Diabolical

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  At the end of the row, we come upon the stream. No place where you’d expect to find river rocks. But here they are. I hold the candles. The girls stuff their pockets.

  “We’re being set up,” Lucy says. “Dr. Ulman planned to kill one of us this morning. She’d already dictated the ingredients to Mr. Bilovski and told him to wait. These stones were planted here for us to find.”

  “You just figured that out?” Vesper replies.

  Lucy ignores her. “So, it’s a test. Hell of a way to open classes.”

  “Speaking of hell.” I inhale brimstone. “Something’s coming.” I would’ve noticed it sooner except for the competing candle scents. The clicking is closer, too.

  We sprint for the storage area.

  “Please tell me you mean someone,” Vesper says.

  A low woof echoes through the chamber. “You two should go,” I say.

  “What is this,” Lucy scoffs, “some kind of sexist —?”

  A slobbering, growling hound lands on the top of the nearest shelf. Its paws are bigger than my face. Its canines? Six inches long. The eyes are reddish like a vampire’s.

  The monster looks like a cross between a bulldog and a hyena, only larger, more formidable. This thing isn’t undead. It’s never been what we’d consider alive.

  I hand the candles to Vesper. “Go! I’ll buy you some time.”

  The girls trade a glance. Hesitate. Under other circumstances, I’d admire their loyalty. I hate having to reveal my secret. But I’ve got no choice.

  I call up my Wolf within. “Hurry! Get out of here.” My fangs aren’t as fearsome as the hound’s. But they’re convincing.

  Lucy’s mouth drops open. “You’re —”

  Vesper grabs her arm. “Come on. He knows what he’s doing.”

  The girls take off for the elevator.

  Fur ripples across my body. My bones grind. Ache to rearrange. My elbows pop out of joint, and I suck in a breath. I’ve been in fights before, but only once in Wolf form. I’ll be better off midway. Moving on two legs. It’s more familiar.

  I fight to manage the shift. Pace it. Maintain my control.

  The hound crouches, snarling lower. That can’t be good.

  My jeans strain. My shirt splits.

  A second hellhound leaps onto the same shelf. Saliva drips in long strands from bared teeth. Agile, muscled, the beast didn’t even need a running start. The scent of brimstone is overwhelming.

  Demon dogs usually appear in churchyards, cemeteries, along hillsides. In gateways to hell. I might’ve had a chance against one. But two? I can’t placate them by acting submissive. I can fight and die. Roll over and die. Run and take my chances.

  Paws slam into my back. A third hound pounds me into the stone floor. My nose breaks. Blood pours into my eyes. Claws tear open my right shoulder.

  I try to push up, but it’s no use. The monster must weigh more than three hundred pounds. The claws hit bone. Snarling, the other two hounds leap down. One lunges for my leg. It sinks its canines through the denim. I can feel it chewing.

  The other huffs at me, like it’s thinking. I fight to do the same. I’ve read of them in England and Latin America, in Tennessee, on Long Island. Along what used to be U.S. Route 666. They’re often harbingers. It’s said that if you see them once — maybe three times — you’ll die soon. Three at once doesn’t bode well for me.

  I hear a whistle from deep within the cavern. The monsters freeze. They cock their heads. Waiting. I try to twist free. A paw shoves me down again.

  I hear distant footsteps. Hoofsteps? Scraping the rock, they come closer. The hound pinning me shakes its head. Panting. Drool drips onto the back of my neck. More whistling. I recognize the song as “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Shouts drown it out. My rescuers stampede the hounds. I smell smoke. I hear Zach, Evelyn. I’m not sure who else. Blood floods my eyes. The hound at my leg yelps.

  Suddenly, I can’t hear it anymore. I can’t hear the voices. Or the whistling. I’m losing consciousness. I can’t feel anything.

  WE’RE BACKING into the elevator — waving flaming mops in defense — and the burliest of the devil dogs attacks. Jaws gaping, fangs eager.

  I slam my mop into its muzzle and knock it into the beast at its heels, and both go tumbling. They turn on each other and draw more blood. We’re forgotten.

  Almost. The third charges — frothing and furious. A formidable paw blocks the doors from closing. I kick it — hard — and break claws.

