Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  In the silence that followed, she heard a gentle ping of the elevator alighting, doors sliding open.

  “Miss Nash!”

  Itzy had long given up examining the operators in their monkey suits, concluding that Johnny was a lost cause. She turned.

  “Johnny?”

  Itzy crossed the lobby in a flash, hearing her heels click against the slick black floor like rapid gunfire.

  Itzy threw her arms around the boy, relief washing over her. She hugged him tight, until her heart stopped thundering in her chest, and then she hugged him more. She pulled back to take him in. “Where have you been?”

  “My father was sick.” He shrugged, embarrassed.

  “Oh, sorry—”

  “Nah, it was nothing. He’s feeling better every day.” Johnny’s eyes twinkled and Itzy felt herself flush. “Wow, you’re dressed to kill. You going to the big party?”

  “No, actually. I think it’s breaking up early.” She smiled at him. “It’s good to see you, Johnny.”

  “You too, Itzy.” Johnny smiled back, and Itzy was again reminded of the whiteness of his teeth. “Hey, I heard you were sick, too,” he said.

  “I was.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Better every day.”

  “Say, I’ve got something for you,” he said, a note of pride creeping into his voice.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “No, really. It’s in my locker.”

  Itzy shuddered, remembering being trapped inside it while Johnny distracted Wold from some errand.

  “Thanks, but I’ve seen enough of your locker for one lifetime.”

  “Aw, don’t be like that. You’re really gonna be surprised.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  Wounded, he fretted with his lips, chewing on the lower one. “Jeez—I thought you’d be excited to get your camera back.”

  My Leica.

  “What? Where did you find it?”

  Johnny flushed with pride. “In the basement.”

  “The basement?” Her excitement curdled.

  “Come down and get it?” His thumb was poised above a glowing button.

  Aunt Maude’s voice came back to her, scratchy from the phone line. Under is a place, Itzy. We’re all down here. You know the way, don’t you?

  Itzy peered behind him, into the elevator. Splatters and stains were sprayed across the walls and ceiling, and the floor had a wide bloody trail where something had been dragged across it.

  “S-sure Johnny. Maybe later.”

  “Nice feather.” He reached for the mask on her head, and her hand fluttered up defensively. “A girl can get into a lot of trouble with a feather like that.”

  “Do you hear that?” Itzy asked, her throat suddenly dry.

  Impossibly, the phone was ringing again. She was sure she had pulled the phone cord from the wall.

  92

  Itzy backed away from Johnny. A pair of small, furred men darted by the fireside, their hides covered in ashes.

  A burst of noise echoed through the lobby, and for a moment Itzy could hear the crashing of glass and an otherworldly, high-pitched scream from Bemelmans Bar—and then nothing.

  Luc? She hoped, desperately.

  But the hairs on her arms stood on end.

  The unmistakable sound of heavy footfalls. The sound of something dragging, metal on stone.

  Tap. Tap. Drag.

  Tap. Tap. Drag.

  I know that sound.

  It was the sharp-tipped edge of the doctor’s cane as he labored across the polished black marble floor, dragging a useless leg behind him.

  Johnny. The doctor. The whole hotel. Everyone. They were out to get me from the start. I never had a chance.

  Itzy backed away, until suddenly—horribly—she couldn’t anymore.

  “Miss Nash.”

  She found herself staring at the barrel chest of the hotel’s concierge.

  “Mr. Wold?”

  “Allow me to assist you.”

  “Oh, I’ve had enough of your help, Mr. Wold.”

  The concierge was holding her wrist.

  “Please, Miss Nash,” he said, indicating the feather.

  Itzy scowled and opened her mouth to protest. Wold’s fingers were elegantly cared for, as befitted his position at the hotel. They were scrubbed and manicured, the nails buffed to a near-mirror shine. He had neglected his gloves this evening. He never neglected his gloves. Encircling its fourth finger was a tattoo of a ring.

  Itzy felt the doctor closing in.

  Itzy, eyes wild, looked up at Wold, realization dawning.

  He has a halo, like Luc.

