Diabolical

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  In light of Mrs. Bilovski’s warning, the students voted four to three to sleep upstairs tonight, though Bridget, Lucy, and Vesper are all staying in Vesper’s room.

  A couple of hours after dinner, I find Nigel alone downstairs. He’s positioned himself in a chair in front of the fireplace in the formal living room. As usual, he has a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s wearing his slippers, and his silk robe reminds me of a smoking jacket. Hugh Hefner Jr.

  I wonder if Nigel has, even for a moment, had a stimulant-free system since he staggered through the front door. Has he always been this way? Or is this a self-medication strategy?

  “Want one?” he asks, holding up an unopened bottle from the table beside him.

  “Sure.” He’s grieving Willa. Silently. Privately. Trying to man up or some such nonsense. “You loved her. As in, you were in love with her.”

  “It wasn’t mutual.” He shrugs. “Anyway, she turned out to be every bit as disposable as I was. Like a live mouse that you buy to feed to your pet snake. Not that I’m surprised.”

  “Because?” Assuming you knew what was in store, sending your kid here is the de facto equivalent of infanticide. Someone like Vesper may have been raised to compete in this environment, but Willa was fragile.

  “Her parents, the Wimberleys, they were a piece of work. They had this prenup where if Mrs. W. ever topped 105 pounds, Dr. W. could divorce her free and clear, including child support.”

  “Doctor?” I prompt.

  “Plastic surgeon,” Nigel explains. “You know, Las Vegas. There’s a lot of money to be made off the showgirls alone. The doc did all the work on his wife and Willa, too. She got breast implants for her last birthday. The procedure was mystical or maybe just experimental. I’m not sure. But when something went wrong with them, Daddy took the originals out and put in new ones.”

  I’m disgusted by the thought of a father cutting into his own child that way, putting her at risk for no good reason. “You two had some idea of what you were walking into. Why didn’t you —?”

  “Run like hell?” He takes a puff. “You can’t run away from this place. Or at least, you can’t run from where it leads. Or at least, I can’t.”

  I twist off the cap. “What makes you say that?”

  “Destiny,” he replies, like it’s funny somehow.

  “Crystal ball?” I stroll around the room to make sure no one’s lurking around a corner. “Psychic?” I snap my fingers. “Let me guess: somebody read your cards.”

  No reply. “Tea leaves?”

  Once I’m satisfied we’re alone, I take the chair across from his. The beer would taste better cold. I’m surprised that Nigel’s stash wasn’t confiscated like our weapons.

  I gesture to his cigarette. “There’s a reason people call those things coffin nails.”

  He meets my gaze. “Is it time for me to go? To finally meet my maker? Is that why you’re here, to take me to him?”

  The way Nigel is looking at me, I wonder if Lucifer’s face has manifested over mine, the way it did in the restroom mirror just before I talked to Josh.

  I shake my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He elects not to explain.

  For a while, we sit in companionable silence and drink. I can hear the girls’ voices upstairs, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Finally, I can’t help myself. I’m curious. “How do you know what’s destined?”

  It’s possible that the boy has precognition, second sight.

  Nigel takes a long drag, puffs the smoke out in rings. “I’ve died before. Nothing supernatural about it. I’d turned ten a few days earlier. Willa’s parents — the Wimberleys — had put in a pool the month before and already hosted two parties to christen it — one for their business associates, one for their coven or whatever it is.

  “I hadn’t been allowed outside much,” Nigel goes on. “A tutor came each morning. Willa didn’t have an easy life, but she got to go with her parents to the country club, shopping. She got to leave for sleepovers at her friends’ houses. It didn’t bother me as much as you’d think. I’d become vaguely agoraphobic.”

  “But you wanted to swim?”

  “I didn’t know how,” Nigel says. “Maybe because it was forbidden . . . They had this fear of my being around water, fire —”

  “There’s power in the elements.”

  “Long story short,” he adds, “I drowned. The backyard neighbor saw me go down. He brought me back, or maybe it was the EMTs. I remember a shadowy whirlpool. A voice called to me.” Nigel blinks at the sinister-looking print above the fireplace. “He said I already belonged to him. He said that I always had.”

