Diabolical

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  I’m stretched out on my bed. I try not to wince as Lucy cleans my head and face. My entire body radiates pain. My head, calf, shoulder, nose. I feel the bones and cartilage resetting. My face is so swollen, I can hardly see.

  Evie ducks back in. She’s holding open a trash-can liner. “Shirts, please. Since we only have two uniforms each, Bridget and I are going to try to remove the stains.”

  Zach, who’s been hovering, peels his off.

  I tell Lucy, “You can grab one of my Ts and change in my bathroom.”

  “I’ll bring you back some food,” the angel says. “It might help to eat something, if you can keep it down.”

  “Tell Nigel we’re confiscating his beer,” Lucy says, dropping her oxford in the bag. “We’ll need it for Kieren. At least for a few days.”

  On her way out, Evie asks, “What about the vodka? Can you use beer to sterilize —”

  “I’m thinking painkiller,” Lucy explains. “Vodka might be overkill. Ask if anyone has aspirin or ibuprofen. Whatever.”

  “Be right back,” Zach says.

  Lucy rakes the towel across my mangled calf muscle.

  I bite my fist and draw fresh blood.

  “Oh, God!” She rolls up a hand towel. “Bite this instead. Sorry, we can’t risk —”

  “Infection. You don’t have to apologize. I appreciate your —”

  “The least I can do. Vesper and I never should’ve left you like that.”

  “You went to get help,” I say, wincing. “If you hadn’t, all three of us might be hellhound chow. Besides, I told you to go.”

  “You growled at us to go.” Lucy wraps a long orange scarf around my leg. It’s one of many Vesper donated for the cause. “On the off chance that it matters, I’ve always been a big believer in werepeople rights. I used to make a lot of noise about it.” She pauses. “I used to make a lot of noise about a lot of things.”

  “Then Miranda became your cause,” I say. “I don’t blame you. My girlfriend, Quince — Quincie — vanished for a couple of days last fall. I scoured Austin for her. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think about anything else.”

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “The vampire who infected her locked her up during the final stage of her transformation. When I finally found Quince, she was undead.”

  After a moment, Lucy asks, “Is that what usually happens with missing people?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Quince doesn’t associate much with other vamps. She’s different from the rest. The only one never to have taken a life. That’s why we think Zach was sent to guard her.”

  Lucy stiffens beside me. “So, Miranda killed people?”

  This is why I hardly ever talk. When I do, I say the worst possible thing.

  “Miranda didn’t ask to become a vampire,” I say. “She sacrificed herself. She found forgiveness. If God forgives her —”

  “We should, too.” Lucy’s smile is wan. “It’s just Miranda, you know.” Lucy begins playing nurse again. “You don’t know. Miranda was dreamy and sensitive and half-lived in the fantasy worlds she read about. She hid from bullies and got teary at the sight of roadkill. I can’t imagine her hurting anyone, let alone taking a life.” Lucy pauses. “I can’t imagine her ever forgiving herself if she did.”

  I’m grateful that’s something Quince will never have to face.

  Lucy gestures for me to roll on my side. When I do, she gasps. “Kieren, you lost a chunk of flesh. It’s just . . . gone.”

  “It’ll grow back,” I say, my teeth clenched.

  She gets up to wash her hands. “I envy you your claws.”

  Glancing over my mangled shoulder, I can tell she’s serious. Lucy is a fighter. That’s good. Willa wasn’t. I wonder if that’s why Dr. Ulman picked her off.

  “Give me your room key,” I say, “and your hand.”

  Lucy fishes the key out of her pants pocket. She presents her right palm to me.

  I slip the key between her first and second fingers. “Make a fist.”

  Turning her hand at an angle, she does.

  “Now, you have a claw of your own.”

  LUNCH IS TOMATO SOUP with sour-cream topping, BLTs — apple-smoked bacon on whole wheat — and freshly fried sweet-potato chips. I give it a solid B for effort.

  “Kieren is a wounded werewolf,” Vesper begins. “Andrew and Willa are dead. What do you think Physical Fitness and Combat will be like?”

  “The fact that Kieren is a Wolf has nothing to with his being here,” Evelyn says. “He was born that way.”

