by Alice Bell
13. Devon
MUSCLES HAD a name—Jep. He was my roommate, and he was from L.A. At least, that’s where he’d been made. He’d escaped once, did his time, and slowly worked his way up to military police, the highest a demon could go in the current regime. He aspired to be a soldier in the New Army, a progressive experiment currently underway.
“Why’d they pick you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. We’d had this conversation before.
I was headed for the New Army, after assimilation, as the first (ever) demon recruit. Even in the days when demons aided in missions, they’d never fought side by side with angels.
The progressives hoped I would pave the way for other demons to join the New Army. I was supposed prove demon soldiers could be a valuable asset in the quest to capture wayward demons in the human world. The philosophy behind the experiment was: It takes one to know one; a two-fold plan. By raising the standard of life for demons in the realm, escape and recidivism rates would drop. It was a win win, the progressives argued, sure to tip the scales in their favor, in the upcoming election.
Conservatives thought handling the demon problem was a lot simpler. Just clamp down harder. Currently, they held the majority four to three.
Jep had been appointed my assimilation guide. For him, I was both an opportunity to earn points, and a sore reminder of what the crime of his escape had cost him.
“You really have no idea who sired you?” he said, in a musing tone.
I lay on my back in my narrow bed.
I had an idea. I didn’t feel like talking about it.
It was after lights out. The rules on the ninth floor reminded me of camp.
“I heard about it happening,” Jep went on. “But shit. You figure it’s just urban myth. Don’t you think they know who your sire is? The archangels? And that’s why they picked you?”
Jep was one of those rare conspiracy theorists who believed those conspiring knew best.
“Maybe,” I said.
I’d spent the day pretending to study the political history of the realm, but since I’d come through the portal with my eidetic memory intact, I didn’t really have to study. The information was all stored away, ready to be accessed, as needed.
I wanted to sleep.
I needed to sleep.
I felt on the verge of sleep deprivation, something we’d been warned about on the first day of assimilation. The signs were hunger (I couldn’t get enough of the rations), constant fatigue (I slogged around after Jep who bored me senseless), extreme irritability (I wanted to strangle him) and, in severe cases, hallucinations (I felt my hands squeezing Jep’s meaty neck).
The glowing numerals above our door said it was half past midnight. But the angels controlled daylight and nightfall, so it wasn’t real. The realm wasn’t the earth, rotating around the sun. It was a giant machine.
Still, time marched on, somehow. You saw it in the stooped bodies and time-worn faces of the demons. This mystery, the incomprehensible passing of time, posed a quandary. If I managed to escape, how could I be sure to get to the 21st century? I figured it was a technology trick. Or maybe magic.
It bothered me to think of screwing up history by going back in time. Maybe I’d seen too many episodes of Dr. Who. But not knowing the future, I wasn’t eager to go there, either.
I just wanted to go home. Fucking Sarah.
My mind roved.
Jep had gone quiet. I figured he’d talked himself to sleep.
I nodded off, until his voice roused me. “They don’t want a real soldier,” he said.
Christ.
Was he doing it on purpose? Those deprived of sleep performed poorly on tests. If I didn’t pass assimilation, he could recommend himself to take my place as the first demon soldier in the New Army.
But that was paranoid (another sign of sleep deprivation). It would be bad for Jep if he couldn’t get me through assimilation. Because the archangels had picked me. While Jep didn’t appear to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, (though who knew, really) he was crafty enough to have risen up through the system despite his criminal record.
“What they want is a symbol,” Jep said. “A handsome face to draw the crowds.”
It was the first time he’d said anything remotely critical. Or remotely interesting.
14. Zadie
ONE NIGHT, in early spring, Zadie woke to footsteps in the corridor outside her room at the sanitarium.
She was tucked under the covers, her limbs heavy from slumber. When the steps stopped at her door, she bolted upright. Just as she caught Inka’s scent, the lock snapped and the door swung open.
“Inka!” she sprung out of bed, overcome with joy to see her sire, and also, tremulous with fear.