  “The voice lied.” I finish off my beer. “Because of this near-death experience you think you’re damned?” When he doesn’t reply, I lean forward. “Don’t you see? It’s the opposite. Nigel, you were sent back! You got a second chance.”

  He gives me a long, measured look and snuffs out his cigarette on the glass coffee table. “You know, I never thought about it like that.” Nigel glances at his watch. “It’s five till ten. We’d better get upstairs while we can still see where we’re going.”

  On the second floor, Nigel says goodnight. “I still catch sight of him sometimes,” he tells me, “the man with the voice.”

  “The voice from . . .?”

  “When I died. It’s strange. He looks a little like me and a lot like you. Not your coloring or features, but he’s tall like you. Taller actually, and broader. Like a gladiator.”

  I wonder if Nigel’s memories are more psychological than metaphysical. “There are a lot of big guys in the world.”

  “True.” He lets himself into his room. “But how many of them have wings?”

  Whoa. “You can see my wings?”

  Nigel reaches into his shirt pocket for a fresh cigarette. “Can’t everybody?”

  SP goes dark. I hear his latch click shut and the dead bolt slide into place.

  I would’ve never guessed. Nigel is pure of heart.

  FREEDOM, FOREST. One, the same. I run. I seek pack, home, meat, mate. Escape the trap, still bleeding. Blood scent prey. But where?

  Open. Out! Prey fleeing. Lunge to bite. It gets away.

  Chase blocked. Wind shifts. Puzzling, puzzling.

  There! Paws slip. Tumble, bruise, tear. Yelp.

  Prey gone. No matter. Heat, ache, heavy, straining.

  Mate here. Tongue, teeth. Hers, mine.

  Slap! “Kieren!” I’m midshift. Quince is shaking me. “Kieren, can you hear me? Do you know who I am?” She shakes me harder. “Do you know who you are?”

  Quince struck my cheek. My whole face radiates pain. I catch her forearm before she can slap me again. “I’m back.”

  My half-shift retracts. I pull her into my arms. “How —”

  “Sabine,” she whispers, showing fangs. “You’re hurt. God, Kieren, your face.”

  “Shh.” This kiss is as tender as the last one was fierce. I wish she hadn’t come after us. But I’m not surprised. I try to lighten the moment. “I don’t suppose you thought to leave the front door propped open?”

  Quince frowns. “Was it a nightmare? A spell?”

  Both? It felt so real. Except when I shift, I’m more me. I maintain my human mind. That was a seriously wolfy experience. “I thought I’d found prey. . . .”

  “That would be me.” Evie staggers in.

  Oh, God. In my haze, I mistook her for prey. I bit her left hip.

  “I made it to the elevator,” she explains. “Came out when I heard voices.”

  Running a hand through my hair, I move to help her.

  When Evie shrinks back, Quince goes to support her from the other side. “Kieren tends to suppress his Wolf nature,” she explains, her teeth normal again. “Sometimes his subconscious gets frustrated, and he loses control.”

  “You think?” Evie winces.

  It’s a valid explanation. Except I’ve had full control over my shift s
ince the first time I managed to go all the way to Wolf and back last fall. “I’m not saying this to excuse myself,” I begin. “But I think somebody’s yanking my chain.”

  Quince tracks my gaze to the portrait above the fireplace. “Freaky,” she says.

  To: Joshua

  From: Michael

  Date: Thursday, January 9

  Your last several A-127B forms have been uncharacteristically vague in reporting on your principle assignment, the angel Zachary.

  Effective immediately, I require more thorough updates. Be mindful of this in future reports.

  WHEN I STROLL into the bedroom, after my morning shower, Quincie tosses me my robe. “You’d better put this on,” she says. “My Wolf man is very understanding about our being such good friends, but —”

  “Quincie,” I say, not even trying for the catch.

  Dressed in a Scholomance uniform, she’s ready for class.

  I’m mad at her for being here. I’m furious at myself for creating a situation where she felt compelled to come. Not that hand-wringing will help now.

