Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  “Hhhhhhssssssssssss,” the demon growled as she spat out a hunk of Julep’s hair.

  From the corner, Itzy saw the unmanned elevator panel blinking sedately. She edged her way along the back wall, the small of her back pressed hard against the handrail. I’ll call for help, she thought. There’s a phone in that panel, and I will call for help. She thought of Wold, and her Aunt Maude lying dead in a steamer trunk, and knew there as no one to call.

  With trembling legs, Itzy forced herself forward, avoiding the beige uniform of the operator, the golden tassels and embellishments on his uniform stained with dark matter.

  Luc, she thought. I’ll call Luc.

  Julep Joie was wrapping her Hermès scarf tight around the demon’s wrists and ankles. The transformation was instant. The demon ceased her struggling, a limp and vapid secretary once more. The superstar staggered to her feet, wiping something sticky from her boot onto the secretary’s pantsuit.

  “You’re out of practice,” Pompadour said, jovially. He had his elegant hands around the neck of the blind man, who struggled with silent strength.

  “And your hair’s ugly,” Julep spat, feeling her scalp.

  They looked at the wreckage from the battle in the small elevator as Julep nursed her wounds. “This is nothing,” she said. “I just got back from the Congo. You should have seen the mess I made there. They’re getting more brazen with the Divah’s arrival.”

  The blind man struggled, guttural words foaming from his mouth.

  “And then there was one,” Pompadour said, lifting him off his feet with one hand.

  The elevator creaked as Itzy inched along the wall. The panel was in reach. A small recess held a familiar beige phone; she could just see its curved handgrip, the tangled coil of cord. As Itzy reached for the phone, though, the elevator gave one final groan and hurtled downward, sending Itzy reeling. The small beige phone jangled loudly in its recess, the noise filing the elevator.

  “Shall I finish him off?” Julep was saying, unperturbed by the new developments.

  “He’s all yours.”

  “Ever the gentleman, Gaston.”

  “Wait, I have a better idea—”

  Itzy reached for the phone. Her stomach was in her throat as she answered it. “Hello?”

  “Miss Nash.” It was the familiar, melodious voice of room service.

  “Y-yes?”

  “What can I do for you this afternoon?”

  Itzy looked around at the inconceivable scene before her.

  “I—uh. I could use some help.”

  “No doubt, Miss Nash.” The voice was sympathetic. “Do you see the panel before you, Miss Nash?”

  Itzy looked at the blinking numbered buttons wildly. “Y-yes.”

  “There is a red button. Do you see it—in the recess beside the phone?”

  “No—I, uh. Yes! There it is.”

  “Press that button, Miss Nash.”

  “All right—”

  “Oh, and Miss Nash?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hold on.”

  Itzy pressed the button and the elevator’s descent ended in a screech of metal on metal, and the next thing she knew she was on the floor in a heap, the lifeless face of the operator close enough to kiss. Nope, she thought. Not spinach. Rotting meat.

  Pompadour kicked the operator away, looking down at Itzy. His eyes were unreadable. “You. Luc’s girl. You do it.”

  “Leave her alone,” Julep said.

  The mustache vanished, the dark hair too, and Pompadour became Gaston. His wings were dappled brown and tan.

  “Watch, Itzy, and don’t blink,” the angel said.

  Gaston had a mace suddenly, a long rusty ball full of spikes. His fist was tight and his knuckles white. He swung it underhanded from a chain, and Itzy saw then that it glowed a cold, hard blue. The blind man had lost his glasses in the scuffle, and Itzy saw his pale, unseeing eyes, like the underbelly of a snake. And then the mace caught him beneath the chin and he exploded in a cloud of spores, which sifted down upon her.

  Julep brushed brown dust from her hands, shaking a few earwigs from her elegant cuffs. Gaston reached for the secretary, dragging her to her feet by her hair. Her ill-fitting pantsuit clung to her body wretchedly.

  “Do it,” he commanded Itzy.

  Itzy stared at him blankly.

  He kicked at the operator, and something slid across the floor, hitting her foot. The blade from Maurice.

  “Do it,” he said more fiercely. “And be quick about it.”

  “She’s subdued,” Julep pointed out. “We want her at the Institute for study.”