Inka’s eyes locked on hers, before she flew at her. Zadie threw up her arms in defense, but she was no match for her sire. Inka tossed Zadie onto the bed with ease and pinned her wrists.
A million questions ping-ponged in Zadie’s mind, the most important being: Am I in trouble? But Inka laughed and kissed Zadie on both cheeks. “Are you glad to see me?”
“God, yes.”
“I had a hell of a time finding you. Holed up in here like a crazy person. Not a very glamourous disguise,” a smile curved at Inka’s lips, before she settled on the bed; her back against the wall, ankles crossed.
She wore jeans and biker boots, a fashionably distressed leather jacket. She’d shorn off her long black locks. The cut illuminated the perfect oval of her face. She oozed sex appeal.
Zadie sat up, her wrists burning where Inka had gripped them.
“I heard you made it out,” Inka said. “In good time too.” She gave Zadie a meaningful glance. “Did you name-drop me in the realm?” Her eyes shone with expectation.
“Oh yeah,” Zadie said. “Of course. Demons worship you there.”
Inka beamed. The compliment (homage) made her gentle. “I’ve been searching high and low for you, my darling. To the ends of the earth. I couldn’t stop until I found you.”
Zadie didn’t believe Inka had spent the whole time searching for her. She would have appeared long ago, if that were true. And Zadie realized she held it against Inka, a tiny bit. Inka had abandoned her in Nicaragua. Thrown Zadie to the angels.
Yet, hadn’t Inka put herself in danger to warn Zadie that night?
Getting captured was Zadie’s own fault. She’d been too drunk. Drunk from Enid’s energy; her delicious jealousies and unrequited passion for Devon. Zadie had been high too, high on the idea of putting Enid out of her misery, once and for all.
I was stupid.
Inka intuited her thoughts. “That’s right, Zadie. You screwed the pooch in Nicaragua. In more ways than one.” Her tone was low and even, but still scathing. Inka’s mood shifted as easily as the wind across the desert. “Devon almost got away from us,” she said. “Had it not been for me. That is.”
Shame swept over Zadie. She yearned to make Inka proud. Her duty, as Inka’s offspring, was to reflect Inka’s perfection back at her. Inka deserved nothing less. She had given Zadie the gift of immortality.
“I have some bad news,” Inka said, after a moment.
Zadie’s stomach churned.
No, not Devon. Please … in the name of Ishtar.
“Babylon is gone. Along with the other connections up the Gulf coast. Demons are going underground. Did you know? Is that why you’re hiding out in this shithole?”
Zadie went to put a wooden chair under the handle of the door.
Inka watched her. “What’s with the locks?”
“I don’t want the nurses coming in when I’m sleeping.”
Inka snorted. “You need to practice your mind compulsion, like I taught you.”
Anger coursed through Zadie’s veins. I’ve had to manage on my own. But to Inka, she said, “I missed you.”
I needed you.
“Move the chair, Zadie. Put it back where it belongs.”
Zadie did as she was told.
&n
bsp; “Come here, Little One,” Inka patted the bed next to her. “Everything will be alright now. I’m here.”
Zadie felt warm when Inka called her Little One. She eagerly crawled into bed, next to Inka.
“Rest your head in my lap,” Inka said. “I have good news too. Do you want to hear?”
15. Ruby
WHEN I sold my grandmother’s house, I took only our personal things (mine and hers), the cherry cabinet and record player and the piano. I left the rest of the furniture, and drapes, Oriental rugs, even the downstairs paintings. They were imitations done by an artful hand, someone my grandmother knew in Florence, but no one of any significance to me.
Of course, I had to take the paintings Javier had done of my mother. I wrapped them in velvet and put them in the back seat of the Cadillac, along with my valise.
I didn’t meet the new owners but I knew they were a family, a husband and wife with a little girl. In my childhood bedroom, on the four poster bed, which the real estate agent said the girl had exclaimed over, I left my most beautiful copy of Wuthering Heights. It had pages edged in gold, a red silk ribbon to mark your place.
