Diabolical

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Although damage to the vehicle was minor, Agnes Blistford, 82, the driver of the struck car, died of a heart attack within an hour of the accident.

  Lowell said prosecutors elected not to press charges. She added, “Given Mrs. Blistford’s small stature and the fact that her car was parked, we believe that the young, inexperienced driver in question did not realize that it was occupied.”

  It is the policy of this newspaper not to publish the names of underage persons potentially involved in criminal cases.

  “WHAT IN BLAZES IS THAT?” Bridget exclaims, pointing toward the building.

  “Porcupine,” I reply. “It’s probably after the salt on the drive.”

  The animal — it’s too small to be a shifter — is backing away from us. I’m about to warn Bridget to keep her distance. Then its hind end hits the base of the first step leading to the Scholomance front door. A light flashes. The porcupine flies, spinning off the walk.

  “What happened?” Bridget wants to know next.

  I recall Zach’s telling me what Freddy said about the Scholomance defense system. The angel strides ahead with his bags. He sets a firm foot on the same step. Nothing.

  It might be Zach’s angelic-ness or immortality protecting him from the spell. Just in case, I hurry to his side. I put my foot down on the same step.

  I’m fine. Bridget will be, too. I double back to grab her heaviest bag.

  I’m usually charmed by snow. In Texas, it’s so rare. Not so here. The blizzard is oppressive. Or maybe that’s just my growing sense of dread.

  Moments later, I press the doorbell and a chime sounds.

  A silver-haired man with a hooked nose greets us. He’s dressed in flannel, denim, and a hunting cap. “Welcome to SP! Come in out of the cold.”

  I pause, midstride. I study the door. It’s made of metal — steel?

  “I’m Mr. Bilovski, the handyman. My wife, Mrs. Bilovski, she’s the cook. I’ll show you to your rooms on the second floor. Then you can come down for dinner with the rest. Or, if you’re starving, leave your luggage here. I’ll run it upstairs for you.”

  “That’s okay,” Zach replies. His sword is wrapped in a sheet in the unfolded garment bag. “We’ve got it, but, Bridget, if you —”

  “I’m starving,” she says. “There’s more in the back of the hearse. And a dead porcupine beside the stairs.” She pauses. “Watch out for lightning.”

  “All righty.” Mr. Bilovski takes Bridget’s bags. “This way to the elevator, boys!”

  To the left of the foyer, I see a formal living room. Beyond that, there’s a more casual lounge. I hear voices. I smell fish, bread, and baked apples coming from the back of the building. I hesitate at the elevator. My inner Canis dirus sapiens is wary.

  “If you want to take the stairs,” Mr. Bilovski says, “it’s only a flight up.”

  I shouldn’t act suspiciously. I resign myself to the elevator.

  Inside, Mr. Bilovski adds, “After lights-out, this baby is programmed to wait open on the student residential floor, in case one of you needs it.”

  The buttons are labeled S, B, G, 2, 3, 4, and R. There’s also a keypad. B obviously stands for basement, and G for ground. “Subbasement and roof?”

  “Yep,” Mr. Bilovski replies, hitting 2. “The fourth floor is faculty housing. The elevator doesn’t typically stop there, on the roof, or at the subbasement. I don’t even have the code for the roof or 4. I only go when I’m summoned and let out.”

  He doesn’t seem like a guy who says things like “when I’m summoned.”

  “That reminds me, we’ve got a little apartment, me and Mrs. Bilovski, on the first floor. You need a bulb changed or school supplies or what have you, just knock. I’ll attach a whiteboard to the door so you can leave a message if I’m busy or out.”

  “What’s in the subbasement?” Zach prompts.

  “Well, the basement serves as a gym, so we use the sub for storage. Two strapping boys like you, you’ll love the gym. It’s got a basketball court, eighth-mile running track, weights, and aerobic equipment — all brand-new.”

  On the second floor, Mr. Bilovski shows us down the east hall to the last two rooms. They’re located across from each other. “These doors will lock behind you.” He hands us each a key. “I’ve got extras, if you need them. Now, don’t dawdle. The missus is serving apple pie for dessert. You’ll want it hot.”

