Diabolical

  Suddenly, the entire building goes pitch-black. “What now?” I ask.

  “Lights-out at 10 P.M.,” Kieren replies. “You want the flashlight? I brought it in from the car.” He doesn’t rub in how much better he can see in the dark.

  “No, you hang on to it.”

  I stay up until well past midnight, waiting. No Josh.

  EARLIER, HARRISON SET UP a hammock in my suite because the place “needed more whimsy,” and Mr. Nesbit has been running around, chewing on the ropes. As I focus my monitor-com on Quincie, the gerbil scampers up my leg and into my sweater pocket.

  At the B and B, Quincie is seated behind her laptop in front of an antique desk and chatting with Freddy on the phone. “We’re talking nothing. Nada. I sent a dozen messages to both of them, and I’ve received one ridiculously generic text from each.”

  Quincie’s oversize T-shirt reads FAT LORENZO’S, and her strawberry curls are twisted up with a scrunchie. Listening, she cocks her head. “They said that they were busy getting acclimated to school and having fun, and they’d get back to me later.”

  A brown bag labeled GREEN MOUNTAIN BUTCHER SHOP has been left empty on the dresser. Quincie continues, “I didn’t get too personal. You’re the one who said that their communications might be intercepted.”

  This afternoon, Quincie called Hawaii to tell the Moraleses that Kieren and Zachary had decided to go fishing. Then she changed the subject to the luau wedding.

  I adjust the controls on my monitor-com. Back at the academy, Lucy sits cross-legged in new candy-cane pj’s on the tile floor in front of the coffee table in the casual lounge. She’s alone, it’s dark, and she doesn’t try to turn on the overheads.

  Instead, she sets a lighted lavender votive candle in front of her. “I should have a mirror,” she whispers. “Or a bowl of water. But it’s not like I expect you to talk back.”

  The flame illuminates her face. “Howdy, Miranda,” she begins again. “I’ve been looking for you. If Zachary is telling the truth, then you already know that.”

  Her eyes well up. “I’m sorry I dragged you out that night. I knew you didn’t want to go. We should’ve stayed in and watched movies. Chick flicks, whatever you wanted.” She lowers her voice even more, almost mouthing the words. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  I can’t comfort her. I can’t tell her that I’m safe here with Mr. Nesbit.

  “I believe Zachary — story, wings, the whole enchilada. Or maybe I just want to believe because this place is scarier than I thought it would be.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “Can’t argue with the view, though. I’m guessing by the way he talks about you that y’all are an item.” She wipes away a single tear and laughs. “That’s one hunky immortal boyfriend you’ve got.”

  At the knock on my door, I reluctantly turn off my monitor-com. “Coming!”

  It’s Harrison. No one else visits me. I collect Mr. Nesbit, deposit him in his tank, and cross the apartment again to open the door. “Harrison, I was looking down on . . .”

  The girl is attractive and slender. She has slightly drooping blue eyes.

  “Who’re you?” I ask.

  “Cissy!” She holds up a back issue of Eternal Elegance. “I’m your biggest fan!”

  Yikes! I snatch the magazine from her. On the cover is a photograph of me, wrapped only in a sparkling crimson scarf. A long, flowing, transparent scarf. “I’m not this . . . thing anymore.” I’m also not so naked on a public basis.

  “I know!” Cissy exclaims, bouncing in place. “That’s the best part. Can I come in?” She skips by me. “I adore your suite. It’s incredibly normal. I asked Harrison if it looked like the wine cellar or your third-floor nursery in the castle.”

  Mystified, I watch her peruse my shelves. “You know Harrison, the castle?” I ask.

  “Since before I died,” Cissy replies, picking up a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. “Not well. I’d hear him and the other servants talking about you when they’d come to drop off meals in the dungeon.” She grins. “This will sound weird, but the hamburger gravy was delicious.”

  Nora’s hamburger gravy. That cinches it! Cissy was one of many among the Mantle of Dracul’s bleeding stock, humans kept captive for the convenience of thirsty eternals. Other than the stark cells and terror and bloodletting, their lot wasn’t all bad. I wonder if Cissy ever had a chance to try Nora’s quiche Lorraine.