  “No,” Gaston said quietly. “I want to see just what folly Luc has begotten us.”

  Itzy stared at the smallish demon. Her face was blank—gone was the savagery Itzy had just seen. She blinked dumbly, her demon eyes dilating.

  “Slay the demon,” Gaston was saying. “She would not have spared you.”

  “Gaston—” Julep began.

  “She’s unarmed,” Itzy protested.

  Gaston wrenched the silk binds from the demon, slicing them off with a quick flick of his wrist. The Hermès scarf drifted to the floor in pieces. A shrill, guttural shriek issued from the creature’s mouth as she realized she was free.

  “Not anymore, she’s not.”

  In an instant, the mousy secretary transformed into a seething fury and launched herself at Itzy. Hot, bitter breath reached her nostrils and a searing pain arced across her face as a red talon nearly missed her eye. She landed on her back with a thud, the air leaving her lungs. As Itzy felt the elevator spin, her hand closed around something cold. Julep was shouting something in French, Itzy heard, but whatever it was sounded miles away. Gaston’s eyes watched her, his gaze inscrutable.

  The End of Days is nigh.

  Somehow, she was on her feet, swinging the blade with a deadly fury.

  Maurice was right. The blade was sharp. Itzy made quick work of the demon, slicing it open from ear to ear. Dark, oily blood spurted from the gash, sulfurous bile following in sickening spurts. Itzy’s eyes never left Gaston’s, save once: to wipe the blade clean on her Levi’s.

  “Wow, that’s some badass blade,” Julep whistled.

  The last thing Itzy saw before the lights went out were Gaston’s glinting copper eyes.

  79

  The elevator shot upward in the dark. The illuminated panel above the elevator doors ticked off numbers: 28. 29. 30. 31—and then nothing. The little lightbulb sputtered and then expired. We’ve run out of floors. Or numbers. Or both. Still, they sped up.

  “I’ve seen this movie, and I don’t like how it ends. Hell—I’ve been in this movie.” Julep’s voice was calm in the dark. “Gaston—you doing this?”

  Gaston was at the panel, pressing numbers to no effect. Something shattered, and glass rained down upon the ceiling, and they stopped—a clatter of heels sounded on top of them now. Itzy felt the elevator sway with the weight of the new arrivals. An access panel wrenched open above them and blue light poured in, a beam landing in a small square on the floor. Luc dropped down within it, crouching by Itzy.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, a dark urgency in his voice.

  Itzy shook her head.

  His face filled her field of vision. His perfect face—there was worry there, causing his eyes to tighten, which, incredibly, made her flush.

  Vaguely, she was aware of others, too, entering through the ceiling. Wings flashed. And more jostling above. Luc bent over her, protectively.

  “Next time, I’ll take the stairs,” she said.

  Luc slammed his fist into the sputtering control panel and it purred. Itzy felt the elevator descend, slowly, while Luc returned to her side. Itzy couldn’t see Gaston, but she could feel him. The memory of his eyes—his deep, piercing stare—was not likely to leave her soon. She could feel anger coursing off Luc. Fury—at Gaston.

  The doors opened, and more angels gave way silently as Luc and Itzy stepped out onto the eighteenth flo
or.

  He eyed her critically. “You’re injured.”

  “It’s not my blood.” Itzy shrugged. She was a sight. Deep, oily splatters smeared her Levi’s, and her T-shirt was completely soaked through.

  “I was referring to your cheek.”

  Itzy’s hand fluttered to her face where the demon had torn at her.

  “And your rash.” He pointed to her neck, where her Hermès scarf was tied.

  “Seems every time I see you lately, I’m covered in demon gore. I don’t normally smell like this, I swear.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Something about his tone made her skin prickle as a rush of heat overtook her.

  She stood beside several angels she recognized from Maurice’s store—the young, hip photo assistants, talking shop over their espressos.

  “And how’s your day going?” Itzy smiled at them. She was feeling giddy and reckless—not quite herself.

  “Not as bad as yours,” a gray-eyed girl with silver-tipped wings answered. Her hair was long and jet-black with short dark bangs. She appraised Itzy from head to toe, eyes lingering on the blade hanging from her hand. “I’m Virginie,” the angel said, holding out her hand to shake. A black ring was inked on her fourth finger.