  “Robe,” she reminds me. She points at it from beside the window wall.

  As I slip the robe on, she explains how Sabine vouched for her admission and tells me what happened last night after the taxi dropped her off.

  “Evie is moving slowly,” Quincie says, “but given Otter healing rates, she should be almost back to normal in a couple of days. The rest of the students don’t know, and Evie insists that they don’t have to.”

  Understood. If word gets out that Kieren’s Wolf went rogue, he’ll lose the others’ trust. As awful as it is that Quincie is here, at least she can help keep him in check.

  “And Kieren?” I ask.

  “He reopened the wounds from the hellhounds, but it could’ve been worse. Mostly, he’s freaked out and embarrassed about having bitten Evie on the butt.”

  “Evelyn escaped through the elevator?” I ask.

  Quincie nods. “From what she said, it was right there.”

  “It always is after lights out.” I vaguely recall Mr. Bilovski telling me that.

  “Try to stay clear of the handyman,” I warn her. “His wife, too.” I grab my Scholomance uniform and go back in the bathroom. Keeping the door cracked open, I fill Quincie in on Bilovski’s beheading Andrew. Then I return to the main room and gesture at what was my locked door. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

  “Broke the lock,” she replies. “I can’t budge the front door, the walls, or the windows, but the interior doors aren’t as tough.”

  It would be hypocritical, as her GA, to complain about boundaries. Besides, the room locks couldn’t stop Ulman. Bridget’s didn’t stop Andrew. If anything, the blasted thing would just slow me down if somebody screamed. If I’d slept with the door open, I might’ve heard Kieren wolfing out down the hall last night.

  I sit on the corner of the bed to pull on my socks. Then bend to tie my shoes.

  “Zachary,” Quincie begins again. “You’re acting so . . . not you.”

  When I stand up, she takes a step closer. “Do you need a hug?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

  Ulman materializes in the seminar room promptly at 9 A.M. “Good morning, students. I see our tenth scholar has arrived. Class, this is Quincie Morris.”

  At breakfast, Evelyn, who’s convinced Quincie saved her life last night, sang the neophyte vampire’s praises as best she could without actually revealing what happened.

  The other girls, except Lucy, looked horrified to have a known vampire among them. They compensated by being overly polite. Vesper included. Nigel, on the other hand, nearly fell out of his chair because he was so wowed by Quince’s preternatural sex appeal.

  Ulman clasps her ghostly hands together, preening. “I was a tenth scholar, too,” she says to Quincie, which doesn’t help.

  I recall Van Helsing’s words: “. . . the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due.”

  Kieren demands, “What do you mean? There are only eight of us here.”

  “You’re forgetting Willa,” Ulman replies. “And Andrew.”

  “I’ll never forget Willa,” Nigel puts in.

  I clench my fists. “Andrew never even made it to class.”

  “Nevertheless,” Ulman counters, “he was an enrolled student. Lucy, Vesper, Andrew, Evelyn, Zachary, Kieren, Bridget, Willa, Nigel, and Quincie. That’s the roll call for the first class of Scholomance Preparatory Academy. Those were the names given to me when I was initially assigned to this post.”

  I’ve known since my dream — or hallucination — of Miranda that it was no coincidence, Lucy coming to the school and my following her here. But until this moment, I didn’t fully appreciate how contrived the whole Scholomance experience has been.

  Quincie is special. Her refusal to give in to her bloodlust should serve as an inspiration, especially to others who are demonically infected.

  I get how that threatens Lucifer. I can see where he’d personally throw his full devious energy to orchestrate laying claim to her soul. Too bad for him.

  Quincie isn’t just my assignment. She’s the little sister I never had.

  I’m not giving her up to the adversary. I’m not giving up any of these kids.

  AFTER PHYSICAL FITNESS & COMBAT, Ulman disappears again and Quincie lingers in the gym and chats with Evelyn. They’ll wait until everyone else has left. Then Quincie will help the injured Otter to her room.

  The other girls wander toward the stairs, Nigel trailing them.

  I motion to Kieren to follow me to the elevator so we can talk on the way up.

