nod. “Then you can do what you told Teddy you’d do. But, Anne, before you try to take down an underworld leader, can I say something?”
Her pretty, fiery gaze magnetizes mine. I nod.
“Are you sure you want to destroy Dia?” she asks me. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to do any of this. Trust me.”
I’m about to answer when, behind her, Harper and Plum appear in the doorway. They wield a selection of scissors, a nylon stocking, and a box of hair dye. They’re not smiling, but they don’t look like they’ve come to stab me, either.
Molly turns to see where I’m staring.
“We got a common enemy,” Harper drawls. “They do that to your hair?”
“They said I had to get rid of my followers. This was how.”
“We felt it happen,” Harper admits. “Knew something was wrong.”
“What’s all that stuff for?” Molly asks them.
“If we stay up all night, we can make a wig,” Plum says.
“A gnarly-colored one, unfortunately,” Harper explains. “My red hair and y’all’s dark hair. We’ll dye it afterward.”
“Jet black,” Plum adds, waving the box of hair color. “So edgy.”
Molly’s fist goes straight to her mouth; she swivels away. When she looks back again, her eyelashes are wet with tears.
“That’s really nice of you,” I tell Harper and Plum. “But I couldn’t possibly take any of your hair.”
“Bobbed hair is the next big thing, Merchant,” Plum says.
“It’s so generous, but I’m going to wear this short cut,” I say with a small grin, which vanishes when I give Harper my full atte
ntion. This is not going to be easy. Better just to say it, which I do: “Harper, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to give you a new life.” I watch her swallow, unblinking. “I know that you’ll tell Garnet the truth now. I’d ask you not to, but I’m not in any position to ask you for anything, least of all mercy on Ben Zin.”
It’s so still in the room, I’m sure they can hear my heart beating. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. One thump for me, one for Saligia. The fainter one for Saligia.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
Harper sticks her hand out, and Plum puts a tube of lip gloss in it. Still watching me, Harper drags the gloss across her lips and hands it back to Plum, who does the same.
Without a word, she and Plum leave.
“They’ll be fine,” Molly says. She’s never sounded less convincing.
It’s three in the morning before I finally fall asleep. Tomorrow, Harper or Plum will tell Garnet that I fixed and manipulated things to get a second life for Ben. That I used her, and she didn’t even know. That Ben’s feelings for her, if they exist at all, are based on a demon’s spell. I wake a half hour later. And stay awake until dawn, when I drag my butt out of bed and hope to see Harper in the bathroom, getting ready, so I can plead with her to protect Ben.
But she’s not there.
Stiff with dread, I stumble to our morning workshop, the last of the year. Garnet is standing at the front of the room with Augusto; they both notice my pixie cut and drop their chins. My whole body clenches when I see, standing behind Augusto and waiting for their chance to talk to Garnet, Harper and Plum. What are they gonna say to Garnet? Are they going to do this now, right in front of me?
I sit at my easel. Just on the edge of the stool. Put my bag down. And stare at them intently, willing them to be kind.
Harper’s face is blank, but Plum’s eyes are narrow little slits, glaring at me.
Just make it quick, I think and bury my face in my hands. How did this all fall apart so completely?
Augusto huffs away from Garnet, who turns to Harper and Plum. It looks like Garnet asks them what’s going on with my hair, because she speaks first, and tries to be subtle when she points, and they all turn to me.
I hear Garnet say, “Gosh, what would possess her to do that?”
Harper and Plum turn their backs to me. And then it happens: they begin talking to Garnet. I watch it like a car crash in slow motion. I watch Garnet lean in to hear better. I watch her head tilt, her eyes narrow. She glances over Plum’s shoulder at me, and then back at them. She nods. Raises her eyebrows. Puts her hands on her hips.
This is it. Sorry, Ben. Sorry, Zin family. I tried. I really tried.
At once, Garnet claps her hands to settle the room. As we quiet down, she settles her gaze on me.
“Harper, Plum,” Garnet says, “tell the class what you just told me.”
Are they gonna announce to everyone what I did? Why can’t anything bad at Cania just happen quickly? Why does it have to be dragged out like torture?
“We wanna let y’all know,” Harper begins, “that Anne’s portrait of Headmaster Voletto will be unveiled this weekend at the Cania College grand opening celebration, hosted by your very own Social Committee.”
“Which is led by us,” Plum tacks on.
“Well, it’s led by me, but Plum’s a fine-and-dandy vice president.”
“We’re co-chairs.”
“Anyway,” Harper says irritably, “let’s put our differences aside and cheer on one of our own, okay? This Saturday. After the Big V ceremony.”
A small, perfunctory round of clapping takes Harper and Plum to their seats.
I’m not sure what just happened.
Did that really happen?
I don’t think I breathe again until, as I’m cleaning up my workstation after class, Harper saunters by and elbows me in the side.
“I should hurt you for lying to me,” she says. “But, y’see, you actually did help me. Not the way you promised to, no. Not even close.” She flares her nostrils. “That said, I’ve gotten pretty good at collecting followers.”
“You have.”
“And I’ve got a hunch Superbia and her crew don’t like serving Dia Voletto much, do they?”