When I pulled the book off the shelf, I found the ribbon on the illustration depicting Catherine’s confession (to Nelly) of her degrading love for Heathcliff. “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
I ran my hand over the glossy page, feeling the most terrible sadness, as if I were Catherine. A tear plopped down. I quickly rubbed it off, thinking I must have been crying, finally, over selling the house. I’d been numbed by shock, at first.
But deep down, I knew it was something more. I thought it had to do with the missing pages in my own memory. Where had I gone those three days? And whom had I met? Dr. Sinclair was sure I hadn’t left the house. She didn’t think me capable. She believed fear would have kept me inside, behind locked doors.
As I drove through the gate for the last time, I felt a strange kind of quiet inside. I had dreaded this day for so long. And now, it had come. And gone.
I took one last glance in the rearview mirror. I watched the black wrought iron gate slowly close.
* * *
Henry was late. He often was and never called to explain why. Yet, he always arrived, eventually. I knew I should be more relaxed about these things. After all, I’d been late to our first date. He probably thought it was no big deal.
So far, I’d kept myself together in front of him. He hadn’t been exposed to the real depths of my lunacy.
My new apartment was the penthouse in a restored building in the heart of China Town, the new uptown, according to my agent. Movers had packed my books, records and clothes into boxes, and loaded them into a van with the cherry cabinet and piano.
The piano was placed by the vista window, according to my instructions, and the record player stood against the far brick wall. The boxes were all dumped in the middle of the loft.
I was nearly done unpacking the books. I stood up, stretched and sidled a glance at my new phone on the bar. It was an Android and though I claimed not to like it, I was already hooked. The screen was dark. No pulsing blue light alerted me to any missed calls. Still, I snatched the phone, to check the log, to make sure.
It was ten to eleven. Henry had said he’d drop by at nine. “Around nine,” he’d said.
I went to the window to look out at the glittering lights. Cars moved up and down Irving Street. Neon signs flashed over seedy bars wedged between fine restaurants and high end night clubs.
China Town was the oldest part of the city, built in a neo-Gothic style by the Masons. My favorite building was across the street. It had stained glass windows and a skylight with a red rose at its center. I had asked my agent about it. She said it wasn’t for sale. But I found the door ajar one day, and stole inside.
I stood in the middle of the foyer, turning around, admiring the artistry of the dark-stained woodwork. I stared up at the Cathedral ceiling, at the light pouring in through the red glass, and I promised myself that if the building was ever for sale, I would buy it.
The next day, when I walked past, there was a heavy lock on the door. And now, just this afternoon, I noticed signs of renovating; scaffolding at the windows and balconies, a dumpster parked on the street.
I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of soda. I felt tired and hyper, at the same time. I opened a box of records but I couldn’t focus. What in the world was Henry doing? It was Saturday night. He wouldn’t stand me up to go out with someone else, would he?
I went into the bathroom with its turquoise art-deco tiles, and mirrored vanity. I brushed my hair until it was shiny. My skin had got better too, since I didn’t wear so much make-up. I was used to the sight of my bare eyelashes.
But I felt an urge to line my eyes in coal, to cover my freckles with white powder, to dress in layers of black lace. I was being pulled by the waterfront, and Embers. The need was burning inside me, the need to get away from myself … and the silent phone.
It was past my bed time.
I had to take care of my health.
But I was sliding down, fast, and I hated myself for it. I didn’t know why I was this way, so afraid to be alone and still, always alone. I watched the shadows on the walls, listened to the strange muffled sounds from the busy street below.
The world had taken on a surreal quality; shifting and looming. I was so caught up, I almost didn’t hear the phone, when it finally rang.
16. Zadie
INKA STROKED Zadie’s hair. “Promise not to get too excited. When I tell you.” She smoothed Zadie’s fine blonde eyebrows. Her touch was hypnotic but Zadie couldn’t relax. She was taut with anticipation. Surely, the good news had to do with Devon.