  After watching Mr. Bilovski leave, we look around. Besides ours, the doors to three of the other rooms are open. Inside, they’re identical.

  I set down my bags. I pace the perimeter of my assigned space.

  Zach trails in. I gesture at the pop-art print above the fireplace. “It’s an illustration from the Codex Gigas. Thirteenth century. Bohemia. It was first created by a monk who supposedly sold his soul to the devil.”

  “Subtle,” the angel replies, “in an egomaniacal kind of way.”

  I bend, intending to unzip my duffle bag. Then I stand again. “We might as well keep the weapons packed. I’d rather not abandon them. But charging down to dinner with battle-axes won’t do much for our credibility.” When he doesn’t argue, I add, “What’re you going to say to Lucy?”

  “Unclear.” The angel steps out to deposit his luggage in his room. “The one time I met her in person, she seemed to trust me. Like you did, when we met.”

  I open a manila envelope on my desk. Looks like standard school paperwork. A welcome letter, dorm rules, code of conduct . . .

  Back at my doorway, Zach says, “I’ve been meaning to ask for the longest time. . . . Could you recognize me as a GA right away?”

  “I’m not that pure of heart,” I assure him. “But I follow my instincts.”

  I SPOT LUCY, taking a bite of salad greens, only seconds before she glances up and her fork clatters on the black-tile floor. Yeah, she recognizes me.

  The high-backed chairs around her are filled, so I sit next to Kieren across and farther down the table.

  As the Wolf leads introductions, I wave and gauge the other students. At the head of the table, a girl named Vesper looks coiffed, runway ready. The hearse driver, Andrew, is to her right. Bridget wonders out loud if she’ll be the only African-American student in the class.

  Lucy, slack jawed, is still staring at me.

  A cute brunette in a knit cap announces, “Evelyn. Evie, to my friends. I’m the only native Vermonter so far.”

  Three of the ten chairs are still empty. No faculty in sight, but a rail-thin, pinched-looking woman with a pointed chin — Mrs. Bilovski — enters through the swinging kitchen door. She’s carrying a tray stacked with steaming plates. Her long-sleeved, high-necked black dress would make perfect funeral attire. “Tonight, for your main course, we’ve got your broiled trout, broccoli, and baked beans. I’ll fetch a couple more salads and ice teas for you new arrivals and more corn bread and butter, too.”

  The country-comfort cuisine contrasts with the sterile décor. Maybe it’s my having worked at the vamp castle, then Sanguini’s, but at a place like this I’d expect miniplates, smoked fruit, pretentious hummus, and whey.

  Andrew’s silence is hostile. Kieren and the others are trading war stories about their journeys through the blizzard. Bridget spent two and a half hours stuck on a runway on a layover at Chicago O’Hare.

  “You poor thing!” Vesper exclaims. “Flying coach was one of the worst experiences of my entire life. Then again, I expect the rest of you are used to it.”

  On the far end of the table, Evelyn and I are out of the loop. I ask her, “Did you graduate early like Bridget?”

  “Me?” She takes a bite of trout. “More like dropped out early. I’m a Second Chance student.”

  “What’s that? Second Chance —”

  “Basically, I promise to make good grades, and in return, I get room and board and set up in the job of my choice upon graduation. I had no idea the school would be so chichi.”

  It sounds like each student was told what he or she wanted to hear, offered
whatever it would take to get them to commit. “Why did you run away from home?”

  Evelyn blinks at me. “How did you —”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I used to work in a shelter. I was homeless myself for a while.”

  This soothes her. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

  First Bridget, now Evelyn. My image of Lucy as the lone innocent in a den of demons-in-training is busted. That changes everything.

  “Zachary,” Vesper calls. “What do you think? Who’ll be the first of us to hook up?” The curve of her artificially plumped smile is an invitation.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. Beyond Lucy’s, I didn’t notice the students’ reactions when Kieren and I walked in. But according to Quincie, one of Kieren’s finest qualities is that he has no clue he’s one of the most lusted-after heartthrobs at Waterloo High. And not to sound conceited, but humans overreact at the sight of GAs. They find us literally heavenly. Sanguini’s manager had to institute a policy forbidding touching of the staff to stop diners from trying to play with my hair.