  “Does the fact that he’s dating a vampire have something to do with it?” Vesper asks, between sips of soup.

  “Kieren already told you,” I reply. “We came to help —”

  “How’s that working out?” Vesper asks, putting down her sandwich. She turns to Nigel at her left. “You don’t seem that broken up about Willa. Wasn’t she your sister or something? Shouldn’t you be catatonic right now?”

  Nigel dabs his lips with a napkin. “Willa was not my sister. Her parents are not my parents. They locked me in my bedroom at night and nailed the windows shut. They used an ankle monitor to track my every step.”

  I can’t help wondering whether they had their reasons.

  “You shouldn’t say bad things about the dead,” Bridget scolds.

  “Technically, I’m talking about her parents,” he replies, “and —”

  “You shouldn’t say bad things about people who just lost a child, either,” Bridget adds, waving her fork. “Even if they don’t know it.”

  Physical Fitness & Combat is a bust. Ulman is annoyed that no one is dressed in gym uniforms. When Lucy quickly protests that we never received them, Ulman restrains herself from killing anyone; by the time we return to our private rooms, two sets of shorts and T-shirts are laid out on each of our platform beds. T-shirts with Lucifer’s logo.

  After dinner, I notice Mr. Bilovski mopping the living-room floor. It’s an almost compulsive behavior. Like he’s required to keep busy, even if there’s nothing to do.

  He rubs his hip as if he injured it. Maybe he slipped on the tile, or maybe he was punished for forgetting to distribute the gym clothes.

  Both of his pinky fingers have been chopped off.

  I don’t ask him about that. Instead, I say, “Thanks for your help with the mops.”

  I don’t mention the hell dogs or rescuing Kieren, but Bilovski’s gaze darts to the diabolical print over the fireplace like he’s afraid it heard.

  I lower my voice. “Sometimes that devil design flickers within Ulman’s image.”

  Bilvoski doesn’t hesitate. “He’s peeking through.”

  “But it can’t be Lucifer,” I say. “He can’t have independent power here. The classroom is well above earth’s surface. Even the subbasement isn’t that far down.”

  “I first arrived not long before the little horned bastards hauled the rock up,” Mr. Bilovski says, leaning against his mop handle. “Hundreds of ‘em. The tile in the floor, in the showers, the rock they crushed into gravel and then into cement. It all came from the netherworld itself. The devil blurred the lines, grabbed some territory. This entire building is a hell gate.”

  Caves in Nicaragua and Greece, a volcano in Iceland, doors in Egyptian tombs . . . Hell’s gates aren’t that rare, and — unlike heaven’s gates (which are literal and polished daily) — they’re largely metaphorical. I should’ve expected one on SP grounds.

  If it’s true, Lucifer can work his sorcery here. He can not only peer through a descended soul and peek through hanging pictures.

  He can walk — fully present — among us.

  SEATED IN A RATTAN CHAIR next to a koi pond in the Penultimate lobby, I’m amazed when Kieren manages to dress himself and limp to class. It’s 11:15 A.M. Thus far, everyone has survived the morning without incident or injury.

  Alchemy & Incantations was a review of how to ascertain the best language for a given spell, a more in-depth discussion of
what Nigel had explained the day before.

  Demonic History is a comparative discussion of early fey, shifter, and vampire societies. Ulman says, “Even today, the fey remain the most successful in maintaining their privacy and security. They are unrivaled in their diversity and distribution throughout the globe. Yet no faerie has ever been sold, dissected, or publicly displayed —”

  Lucy raises her hand. “I object to werepeople being lumped in with magical creatures. They’re natural species, and —”

  “Shape-shifters have dabbled, if not excelled, in sorcery,” the teacher counters. “Furthermore, their societies are not sanctioned by mainstream mortals.”

  “They can be dangerous.” Bridget turns her whole body away from Kieren. “The predators, anyway — like that Hyena who was caught here in Vermont. He was a baby eater. I saw it on the news.”

  Bridget sounds the way I used to. Lucy would reprimand me for being a bigot.

  Evelyn leans forward. “He was most certainly not —”

  “Anyone can be dangerous,” Vesper says. “Even me.”