She closed her eyes and willed her body to loosen, knowing it was what Inka wanted.
Inka sighed, as she massaged Zadie’s temples. “It’s no use. You’re as tense as a demon in Rome,” she giggled, girlishly. She had a personality for every mood. Zadie didn’t know which of Inka’s personalities she liked best. Each one was laced with danger.
“Devon has been here,” Inka said.
Zadie’s breath caught. “Here?”
“Not here. Not in this bed, silly. Not likely he’d hang out in the sanitarium. Darling, guess what?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “You’ll never guess.”
Zadie sat up to look into Inka’s eyes. “He’s in town.”
“Devon Slaughter owns a building in this very city.”
Zadie’s mind spun. “You mean, I’ve been so close to him all this time … and—and not known?”
Inka’s dark brows furrowed. “Well, not exactly. He’s gone.”
“What?” Zadie stared, waiting for the good news.
“Without a trace it would appear,” Inka said.
Zadie’s heart fluttered. “But—I don’t understand. Where is he?” She thought Inka must know. Inka knew everything. Why is Inka leading me on? Torturing me?
“Zadie, Devon has been here,” Inka’s tone was becoming impatient. “Devon has left his mark. Can’t you see? It’s good news.”
But uncertainty licked at Zadie’s mind.
She could never forget the horror of angel wings beating the dark sky, the poisonous venom of the net around her, pulling her down through the cold water, down and down into the mouth of the realm.
And Zadie had seen the red sky in Prague, the night the angels took flight and slayed a thousand demons.
She slumped on the bed. Grief made her weak. She needed to feed. She was ravenous with sorrow. She hugged her knees and rocked.
“Now, now,” Inka was annoyed. “None of that. You’re acting like a human. Like a baby. You should see yourself. It’s quite ugly.”
For once, Zadie was beyond Inka’s wrath. She curled on her side and moaned. “The angels got him … they killed him.”
“You don’t know that,” Inka said.
“I do know,” she cried. “I know it in my heart. Devon is dead.” She mashed her face into the pil
low. Her shoulders heaved. It was her fault. If Inka hadn’t turned Devon, for her, he would still be alive.
In the next instant, pain seared her scalp. Inka yanked her off the bed by her hair. Zadie screamed, a sound that wasn’t foreign in the sanitarium.
Inka dragged her across the floor. A rusty nail on the floor cut into Zadie’s back.
They scuffled.
Zadie landed a kick to Inka’s knee, before Inka wrenched her to her feet. “Stop it.” Red veins stained the whites of Inka’s eyes. She struck a blow so hard Zadie’s teeth rattled.
Zadie’s own hand shot out. The feel of Inka’s hot flesh beneath her palm gratified her … for an instant. Then, she gasped and scuttled into the corner. She covered her head with her arms. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
An ominous quiet hovered.
Inka moved behind her. Zadie felt her heat.
But when Inka spoke, she was gentle and maternal. “Zadie … oh, Zadie. I only slapped you because you were hysterical. Never rush to your own conclusions in my presence. And never lose control like that. I can’t abide it. Now, turn around, and look at me.”
Gazing into Inka’s eyes was like gazing into a lake of darkness.
“I feel your pain, Zadie,” she said. “Our sorrows are one and the same. But so is our glory. We have given Devon the same glory, something you should never regret, no matter the circumstances. I wouldn’t have turned Devon without his consent. Except, oh, darling. I had to.” She took Zadie’s hand and led her to the bed. “Sit down, and listen to what I have to tell you.”
Zadie sat with her hands in her lap, calmed by Inka’s power that washed over her like sunlight.
“Your beloved Devon was dying. From the bite of a tiny mosquito. He was weakened by your lovemaking. He couldn’t fight the fever.”
A tear leaked from Zadie’s eye.
“Don’t cry,” Inka sounded on the verge of snapping again. “Such a display of human weakness is beneath you. Understand?”
Zadie nodded.