  His face was unreadable, an amalgam of professionalism and decorum—calm in the face of the coming storm. But for a moment the curtains parted, his reserve cracked, and, ever-so-quickly, his eyes urged her to the doors. Itzy ripped the Divah’s mask from her head, handed Luc’s feather to the angel Wold, and then sprinted for the doors.

  93

  Outside, the streets of the Upper East Side were dark, and a stale wind blew in a pungent smell of musty stables. The streets were strewn with the sweepings of a barnyard. Itzy found her feet moving before she knew it. Some deep part of her told her to run, and run she did.

  Run, Itzy, when you cannot fly.

  From somewhere behind her, Itzy heard the sound of an engine gunning, and a black town car roared to a halt, one wheel mounting the curb and sending a hubcap rolling.

  “Get in!” A darkened window sailed down smoothly from the backseat.

  Itzy had come to like town cars, their sleek black presence a constant in the city streets, the ferries of the rich and powerful along the rivers of cobbles and potholes. Pippa and Mrs. Brill kept one idling at all hours, should the impulse overcome them to shop or to lunch. Aunt Maude had slipped around town in one as well, like a dark shadow. This town car was like all the others; in particular, it had the advantage of not being a funeral carriage.

  “I said get in, Itzy! The traffic’s hellish.”

  “Ava?”

  The door swung open, and Itzy jumped in.

  The engine revved and the car shot off down the side street before Itzy could close her door. It slammed on its own as the driver took another screeching turn down Fifth Avenue, and they headed downtown by the park. The noises of the city streets immediately dulled and the sedate leather interior of the town car took over. Itzy caught a profile of the driver, a man in a visored cap, staring straight ahead. One of his eyes was clouded over, blind.

  “Ava—what are you doing out? I thought you never left the hotel!”

  Ava’s eyes were sharp, and her bangles clinked as she gripped the armrest.

  “You asked me why I quit acting.”

  “Too many monsters in Hollywood,” Itzy remembered.

  “Something like that.” Ava smiled a sad, soft smile, and then was silent for some time. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat, and Itzy had to strain to hear. “The truth is much harder to bear. We lost a bright light when Marilyn died. And I could have saved her. I let down a friend, Itzy. I wasn’t there when the demons came for her. I vowed never to let that happen again.”

  Outside, the Upper East Side was sailing by, smudges of lights against the darkened windows. Cars were burning, abandoned, and hunched figures darted in and out of shadowy doorways. Itzy stared blankly out the car’s dimmed window as they sped down Fifth Avenue.

  “You left this in my room.” Ava handed Itzy the sheathed guillotine blade. Itzy pulled it from its casing, hearing its pleasurable metallic call, feeling its weight.

  “I cleaned it for you.”

  “Thank you, Ava.” Itzy slid the weapon back into its case and slung the thin chain over her shoulder.

  “Sometime we’ll train together.”

  Itzy’s heart leapt. “That would be great. Ava? Can I ask you something?”

  “Why stop now?”

  Itzy smiled. “You said once, ‘Angels are selfish things.’”
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  “Did I? Probably had too much to drink.”

  “What did you mean?”

  Itzy was silent while Ava considered the question.

  “Imagine a life, chasing a feeling that you’re missing something. Forever lacking. Born without a limb—or worse. Born without a soul. And then imagine that you can never, ever, feel whole. Because what you lack you simply cannot have. Then walk this world with those who have it all—with those who have the soul you lack—and don’t even know how lucky they are. I imagine you would become a bit disillusioned with humanity. Bitter, even. Yes, angels exist for themselves alone. Look what your mother’s capable of. But surely you realize that now?”

  Itzy’s stomach lurched, thinking of Luc. Did she really know him? The ring on his finger, she thought. It was there as a reminder. To keep people away, he had said.

  “Ava—” Itzy began. “Do you think Luc used me? You know, to lure the Divah out of her lair?”

  “You mean, are you demon bait?”

  Itzy wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer, but Ava just shrugged.