  He begins. “About Quincie being the tenth —”

  “I know,” I whisper. “If we could get to the roof, I could fly everyone to safety, one at a time. But I’ve gauged the width of the halls. My wings are useless inside.”

  “Hey, guys,” Nigel calls. “Hold the door. I’ll ride up with you.”

  I’d hoped to talk to Kieren in private, but Nigel is starting to grow on me.

  Once he’s inside, I hit 2 and ask Kieren about trying a reversal spell. “That way, if someone tries to ring the bell or knock on the door, they won’t be magically electrocuted.”

  “Electrocuted?” Nigel echoes. “Like, electrocuted?”

  “Unless you’re an enrolled student, faculty member, or staff member,” Kieren explains. “It’s not exactly electrocution. It’s flashier than that.”

  According to Quincie, Scholomance’s communication efforts on behalf of its students aren’t all that convincing. Sooner or later, somebody — like Kieren’s mom — is going to show up to check on him. I’d rather she not lose her life over it.

  “Returning the building to its normal state should be easier than imposing a paranormal condition on it,” the Wolf explains. “My knowledge base is academic, though. Not practical. We have Lucifer’s library upstairs. But we can’t trust what’s in those books.”

  The look on Kieren’s face says he’s doing good to trust himself. It occurs to me that this must be especially hard on him. He’s always turned to books for answers.

  “About the resurrection spell,” Nigel begins, “the one we tried for Willa. It might’ve made a difference if the dragon eye had been fresh.”

  “Because fresh dragons are lying around everywhere.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out. Sarcasm isn’t helpful. “Ignore me. I’m frustrated.”

  “We all are,” Kieren replies.

  The elevator doors open, and the three of us step onto the second floor.

  On our way to the kitchenette, Kieren adds, “Dragon eyes are rare. Powerful. It might’ve been used in enchanting the building. In raising Ulman from hell. Or even in creating the mystic fires in the fireplaces.”

  As we pass Bridget’s and Lucy’s rooms, I reply, “You’re saying there’s a chance that the dragon eye was key to the security spell on the outer building?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the Wolf reminds me. “The eye has been confisca
ted, too. I think we should visit the Bilovskis’ apartment. It’s a stone unturned.”

  Lucy says, “Howdy” as we join the girls in the kitchenette.

  “Kieren!” Bridget exclaims, drumming her fingers on the cover of her Bible. “Ask Vesper why she hasn’t started her term paper for Underworld Governments.”

  He indulges her. “Vesper, why haven’t you started your term paper?”

  The other girls are seated at the table. (Somebody broke out a deck of cards.)

  Vesper is doing leg lifts. She’s using the counter like a ballet barre. “Because my topic is zombies.”

  Nigel laughs. “Zombies don’t have a government. They just shuffle around.”

  Vesper raises her free arm, rises on her toes. “That’s my thesis statement.”

  The visit to the Bilovskis’ first-floor apartment is a strictly volunteer mission.

  “No pressure,” Kieren emphasizes.

  In the end, it’s decided that all of us together might be overwhelming, but nobody should go alone. So, it’ll be me, Kieren, and Lucy.

  At our knock, Mrs. Bilovski opens the door. “Problem?” she asks. “Toilet overflowing? Lightbulb burned out? The mister isn’t here right now, but —”

  “This is a social call,” Lucy says. “I’m sorry we’re unannounced. If you’d like, we’d be happy to reschedule.” She presents a tissue-wrapped package. “Regardless, I hope you’ll accept this hostess gift.”

  It’s a shockingly effective southwestern-lady social pitch.

  Mrs. Bilovski invites us in. “May I get you something to drink?” She takes a step toward a kitchenette similar to the one we share on the second floor.

  “Please don’t go to any trouble,” Lucy replies. “You already do so much for us.”

  Mrs. Bilovski fidgets with the gift. She takes a seat in a chair next to Lucy’s. On the sofa across from them, Kieren and I trade a look. We’ll let Lucy do the talking.

  The décor matches the rest of the house. Unlike the students, though, the Bilovskis have a separate bedroom and the in-unit kitchen.