  I settle for saying, “I don’t know. I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” Vesper counters, blowing me a kiss.

  At that, Andrew takes his plate and glass and leaves without excusing himself.

  Vesper laughs. “What a goon!”

  Mrs. Bilovski brings my salad and dinner plate. Then Evelyn leans in and lowers her voice. “I guess, living together, it’ll be no time before we know each other’s secrets anyway. I’m a throwaway, not a runaway. An outcast.”

  She says it with bravado, not self-pity. I almost admit to having been cast out, too.

  “Did you and, uh . . .” Evelyn gestures down the table.

  “Kieren,” I supply. The greens are fresh enough, the maple dressing sweet.

  The Wolf tilts his head our way, but he doesn’t break from the other conversation.

  “Did you two ride in together from the airport?” she asks.

  “We drove in together.” Nora’s cooking has spoiled me. The trout is too dry.

  “You knew each other from before?”

  The doorbell sounds. I hear Mr. Bilovski’s voice from the foyer. Then he slides open the door separating the dining room and the living room. The girl student is barefoot in a black minidress. The boy looks like he’s off to prom in a thin red tie and pin-striped suit. Their eyes are dilated. They’re slightly swaying, trashed.

  “Party on, fools,” the boy calls. “For tomorrow we all die.”

  Before anyone can react, he passes out.

  Kieren shakes his head. “I’ll take him upstairs to sleep it off.” On his way out, the Wolf lifts the unconscious guy like a bag of flour.

  “I’ll help you,” Bridget volunteers.

  Following them, Vesper jiggles her phone. “I’m not getting any reception.”

  From the rear, Lucy pauses at my side. “We need to talk.”

  “Soon,” I tell her. “Very.”

  The new girl, Willa, joins me and Evelyn for dinner. She explains that she and Nigel (the intoxicated, self-appointed prophet) took a limo from the Burlington Airport. They drank the complimentary champagne on the way. “I only had a couple glasses.”

  “You don’t weigh much,” I reply over apple pie. “You’re probably dehydrated from the flight. That’s why it hit you so hard.” Trying to sound casual, I add, “By the way, what did Nigel mean by, ‘For tomorrow we all die’?”

  “He’s always been dramatic,” she explains as Mrs. Bilovski brings her a tall glass of water. “When we were kids, he used to dress up in robes and sacrifice lizards with sharpened Popsicle sticks. Of course, he had to cut off their heads first to make sure they’d lie still on the rock until he finished chanting. Then the pet store banned our whole family from the place, and, you know, lizards are hard to catch.”

  Evelyn coughs and sets down her fork.

  “Nigel’s your brother?” I ask Willa.

  Sticking three fingertips into her glass, Willa flicks water at her face. “No, he’s . . . My parents always referred to him as a guest. They raised him for as long as I can remember.”

  “Your family makes a habit of sacrificing animals?” Evelyn wants to know.

  Willa flinches. “Only Nigel.” As if reconsidering what she’s said, Willa adds, “Don’t listen to me. I’m tired and wasted, and that was a long time ago. He can be really sweet. Now that I think about it, he had little pretend funerals for the lizards, too.”

  “Just checking.” Evelyn stands. “See you in the morning.”

  Once she’s gone, Willa and I chitchat. She keeps glancing up, like she feels guilty for not helping Nigel to his room.

  Finally, I ask, “Why did you two choose Scholomance Prep?”

  “We didn’t.” Willa pushes her plate away. “My parents’ biggest financial backer is an alumnus. Last night, he took them to dinner at the MGM Grand. This afternoon, they told us to dress up, flew with us to Burlington, and then announced that we were both transferring here. Never mind asking if we wanted to move or change schools.”

  “EVELYN, THE SECOND CHANCE GIRL, is a wereotter,” I announce after closing the door to my room.

  “You could tell from her scent?” the angel asks.

  “Also the cute factor,” I reply. “I don’t mean that in a Wolfish way. You know how I feel about Quince. It’s just a statement of fact. All Otters are cute.”