  What was that supposed to mean? I dislike Vesper. It’s not jealousy, I hope. I had the wealth that she has, if only in undeath. My preternatural status gave me greater allure. Moreover, I had Zachary’s true love, and he only tolerates her.

  Yet having ruled over the eternal court, I recognize a gauntlet tossed when I hear it. None of the other students seem to take her words seriously, perhaps because of the way she so often bitches and preens. They’re foolish to underestimate her.

  The ghostly teacher calls their attention to the topic at hand — something about a faerie congress. In passing, she mentions eighteenth-century ballot issues involving human-size faeries versus those three inches tall or less.

  It’s remarkable how adaptable people are. The students have already processed that they have to play along in order to survive.

  The guys — Nigel, Kieren, and my angel — have been quieter today than usual. The Wolf may well be in more pain than he was yesterday. Poor thing. I don’t know whether the six beers he consumed last night helped or hurt.

  “Tsk, tsk, Your Highness,” Harrison scolds, pulling up a chair beside me. “What did I tell you about spending all your time staring at your monitor-com?”

  “You haven’t checked on your brother, Freddy?” I reply, slipping the gadget in my pants pocket. “Or what’s happening in Vermont? Kieren was nearly devoured by hell dogs.”

  Harrison tucks his jacket tails under as he sits. I’m amused that he’s chosen to appear not just in formal wear, but in a different ensemble every day.

  I’m happier in this baby-blue turtleneck sweater and matching pants that tie at the waist. They’re not made of anything, of course, but they feel like cashmere.

  I can tell from the way his gaze sweeps me that Harrison misses my ball gowns. Of course, he’s never had to suffer through a padded or push-up bra. That I know of.

  I tell him about Cissy’s visit, and Quincie calling down Joshua, and what’s been happening at the academy.

  “Demon versus angel,” I conclude. “Hell versus heaven. Scholomance versus Penultimate. The last — they’re both places for the dead en route to somewhere else.”

  “You know the difference.” Harrison waves dismissively. “Don’t get sucked in to moral relativism. It’s appallingly wishy-washy.”

  I consider that for a moment.

  Harrison wrinkles his fine nose. “Haven’t you been doing anything fun? I met Michelangelo. The Michelangelo. I took his class yesterday at the art museum.”

  I knew that Penultimate employees like Huan had already passed through the pearly gates, only to return here to work (at least for a certain number of hours a week). It never occurred to me that heaven provided an art-appreciation program.

  Imagine a grand master crossing back to this side to reach out to newly ascended souls! Yet Michelangelo’s class seems an odd choice for Harrison. “Since when are you so interested in classical painting?”

  “Sculpture, my dear. Sculpture. As in Michelangelo’s David.” Harrison holds up a photo image on his monitor-com. “In marble. Very naked, very attractive, currently on display in Florence.”

  “I’ve heard of it.” I don’t recall Harrison’s being such an art aficionado.

  He clasps his hands together. “Michelangelo brought his model along to meet the class. The actual model! Well worth dying to see, believe me.”

  So that’s it! I recall mentally comparing Zachary to David when he first appeared in my office at the castle. My angel’s shoulders are broader, his cascading golden curls more luscious.

  Vesper can hardly look away from Zachary, but if there’s anything I’m certain of, it’s his devotion. I could hardly doubt the angel who gave up heaven for me. He’s scarcely more aware of her admiration than Kieren is of Bridget’s — or at least until Bridget’s discovered that Kieren is a Wolf. Not that I’m in a position to judge.

  “Judge what?” Harrison asks.

  I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud. “Bridget, the youngest of the academy students.” Nothing. “The one who went very prematurely gray and doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Lawyer’s daughter, poor thing,” Harrison says. “What about her?”

  On her first night at the school, something that looked like an old woman appeared to Bridget in her room. It scolded the girl and called her a murderer. It railed against her for disappointing her parents and God. It terrified her.

  “She’s lost interest in Kieren, now that she knows he’s a werewolf. He’s already taken, of course, but it’s her reasoning —”

  “Kieren of the pouting lips and bulging muscles? Too young for me, though kudos on that animal magnetism. His muscles aren’t all that bulge.”