  Itzy looked down, surprised to see the blade still in her hand, and sheathed it. “Itzy.”

  “You’re the girl with the Leica,” the angel said.

  “I was. It was stolen.”

  “Oh, you are having a bad day.” Virginie’s eyes softened. “I saw some of your photos—hope you don’t mind. You’re good.”

  “Yeah?” Itzy flushed.

  Luc and Gaston were arguing nearby, a few angry words drifting over to the pair.

  “Don’t let this little bump in the road stop you, okay?”

  “You all work in photography?” She examined the host of Maurice’s angels behind Virginie with a new eye.

  Virginie shrugged. “Angels are drawn to it. We understand the complexities of light. From what I understand, you might know a bit about that, too.”

  Luc had wrenched his arm away from Gaston and was striding back to Itzy. Gaston fell in step behind him, fuming.

  “Boys, boys.” Julep stepped between the two angels, keeping them apart. Luc grabbed Itzy by the wrist and brandished her blade-arm. Streaks of gore were smeared along the underside of her sleeve and her knuckles were skinned.

  “What is this then?” Luc demanded.

  Gaston was silent.

  “One kick-ass weapon?” Julep offered. Luc ignored her, thrusting it further into Gaston’s unflinching face.

  “You should recognize it,” Gaston finally said.

  Luc glared at him, the bitter words on his lips died. Lowering Itzy’s arm, he gently unclasped Itzy’s fingers, which were stiff and numb.

  “You could have gotten her killed, Gaston, cutting that demon loose.”

  “We needed to see what she was capable of.”

  “Satisfied?” Luc growled.

  Gaston frowned. “Hardly—Julep helped her. Started in on the French. Had her flask at the ready.”

  “It was Rimbaud, you savage.” Julep brandished a dog-eared book. “They seem to really hate A Season in Hell, though there was that one in Nepal who would only go down with Camus.” She threw the book at Itzy. “Here, kiddo. Page sixty-one’s a real scream. ‘Night of Hell.’”

  Itzy caught it with her free hand. “Don’t you need it?”

  “Are you kidding? I keep a stack beside my toilet for times like these. Right under my Oscar.” She turned to Luc and Gaston. “I, for one, think the girl did fabulously. You should have seen my first slay—nothing scholarly about it. Itzy—great work. Like father, like daughter.”

  Julep smiled, leaning in, a twinkle in her eye.

  “Go get cleaned up. Next time I see you, I owe you a drink,” Julep said, making quickly for the stairs. “It’s a tradition,” she called over her shoulder. “On your first demon slay.”

  “Something off the children’s menu?” Gaston called. The stairwell echoed with a particularly juicy French obscenity.

  Luc knocked on Ava’s door. The angels were shifting behind them, the dry sound of wings on wings. Their bodies were so close, their wings nearly interlaced, and Itzy felt them brush her skin. The unmarked door swung open, a bright light falling on their faces.

  “Itzy!” Pippa shrieked. “Back from the dead!”

  80

  Pippa pulled Itzy inside, embracing her happily, and Luc followed, leaving Gaston glowering in the hall to guard the door.

  “You’re better! You had us so worried. Ava!” she called over her shoulder. “Ava—you’ll never guess who it is!”

  “You know Ava?” Itzy found herself asking.

  “I know everybody.” Pippa shrugged, marching Itzy into the open room, the bright white of Ava’s suite made her eyes hurt. “I live here! Jeez—what happened to you? You’re a mess.” Pippa crossed her arms. “I’ll run a bath”—she marched off—“and send for some of my clothes. These, we can burn.”

  Itzy heard the water run from down the hall and Pippa soon returned.

  “Is that room service?” Ava’s voice came floating over to them. “It’s about time. Tell them I said to stop burning everything. Tell them I have half a mind to go down there and see what they’re getting up to.”

  “She’s a bit tipsy,” Pippa stage-whispered. And then louder, “No, Ava, silly. It’s not room service. It’s Itzy! Itzy Nash—Maude’s niece.”

  Itzy heard someone fall off the piano stool, followed by some muffled swearing. Pippa shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “She’s been like this all day.”

  Ava stumbled into view, rounding the white baby grand. She wobbled in her heels, deliberately placing one foot in front of the other like a tightrope walker. Her bangles clinked on her lean arm.