  There’s a yowl, and the doors shut. Lucy punches the button for the third floor.

  Inside, Evelyn and Nigel adjust their hold on Kieren.

  We’re all breathing heavily. The Wolf looks awful. He’s cut, mauled, and bitten. Blood masks his face. He’s passed out.

  If Kieren were human, he’d be dead. He may still die.

  What would I tell Quincie? I’m supposed to be watching over her 24/7. The least I can do is keep the boy she calls Wolf man alive.

  Kieren’s wholly regained his human features — not that it matters. Vesper outed him as a werewolf to the others when she and Lucy went running for help.

  I peel off my T-shirt and tear it in half. “Here,” I say, handing a piece to Evelyn. “Press this against his forehead.”

  I tie the remaining material like a tourniquet around his calf. The muscle looks gnawed. Shredded? The shoulder, worse. But it’s the head injury I’m worried about.

  Fortunately, shifters heal fast.

  “He needs a doctor,” Lucy says.

  “No chance of that,” Vesper replies, blinking at my abs. “Unless one of you has a medical degree that you haven’t mentioned. What time is it?”

  “It’s 9:56,” Nigel answers. “Willa is dead for good.” The edge in his voice says he’s not looking for sympathy, at least not from us.

  That’s just as well right now. We don’t have time to grieve.

  Evelyn says, “We should let Kieren rest in his room until —”

  “Until Dr. Ulman kills him or someone else for tardiness,” Lucy puts in. “No, he has to be sitting in his chair by the time Demonic History starts.”

  As we pass the second floor, Vesper exclaims, “Keys! We’ve got to grab some extra uniforms. We don’t just have to be back by 10 A.M., we have to look the part.”

  Right, because defying the dress code is what started this particular nightmare. It takes some doing in the cramped space, but I manage to fish my key out of my front jeans pocket and toss it to Vesper. Ditto Evelyn and Nigel.

  It’s decided that Vesper and Lucy will ride back to the second floor, grab the extra clothes, and dispose of the mops. On the way down, it was Bilovski who handed them to us from a supply closet. He’s the one who suggested we light them in the nearest fireplace and use them as weapons. I don’t trust him. But the look on his face said he didn’t have a choice about being here. That he’s trying to help, the best he can.

  The others exit onto the third floor, and I lift the Wolf in a firefighter’s carry.

  “You know, he might be a werecat,” Nigel theorizes as we hustle through the hallway. “Vesper only saw him shift partway and —”

  “Wolf,” Kieren mumbles. “Definitely Wolf.”

  “That’s disturbing,” Nigel says.

  “You got a problem with werepeople?” Evelyn wants to know.

  “No,” he assures her. “I have a problem with the fact that one of us has the strength and speed of a werepredator, and this goddamned place has already knocked him off his paws.”

  “One of us?” I echo. “There’s an ‘us’?”

  “Of course,” Evelyn says, studying Nigel. “Us versus them.”

  At least that’s good news.

  In the conference room, Willa’s body is gone. So are the supplies we’d gathered in hopes of crafting a spell to revive her.

  “I tried,” Bridget says breathlessly. “I followed Nigel’s directions. I laid out the stones in a circle and lit the candles. I pricked my finger. I did the chanting and
waved my arms, but nothing happened. Willa didn’t so much as twitch.”

  In our rush to save Kieren, we left Bridget alone with Willa’s body and the task of trying to bring her back to life. That spell would’ve been completely beyond her even under ideal circumstances.

  “The Bilovskis took Willa away,” Bridget goes on. “They grabbed all the ingredients, too. It was before time ran out. I told them we still had a few minutes. I said I wanted to try again. But Mrs. Bilovski said that if I tried to fight them, Ulman might —”

  “No one is blaming you,” Evelyn says, shooting a warning look at Nigel.

  Meanwhile, I’m getting Kieren settled in his chair. He’s fading in and out of consciousness. The shoulder is bad. I think I can see bone.

  Lucy rushes in with gray hand towels. “Use these!”

  I do, pressing them against the wounds. They’re wet and clean. I’m able to clear some of the blood from his face. “Kieren? Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

  The answer is a low moan.