  “Don’t worry,” Cissy says, returning the book to the shelf. “You didn’t kill me. I died as a party favor at your debut gala. I was one of the prisoners chained to a courtyard wall. The vampire who drained me was a guy wearing a necklace made of baby teeth.”

  She’s talking about Victor, an eternal aristocrat — and she’s chatting casually under the circumstances. I toss the magazine onto the coffee table. “You’re not upset about that?”

  If this weren’t the Penultimate, I’d assume that she’s come to avenge her death.

  “At first I was upset, but then I became curious about you and the guardian Zachary — now he’s heaven in blue jeans — on my monitor-com.”

  Cissy clasps her hands together. “So, bygones, princess! I feel like we’re old friends. Besides, we’re in paradise now! Well, almost. This is our new beginning. It’s like we’re made of light. Can’t you feel it? The warmth? The Light?”

  Not exactly. I feel split, as if the best of me remains on earth with Zachary. I feel helpless and frustrated and occasionally furious that he’s in danger. Most of all, here at the Penultimate, I feel like I don’t belong.

  Deflated, my ADD poster child of a fan girl retrieves her copy of Eternal Elegance. “Can I at least have your autograph?”

  NOT ALL ANGELS ARE INNOCENTS. I surrender to the dream; I’m grateful for it.

  I revel in Miranda in my arms, by my side. Her delicate fingertips circle the cherub tattoo over my heart, and she hooks a slim calf around my thigh.

  “My angel,” she sighs. “Zachary.”

  My lips trail lower. I whisper songs into her sweet skin.

  My girl. How can I love her? How many ways? I’ll try them all before dawn.

  “No!” She pushes my hands away and scrambles off the bed. “You can’t tempt me!”

  Passion gives way to confusion. My murky, dreamlike state begins to fade. We’re in my room at the school. She’s reaching for a sheet to cover herself.

  “Miranda?” She can’t be here. It’s impossible. Isn’t it? If Ulman rose all the way from hell, could my girl have journeyed here from heaven?

  “Never touch me again!” Miranda exclaims. “Never! You failed me, Zachary. Without your interference, I would’ve died a natural death in that cemetery. Every life I took is on your head. It’s a miracle you didn’t cost me my soul.”

  “I tried to save you. I did save you.” Or at least I helped her save herself. “What’s wrong? I don’t under —”

  “You’re home now, Zachary,” she announces, draped in gray cotton like some Egyptian priestess. “Here at Scholomance. You’re far beneath me and still slipping. You’re dragging me down. You, with your drunken nights and look-alike whores, how could I love you after —”

  “Miranda.” I toss aside the comforter cover. “I thought I’d lost you forever. I was grieving. You have to understand.”

  “You are the one who has to understand, Zachary. I no longer love you. Our time together is over. This relationship just isn’t working for me anymore.”

  When I reach for her, there’s nothing there. The sheet she took is tangled with my other bedding. I become aware of an insistent knocking on my door.

  I let Kieren in. “Who were you talking to?” he asks.

  For a moment, I wonder how loud I was. Then I remember that Kieren has the keenest ears in the building and is staying across the hall. “Would you believe it was Miranda?”

  “No,” he says. “I wouldn’t. What do you think it wants?”

  For me to give up on her. For me to give up on the idea of ever returning upstairs. ??
?I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Lucy came here to the school or that we came after her,” I say. “I think this is some kind of sting operation. That it’s personal, to all of us.”

  To me, maybe most of all.

  THE MORNING ALARM is as piercing as it was yesterday. So help me, I’m going to hunt it down whether it’s mystical or mechanical and obliterate the damn thing.

  Breakfast today is much like Monday’s, except that Nigel’s not hungover. He’s buzzed. Eyes dilated. I don’t have to be a shape-shifter to smell it on his breath.

  Kieren, Evelyn, and I elect to skip the SP uniform. The idea of sporting Lucifer’s logo makes my stomach roll. We show up in the classroom a few minutes before 9 A.M. in our regular clothes — T-shirts and jeans.

  Vesper and Willa get creative with their uniforms. I’m not surprised, given the way they’d griped about the dress code last night after dinner. Both girls are wearing their SP shirts open and tied at the waist over silky undershirts. Camisoles, I think they’re called.