  “Itzy!” she slurred. “I knew you would make it through. You’re made of tougher stuff, I said.”

  “Ava was just about to take a nap.” Pippa’s voice was sing-songy. “Weren’t you, Ava?”

  “I was not.”

  “Yes you were. You were going to nap, and I was going to call down to Zitomer’s for those pills you asked for.”

  Ava considered this. She nodded sagely, reaching into her back pocket and producing a flask. She unscrewed it and tipped it into her throat, spilling a clear liquid over her chin.

  “I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Pippa said more firmly.

  “I drink for a reason.” Ava’s eyes narrowed. “It keeps the demons away.”

  The aging star muttered something, and Itzy was startled to notice how old she looked. Her eyes darted around the room with exaggerated alarm until they finally settled on Itzy, seeing her as if for the first time.

  “Itzy Nash?” Ava squinted. “Is that you?”

  “The one and only.”

  Ava snorted. “You look like her, you know.” Ava drew herself up to her full height with the help of the piano, but her elbow sprawled on the polished surface, and she slumped down again.

  “I look like who?” Itzy smiled patiently.

  “Your mother.”

  The room went dead silent.

  A part of Itzy leapt at this news, somewhere behind her rib cage.

  “She does, doesn’t she, Luc?” Ava slurred.

  Luc cleared his throat. “Your mother was a great beauty, Itzy,” he said.

  “Bah—more trouble than she was worth, was more like it,” Ava scoffed.

  “Ava!” Pippa scolded.

  Ava waved away the indiscretion. “Please. Anaïs? We know Anaïs. Tie up your men when Anaïs is in town, we used to say.”

  Pippa made apologetic sounds and tried to guide Itzy toward the running bath, but Itzy shook free.

  “If she set her sights on anyone, she wouldn’t stop until she got him. Married or not. It didn’t matter to her,” Ava spat. “Hard to compete with those angelic charms. I guess when you’re an immortal, you learn certain ways to ma
ke men—”

  “Ava, that’s enough.” A warning in Luc’s voice surprised Itzy.

  Ava blinked at Luc, lost in a memory.

  “Sounds like you have an ax to grind,” Itzy said nervously, looking at Pippa.

  “Or maybe someone’s just a nasty drunk,” Pippa offered.

  Something like a harrumph escaped Ava’s lips and her tone changed. “Your mother stole my husband,” Ava said simply, and Itzy felt herself flush. “Frankie. He was the love of my life, but he left me for Anaïs. And then, in some sort of poetic justice, she left him—on the shores of a lake in Italy. I even offered to take him back—but after Anaïs, he looked right through me.”

  Ava peered again at Itzy, first with one eye, then the other.

  “And here you are. Little. Itzy. Nash. With your mother’s good bones, her gap in your front teeth. But she left you with something else, too, didn’t she? That vague impression of ruin—that feeling that awful things have happened to you at some point in your past, and those things aren’t finished yet.” Ava turned and plodded away. “Maybe that’s what made the men so crazy about Anaïs—they all wanted to save of her.”

  Out the windows behind the aging star, the hulking guillotine was silhouetted against the backdrop of the city.

  “I am not my mother,” Itzy said quietly.

  “No. You are not.” Ava inspected her critically, over her shoulder. “You’re half-angel. A fledgling. The rarest of creatures.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. So few survive.”

  81

  Awful things.

  Awful things had happened to her, she knew. In Brittany, when she was a child. The hearth, the smell of sulfur. But what else?

  She thought about her life with her father. It was quiet, but she liked that. Protected. Sheltered, even. She suffered through school, feeling vaguely alone. From her classmates, she got shifty glances, awkward stares. She hid behind her camera, preferring to see the world through its reliable grid, manipulating her surroundings with a click of the aperture dial. Her classmates kept their distance from her, but she learned to like that, too, for she found friends who were older—her father’s students.

  Suddenly, Itzy felt her father’s absence like a punch in the gut. She missed home, too—that rambling old house full of papers and books, the smell of pipe tobacco and the sound of the old typewriter her father still worked on. Her bedroom, the small closet her father had converted into a darkroom, its glowing red light and sharp chemical smell. The university—its ivy-covered buildings and wandering paths.