  “Angels are selfish and capricious beings. But never forget, Itzy, you have angel blood, too. Maybe it’s time you stop being the victim and start knocking some heads together instead.”

  The town car had stopped.

  “Where are we going?” Itzy asked. There was a knot in her gut. They were idling beside a large corner building, a discreet orange and brown sign above her read HERMÈS.

  “To see your father.”

  94

  Piles of silk and fine leather disguised the flagship store’s true identity: Hermès was an ancient order of demon hunters—a covert and impenetrable society. Ava and Itzy were admitted immediately by a uniformed guard with a walkie-talkie who muttered something in French into the mouthpiece.

  “Hermès was named for the ancient Greek god, the guide to the Underworld. You see, we were fighting even then. Since the beginning of time, there was evil, and there were those of us who fought it. You know Hermès as an exclusive company, Itzy,” Ava explained. “Timeless fashion for the eons of demon-fighting.”

  They stopped beside a wall of leather purses with gleaming hardware. “That’s the Kelly.” Ava pointed to a classic purse. “Named for the scholar Grace Kelly. And there’s the famed Birken bag—Jane Birken was legendary for her demon-hunting prowess. They say there’s a three-year waiting list for those. Who knows? Someday we might be waiting for an Itzy.”

  The retail space was open and airy, but Ava marched Itzy through it without a second glance. At the rear of the shop was a lounge—a sort of area to rest while the pressures of shopping dissipate with an espresso, a flute of champagne, or a glass of Evian. Another guard was stationed there, but Ava paid him no mind. A row of leather-padded doors lined one wall—all of them, save one, opened to dressing rooms with long oval chevalier mirrors. The last was closed.

  “Go back a thousand years—then go back further. Then a thousand more,” Ava was saying. They entered the last of the padded doors, which opened to a rambling set of wooden stairs. Pictures lined the walls—many of familiar faces, actors and filmmakers, singers and artists. All scholars. Little spotlights threw soft amber light upon each of the portraits, which were entirely of notable celebrities sitting in quiet alertness. They all wore the same intent gaze, a striking contrast to their public personas. And then there was Julep Joie, sitting in a great and open library, light streaming in. Her face resonated a calm confidence that was at once arresting and haunting.

  “One of our most promising hunters,” Ava said. “It is difficult to have a successful career in the public eye while ridding the world of demons, but somehow Julep does it effortlessly. I hear you’ve made her aquaintance.”

  Itzy nodded, and they kept on. The framed photographs faded to black-and-white, then to lithographs, and then more classic oil paintings as they marched up the stairs. They have one thing in common, Itzy thought. They all have the same watchful look upon their faces. The look of a hunter.

  They had come to a glass-enclosed atrium, a clean, open floor above the store. With no curtains to keep the city lights at bay, the streets and towering buildings became a kind of light—not moonlight, nor starlight, as Itzy was used to from home, but citylight. Ghostly rectangles of it stretched across the room.

  A figure leaned against a far window. Even though his back was to them, Itzy knew her father at once.

  “Jack,” Ava called. “I’ve brought Itzy. She seems in one piece.”

  Jack Nash hesitated, breathing deeply before turning to the room. He was tall and lanky, and, like the best of teachers, entirely captivating.

  “Little one,” he said.

  A rush of relief swept over her, soft as velvet.

  “Dad.” She ran and hugged him, feeling his comforting arms around her finally. “Where have you been?”

  She looked up at his face, which was worn and tired-looking.

  “Putting out fires, little one.”

  They sat in leather armchairs, a pool of stained glass from a small lamp illuminating the space between them.

  “How are you?” he asked carefully.

  “Having one hell of a summer vacation.”

  He smiled, reaching for her hand. “Well, I’m here now.”

  “Aunt Maude—”

  “I know.” Looking out the window, lost in thought, her father suddenly looked quite old. His chin was lost in days of stubble, and there were dark circles around his eyes.

  “She was right, your aunt. She wanted you to be trained, but I thought to do so would expose you—and risk everything. It was safe, I thought, at the university. And quiet. And my students looked out for you, the few who I trusted. But I was wrong. I was wrong to keep you in the dark.”