“I don’t know.”
“So they’re ripe for the plucking.”
“Hold on.” I stop to figure out how to put this. “Are you planning on seeing this through on your own?”
“I’ve learned to do what I need to in order to survive. This is no different.”
“This is playing with fire, Harper. Not just any fire. The kind that comes from Hell.”
“I can play the game. Just keep out of my way, Merchant, and I won’t make you or your boyfriend pay.”
PILOT IS NOT quite as forgiving—if you can call it that—as Harper. Luckily, Pilot doesn’t know that I’ve been twisting things to help Ben, so he doesn’t know he’s got a card to play. He only knows anger and hate and stomping around like a spoiled brat. Which I silently endure.
“Why did you give us all up?” he asks. “Why?”
He’s wearing Mephisto’s pin again. A punk or demon in the underworld is asking for trouble without the help and protection of a master. I wonder if my other followers went back to Dia, Mephisto, or any of the underworld leaders. I’ve been avoiding them all, especially the Seven Sinning Sisters, who keep showing up everywhere and just looking at me. I suppose I could take four of them back and, when Saturday comes and goes—when I prove I’m not weak after all—add the remaining three to my ranks, even though Teddy said to avoid them. I could give my followers a new token of my dominance, do the whole thing all over again, maybe even start doling out lives. But for what? To start a war I don’t want any part of? To risk Mephistopheles hurting my dad this time or going after the Zins or destroying every vial in Valedictorian Hall and on the yacht just to punish me for challenging his position?
I can’t.
I won’t.
I’m not ready for that.
“They were threatening my family,” I tell Pilot. In a way, they were.
“But now we’re back to square one! Except for my dumb promotion.”
“Your what?”
He shrugs. “I’m a demon now. Yippee. Sammie M. Firestone— that’s my new name.”
“Well, you got to keep ‘Stone,’ sort of. That’s good.”
“Even got a power,” he grumbles.
“It’s not the power to vivify, by chance?”
“That’s not even funny.”
“Hey, there’s still the chance we can win the Big V.”
“Even if we changed your PT to the skanky one, you’d never pull it off with that haircut.”
I leave him slamming doors and hitting walls. And I run, in the dusk, back to my room, where Molly has laid out options for what we can wear to the graduation party at Dia’s tonight. Everyone’s going to be there. I don’t even care that it’s at Dia’s—he can’t keep me from enjoying myself anymore. He and Mephisto have had enough power over me.
Molly has laid out three pairs of shoes on my bed. Her name is written in all of them.
“My feet are the same size as my mom’s,” she says with a laugh. “Get over it.”
“What goes better with super-short blonde hair?” I ask and hold up a sparkly, long black camisole and a silvery dress that’s fitted like a corset. She points to the silver dress. “Own my badassness, right?”
She tosses me a pair of strappy heels. “Exactly.”
The road to Dia’s is filled with so many people, you’d hardly believe there are only 200 students at Cania. Molly swivels her arm through mine, keeping us locked together. Around us, most of the seniors are resigned to their fate, and now they’re ready for the last— in some cases the first—party of their lives. We’re going to do what it takes to give it to them.
The crowd spreads out across the Zin lawn, flows in and out of the front door, trickles through the porte cochere, and wraps around the back, where the first of many fi
reworks displays are well underway, brightening the sky and shedding light on the dramatically changed southern half of Wormwood Island. Gigi’s cottage is gone. It’s been replaced by a thin patch of green grass and animal-shaped shrubs that wall off Dia’s lands, creating a fence, on the other side of which is the vast, seemingly endless campus of Cania College.
Molly tugs me toward the gated entryway of the new school.
“It’s really something, isn’t it?” Molly whispers to me. She’s seen it already in her many visits to her gramps’ inlet. “Better than Cania Christy.”
“Way better,” I agree.
I press my face between the bars of the wrought-iron gate, which is flanked by red brick pillars and topped by a decorative iron symbol. It could be the entrance to Brown University. Pavestone walkways connect a series of stone buildings, some columned, all of them timeless, that lead to a cathedral-esque main hall. The lights are on in a building made just for visiting parents; in classic Cania form, not even the mothers and fathers of graduating seniors are allowed to connect with their kids until the morning.
I stare at the too-familiar campus.
“I’ve seen it all before, Mol,” I say. “I memorized these buildings on an admissions pamphlet my mom got me.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know?”
“It’s obviously a replica of Brown.”
It is. And something tells me it’s designed like this not to torture, and not to tempt me, but as a message to me: this is my destiny. Mephisto won’t let me escape; he thinks I’ll always come back to him. It seems I’ll never be free until Mephisto is gone—so why did I agree to kill Dia first? As I stare at the college Dia will lead, I know he’s got darkness in his heart, but I can’t help but wonder why I narrowed my focus so quickly from Mephisto and Dia to just Dia. Now that I think about it, it seems sortuv nuts to destroy Dia alone tomorrow. When he goes, a whole slew of demons are going to be looking for new masters fast. I should be ready to swoop in and destroy Mephisto before he takes every lost demon and becomes entirely unstoppable. Why didn’t Teddy and I think of that?