  “It’s that button nose,” Zach replies. “The cuteness is practically a superpower.”

  “She was probably able to sniff me out as a Wolf. Or maybe not a Wolf exactly. Being a hybrid, I’m harder to ID by species. But at least as a werepredator.”

  “If she tells people, that’ll nix the surprise element you’d bring to a fight.”

  “Evelyn can’t out me without revealing herself.” I pull out the desk chair and straddle it backward. “What’s the scoop on the partiers?”

  Zach fills me in. “Willa and Nigel are both going into the second semester of their junior year. I suspect that Lucy is the oldest at nineteen.”

  “Not counting you,” I say. “We’re off the grid in terms of any traditional educational structure. Of course, we knew that going in. Both Bridget and Vesper mentioned they plan to eventually transfer to the Carpathian campus.”

  “I thought Bridget wanted to go to law school.”

  “She does,” I assure him. “Afterward.”

  Zach stares at the devil-inspired art. He sips from a mug of hot maple herbal tea brought up from the kitchen. “Who don’t you think is an innocent?”

  “Innocent is a high standard,” I say. “I’d rather know who’s here by choice. Who fully understands what ‘here’ is all about.” I think about it for a moment. “Evelyn came in through a Second Chance program for disadvantaged kids. Bridget, Nigel, and Willa are here because of alumni recruiting efforts. Vesper mentioned at dinner that her folks are alumni themselves.

  “Andrew,” I add, “is our mystery man. And given Nigel’s history with animal sacrifice, he might be an excellent fit for the school.”

  “The way Nigel was acting,” Zach begins, moving to the window, “that wasn’t hooray-for-hell drunk. That was my-life-is-over-so-I-might-as-well-get-smashed drunk.”

  I don’t know what difference it makes. We have to warn the students. All of them. A few might already know what they’re in for. Someone might sound an alarm or try to block our escape. But what else can we do? “You realize you’re stalling, right?” I ask. “You could be talking to Lucy right now. We could take it from there.”

  “How do I convince her? How do I convince any of them to leave?”

  We could’ve had this conversation on the road. Zach has spent most of his existence watching over his assignments. Invisible. Incorporeal. Silent. He hasn’t been earthbound for even two years. His social skills are a work in progress.

  “Why not bust out your wings?” I suggest. “That’s old-school convincing. Like, ‘Joseph, so
n of David, do not be afraid to take to you Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit.’ Or, ‘Hey, Lucy, if we don’t vamoose, your soul may be taken in sacrifice by el diablo.’” Some news is easier to sell when it comes from an angel of the Lord.

  Zach taps on the glass wall. “We could all stroll quietly out of here tonight. I could maintain my secret identity through an entire crisis. I want to try that first.”

  “All right,” I reply. “But remember, Scholomance is like the serpent in the tree of knowledge. It promises to reveal great mysteries. For Lucy, what happened to Miranda is the ultimate question. You can give her the answer. Scientia potentia est.”

  He sets his mug on the desk. “Come again?”

  “Knowledge is power.”

  We hear a knock on my door. From the other side, Vesper calls, “Kieren!”

  When I answer, she’s standing there with Bridget and Evelyn.

  “Do you have cell reception in your room?” Bridget asks.

  I fish my phone out of my pocket and try it. “Apparently not.”

  Vesper’s sigh borders on dramatic. “I cannot believe this! What are we, prisoners? Don’t the Geneva Conventions guarantee access to —”

  “The school is remote,” Bridget puts in.

  “Vermont remote, not Antarctica remote,” Evelyn counters.

  ON A HUNCH, I unzip Kieren’s bag. His axe is missing. I brush past him and the girls into my own room. When I check my hanging garment bag, my holy sword is gone, too.

  Crap. Would I recognize Lucifer? I don’t know. Probably not. Would his minions recognize a sword forged in heaven? Maybe. No matter that I’m immortal. Michael will find a way to kill me for this. I glance at the devilish print over my fireplace.

  I’d swear it’s grinning wider.

  Back in the hall, Kieren shakes his head at me. It’s bad news. Our weapons have been confiscated. The holy symbols, too.