  “I was wrong about Aunt Maude, too,” Itzy realized. “But, she wanted you to give me up for adoption!”

  “She had a way with words, my sister.” He smiled. “That was her way of saying she wanted you placed with a scholar who would train you—if I wouldn’t. It was our biggest disagreement. And now my biggest regret.

  “I sent you to the Carlyle for the summer because I thought it was the safest option. We had it on good authority that the Gates would rise again soon—and again in Paris, where our organization is based.”

  “Dad, why didn’t you tell me?” Itzy gestured to the room, to him. “About this? You? Anything?”

  “As hard as it may be to understand, Itzy, I did it to keep you safe.”

  “How’s that working out for you?” Itzy felt tears well up, and she angrily stabbed at her eyes with the back of her wrist.

  He looked hard into her eyes, nodding finally.

  “They hunt fledglings down, you know, Itzy. They come for them in the night. There are consequences when an angel lies with man. When they came for you all those years ago in Brittany, I took you away. Hid you. Kept you safe from anything with wings—both feathered and scaled. It was my only choice. You are half angel, half human. The rarest of rare. The Divah’s wanted you since you were born, and that time in Brittany she almost got you. You have a corporeal body and angel blood. And with that, she will be unstoppable. But she underestimated you, didn’t she, Itzy? Such a tiny thing against such great forces.”

  “Who hunts down fledglings, Dad? Demons?”

  “Demons, yes.” Her father’s voice was sad. “But the real danger is our own kind. Scholars, Itzy. It is the scholars who fear you the most.”

  “Scholars!”

  “Yes. Fledglings are killed because they attract powerful divahs. Holy wars are won and lost over them.”

  He examined her eyes with a penlight.

  “Plato, the ancient Greek philosopher, suggested that a soul was a carriage drawn by two horses, one white, one black. One good and one evil. The dark and the light are at constant odds within us. We all have our own demons to slay, little one. Yours just happens to be the queen of the damned.”

  “That’s some beginner’s luck.”
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br />   Her father kissed her forehead and pulled her close. For a moment she was safe, back in his arms in their rambling house on the university grounds. The stacks of dusty books. The sun through the window where it warmed the table in the morning. Her quiet and boring life.

  Pulling away, her father began pacing, fists jammed into the pockets of his worn blazer. His eyes were alight with grim determination.

  “Itzy, this is my life’s work! You understand that the Divah must not be allowed to open the Gates under any circumstances. They lock away all that is truly evil. If they were to open, Itzy … it would be the End of Days. But she is weakened now, as she tries to inhabit you, to possess you. She has made a strategic error: she has spread herself too thin. Your angel blood is fighting her off.

  “Two battles rage, Itzy. The first, between us—the scholars, and the Divah and her legions. For thousands upon thousands of years. The dark and the light. And the second? The second is inside you. Within your skin, a war rages. The Divah against your angel blood, as she slowly tries to possess you. As the possession progresses, she becomes more and more entrenched inside you. Imprisoned, like a genie trapped in a bottle. Conquer her within you, and she is defeated on this mortal plane, as well. She cannot open the Gates when you have already banished her to Hell.” He stopped his pacing; his voice had reached a crescendo. And then, more quietly, “Itzy, you are our salvation.”

  Our salvation. Or our ruin.

  “For the first time ever, we have the advantage. She is here, in the room with us. Inside you. Come, little one. We’re going to fight fire with fire.”

  He removed his tweed blazer and donned a worn leather apron, muttering to himself. He upended his Hermès attaché case, littering the table with a disorganized heap of ancient leather-bound books, stacks of paper wrapped in old twine, glinting charms, pockmarked coins, packets of dried herbs, bulging velvet satchels, charred wood, vials of potions and oils, and a lone broken mirror. Finally, he produced a bottle of Evian and some crumpled silks. He loosened his Hermès tie around his neck. “This might sting a bit.”

  “But what if the Divah wins?” Itzy’s voice cracked. “What happens if your exorcisme doesn’t work?”