  “Twenty seconds,” Nigel warns, glancing up from his wristwatch.

  Modesty is forgotten as Vesper dumps spare uniforms on the table. “Hurry!”

  Evelyn, Nigel, and I rush to change. When Lucy raises Kieren’s arm, he growls, low and menacing. I pause to help her slip the oxford over his T-shirt.

  “He’s seated,” she says. “Dr. Ulman might not notice that he’s still in his jeans.”

  “Zachary,” Bridget exclaims, “hurry!”

  Staring at Lucifer’s logo, I pause with my own oxford in my hands.

  “Just put it on,” Lucy says. “It won’t change who you are.”

  I don’t think I can do it. It’s the devil’s uniform, his image.

  “For your mission,” she adds. “For Miranda.”

  It’s the right thing to say.

  “Three seconds,” Nigel announces. “Two. One.”

  “Welcome to Demonic History.” Ulman nods toward Kieren. “Alas, the mongrel revealed.” After a pause, she adds, “Please note that you have all failed your first Alchemy and Incantations assignment.”

  “What happened wasn’t Fate,” I say. “It was your choice.”

  “My available discretion is limited,” she counters. “Insolence will not be tolerated.” With that, Ulman makes the same murderous gesture toward me that she did earlier toward Willa.

  Nothing happens. Apparently, this particular spell doesn’t work on GAs.

  Flustered, she tries once more. No dice.

  I shrug at my fellow students like I don’t understand either.

  “Welcome to Demonic History,” Ulman says again. “Why don’t we begin with a story? The setting is a garden. The hero is a weresnake.”

  I vicariously attended school in North Dallas when I was watching over Miranda. Supernatural trappings aside, the rest of the morning at SP doesn’t seem that different.

  A teacher, students, nobody bothering to take notes.

  SNOWFLAKES FALL LIKE LACE CURTAINS. I can barely make out Quincie, who’s carrying a substantial-looking, battery-powered bullhorn that she ordered on the Internet and had delivered overnight to the B and B.

  She’s picking her steps carefully down the sidewalk toward Main Street. Quincie didn’t have any time to shop for the trip. She’s wearing her Teva sandals over a pair of kneesocks. She has on earmuffs and a long knitted scarf, on loan from the concerned lady at the B and B, but they’re for show. Quincie didn’t even bother to bring a coat.

  I’d guess the temperature is hovering at about twenty degrees, but cold has little impact on eternals.

  Quincie pauses to peek into the window of a crêperie. She’s stopped in there before for cocoa and to satisfy her professional curiosity. Over the past couple of days, she’s called Sanguini’s probably ten times.

  Quincie is tapping her free hand against her leg. The average passerby wouldn’t think anything of it. Yet I recognize the mix of uncertainty, frustration, fear, and preternatural energy. Her only love greater than the restaurant is the Wolf.

  When Quincie doubted herself, Kieren’s faith in her remained unshakable. No matter that there had never been a wholly souled eternal before. No matter that every expert on the demonic had decreed it impossible. To Kieren, if it was unprecedented, then she was obviously the first, and he was correct. I, on the other hand, was a pawn of the undead king, who did nothing but stoke my appetite and egg me on.

  Still, she is the good vampire, the best, and at my worst, I was very, very bad.

  At the foot of the hill, Quincie waits until a truck passes and then positions herself in the middle of the street. Traffic is steady. People here aren’t easily scared off the roads by snow. Quincie raises the bullhorn, flips it on.

  “Attention, Joshua!” she begins in an amplified voice. “Calling the guardian angel Joshua! This is Quincie P. Morris! I want to talk to you!”

  I cannot believe she’s doing this. It’s simply not done!

  Did she try calling him privately first? Not that it would’ve worked, but —

  “Attention, Joshua!” Quincie shouts again. “I am talking to the guardian angel Joshua, best friend of the guardian angel Zachary! I am tired of waiting around.”

  The exceedingly polite Vermont drivers have no idea what to do. Traffic is backing up in both directions. Bundled pedestrians are pointing from the sidewalks.

  “Howdy, Joshua! This is Quincie. I know you know who I am. I know you know what’s going on at Scholomance Preparatory Academy.”