  “Harrison!” I scold, but he only laughs. “She’s not being obvious about it,” I add, “but Bridget isn’t bringing him meals or asking about him or even stopping in his room to say hi.” When Harrison fails to react, I clarify. “She’s afraid of werepeople. Prejudiced. So is Vesper. I heard the two of them whispering about it in Vesper’s room.”

  “Most humans have issues with shape-shifters.” He brushes his lapel. “A few hunt them for sport and sell their heads and skins to the highest bidder. So what?”

  “I was, too.” Still nothing. “Prejudiced. Before I started to become evil, or at least before I was infected with vampirism.”

  “The Penultimate is full of imperfect people,” Harrison replies with a sweeping gesture at the lobby and surrounding promenade. “We’ve been forgiven. ‘To err is human, to forgive, divine.’ Once we forgive ourselves and each other, we can enter —”

  “Do you think souls make love in heaven?” I ask, taking the monitor-com from him to focus more fully on David’s . . . endowments or lack thereof.

  I’ve never seen Zachary in the nude. Not in person, anyway.

  “Well.” Harrison leans back in his chair. “Far be it for me to underestimate the complexity of the formerly undead adolescent female mind.”

  “It’s like bacon-fried rice,” I reply. “Grandpa Shen makes the world’s best bacon-fried rice, and he knows I love it.” At Harrison’s puzzled look, I add, “In heaven, will Grandpa be able to stir-fry me a steaming plate of bacon-fried rice? Or because it’s an earthly pleasure, have I lost my chance at bacon-fried rice forever?”

  “You’ve eaten fried rice in the past —”

  “Harrison,” I say. “Metaphor.”

  “Oh, right!” He smirks. “Can we agree that sex with Zachary equals bacon-fried rice?”

  “Forget the rice!” Come to think of it, the image of Grandpa in this particular conversation isn’t helping either. “Why don’t we simply say —”

  “Earthly pleasures,” Harrison declares as a black-and-blue butterfly lights on his perched finger. His smile is wistful. “I wish I knew, Your Highness. Between you and me, I find it hard to imagine heaven without stir-fry. Or, for that matter, bacon. However, it’s not as th
ough we’re without sensation here in the Penultimate. I can feel this chair.” The butterfly launches into the air. “I can see that gorgeous insect.”

  “We can see and hear,” I say. “We can touch.”

  “Not to get too personal, princess, but from a technical perspective —”

  “What about smell, taste?” I cut in. “It hit me after I visited Joshua in the stables. The experience felt incomplete, muffled. When my angel and I are reunited . . .” I would swallow hard if I were corporeal. “If my angel and I are reunited, I want . . .”

  “Of course,” Harrison agrees. “Well, yes. Valid point.” Lowering his voice, he mutters, “You’d think I was the virgin.”

  I return his monitor-com. “Recent apocalyptic portents aside, I may be a virgin for eons. Perhaps forever. As a wholly souled eternal, Quincie could remain on earth, under Zachary’s guard, for centuries. Even when he finally returns to the Penultimate, Michael could redispatch him within a blink.” I feel guilty saying it, admitting to my selfishness. “I don’t want to root for the End Days. That’s not a very ascended-soul thing to do.”

  “Ah, Miranda, you’re too hard on yourself.” Harrison laughs again. “Think about bacon-fried rice instead! Call me an optimist, but I say that heavenly pleasures sound even more tantalizing than earthly ones.”

  He seems bemused by the concept. “In any case, we’ll find out soon enough, Your Highness, what blessings eternity holds. I’m itching for a cigar myself.”

  THE SCREAM AT MIDNIGHT seeps into my nightmare. The shouts that follow wake me up. By the time I make my way down the hall, Bridget is already in Lucy’s arms. Her neck is bleeding from two fang marks. She’s babbling something about Mr. Bilovski’s saving her life. I notice Andrew’s head on the hallway floor. His body lies not far away.

  Mr. Bilovski is standing outside Bridget’s open doorway. He’s holding my battle-axe. There’s blood on the blade. I wrench it away from him. “I’ll take that back now.”

  “No weapons allowed,” he insists.