  A lone driver honks, giving others permission to do the same.

  “Yo, Joshua! Quincie again. Do you want me to tell these fine Vermonters about the devil’s school? Hello, Vermont! Satan seeks to corrupt your children.”

  The honking is in earnest now, and a few cars move slowly past her.

  “Calling Joshua! I’m not going to give up! I could stand here yelling for the next century. You know what I am. You know I’m capable of it.”

  Talking on his phone, a businessman in a gray sedan hits a patch of ice. Quincie dodges, barely avoiding injury. The driver beeps off his cell and keeps going.

  “Hello, Joshua!” Quincie begins again, unfazed. “It’s me, Quincie!”

  “Miss!” exclaims an approaching police officer. He blows his whistle and signals with his hands to stop traffic coming from both ways. “What are you doing?”

  Quincie ignores him, her bullhorn still poised. “Do you want me to get arrested, Joshua? Or institutionalized?”

  As the officer crosses to her, I zoom in and notice that it’s Joshua himself. His dreads are blowing all over the place. I think that’s illegal, impersonating an officer, though the Montpelier Police Department doesn’t have jurisdiction over guardians.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Joshua says. “I have to ask you not to stand in the street. You’re endangering yourself, your fellow pedestrians, and drivers in passing vehicles.”

  She grins up at him. “Hey! You’re the guardian angel Joshua.”

  Quincie has never met Joshua before, and, though I don’t watch my angel every moment, I don’t recall Zachary ever describing him.

  “Am not,” Joshua snaps back.

  “I can tell!” she replies, waving the bullhorn. “Look, I’m not some random person. I ID’d Zachary back in Austin, and he was way less obvious.”

  Joshua seems stymied. “Less obvious how?”

  Now, he’s as much as admitted it, which Quincie figures out a half second before he does. “First of all, you’re a breathtakingly beautiful man, and second of all, you’re a breathtakingly beautiful black man in Vermont. And you appeared after I called to you. This is the whitest place I’ve ever been, and I’m not just talking about the weather.”

  Clearly flattered by the “breathtakingly beautiful” part, Joshua extends his arm and escorts Quincie toward the sidewalk.

  “No wonder Zachary has his hands full, watching out for you.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Now that you know who I am, if I drop by Sanguini’s
sometime, will you slip me a plate of West Texas rattlesnake ravioli?”

  “Depends.” She looks him in the eye. “What’s happening with Kieren and Zachary?”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not allowed to say. And even though you’re not my assignment, I can’t let you get run down either. Zachary would kick my ass.” When Quincie holds her ground, he adds, “Come on, I have to clear out of here. I’m not supposed to be identified as an angel on the mortal plane. That’s roughly what got Zachary busted in the first place. If my supervisor finds out that I —”

  “Please,” she says. “Do they need my help? Is it bad? Is Kieren —”

  I don’t know what she planned to ask. Is Kieren still alive? Is Kieren still safe? Is Kieren still obsessed with her? But it doesn’t help when Joshua replies, “His injuries are healing better than expected, and —”

  “What injuries?” Quincie usually confronts her problems with a mix of humor and bravado.

  Without reply, Joshua glances to make sure no one’s watching and disappears.

  Alone on the sidewalk in the falling snow, Quincie looks momentarily deflated. “Fine,” she mutters to herself. “No rattlesnake ravioli for you.”

  Yet Joshua has answered her question. He told her, albeit not in so many words, that Kieren is hurt.

  To: Joshua

  From: Michael

  Date: Tuesday, January 7

  Regarding your D-665A form filed and dated today, this is an acknowledgment and record of your admission to having revealed yourself in human form to the vampire Quincie P. Morris on Main Street in Montpelier, Vermont.

  You are already well versed in the seriousness of this infraction.

  I have decided to let you respond in this matter. The time and date of your hearing is yet to be determined. However, I recommend that you begin preparing your defense immediately.

  “IF YOU DON’T NEED ME HERE,” Evie begins, “I’m off to lunch.”

  I’m temporarily out of commission. That makes her shifter senses more valuable than ever. I doubt her Otter nose can detect every poison. Or, for that matter, demonic blood, which can be even more dangerous. But we’ve both been doing our best.