  Everyone else looks fairly regulation.

  What I don’t get is that the supplied clothes all fit perfectly. Maybe the other students indicated their sizes on a form, but Kieren and I didn’t.

  Today Ulman’s manifestation at the head of the classroom is less dramatic. She appears in the same formal gown. I wonder if she died in it.

  “Today is the first . . .” Ulman’s dead eyes widen. “What is this?” She extracts the lace-trimmed handkerchief from her bodice. “Did the uniforms require further explanation?”

  “From a fashion perspective?” Vesper asks. “Do you have any idea what gray on gray does to a girl’s complexion?”

  Other than Kieren, our declared legacy is the most composed student. Her camisole is forest green. Willa’s, coppery. To Vesper’s credit, I could swear that she’d been trying to give Willa something normal to focus on.

  Ulman waves the hankie at Willa. “We reviewed the policy at orientation.”

  Ulman’s ghostly image wavers again. It briefly seems as if she has four arms — two of her own and two of the devil’s as depicted in his logo and signature art.

  Before I can think more about it, Willa slumps forward on the table.

  “What happened?” Bridget asks as the others rush to help.

  “Oh, my God!” Vesper exclaims. “I think she’s dead.”

  “She is dead,” Ulman confirms.

  In a hollow voice, Nigel mutters, “Eight becomes seven. Who’ll go to heaven?”

  “Shut up!” Lucy yells. “Never, never rhyme again.”

  “It’s true,” Evelyn says in a hushed voice. She has two fingers on Willa’s wrist.

  “Let’s all sit back down,” I suggest, sounding infinitely calmer than I feel, “before someone else dies.”

  That was one hell of a show of power. Ulman didn’t utter any words, use any ingredients, or sacrifice anything. I can see why she got this job.

  “Bring her back,” Nigel screams at Ulman. “Do it now!”

  “My available discretion is limited.” Her gaze lingers a moment on Vesper, each of the shifters, and finally, me. “Be thankful that I didn’t punish all of you.”

  I can’t help wondering why she chose Willa.

  Everyone sits. Kieren leans forward as though nothing tragic has happened. “This is Alchemy and Incantations class,” he says. “Is there a syllabus?”

  Ulman dodges the question. “Today’s assignment is straightforward. A resurrection spell that, if successfully completed by the end of class, will result in Willa’s being brought back to life with no lingering ill effects.”

  “You don’t mean that she’ll be returned undead?” Kieren asks. “As a vampire, a zombie, a revenant —”

  “I mean,” Ulman says, “she will be fully reinstated as a living human being.”

  “At what cost?” I put in.

  “It’s a beginner-level spell,” Ulman replies, which doesn’t answer my question. “A team project. Choose the words that resonate with you. Chant them as a group. Mr. Bilovski is waiting in the elevator with a list of ingredients.”

  Her image begins to recede. “That’s all I know. This isn’t originally my lesson plan. However, it meets prevailing standards. The curriculum is prescribed.”

  Ulman is somehow simultaneously passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive. But is she the devil? And if so, how can she be so powerful aboveground?

  “I’ll return at 10 A.M. for Demonic History,” Ulman says. “Take care that you’re not tardy or in further violation of the dress code.” She doesn’t have to add, “Or else.”

  Kieren is on his feet. “We have to hurry, people. We —”

  “We can’t use demonic magic,” I say. “That way leads to —”

  “The only chance that Willa has,” Vesper argues.

  “If Willa had died a natural death,” Kieren begins again, “I wouldn’t consider trying to undo it. But Dr. Ulman struck her down magically.”

  “Besides,” Bridget says, “if a dress-code violation is a capital offense, who knows what’ll happen if we blow off our first Alchemy and Incantations assignment.”

  Lucy gestures to Willa’s body. “What about . . .”

  Evelyn scoops up the dead girl and gently lays her on the conference table. The Otter shouldn’t be revealing her strength like that, but everyone’s too upset to notice.

  “Should we leave her here alone?” Bridget asks. “What if something happens?”

  “What worse could happen?” Vesper mutters.

  Nigel laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You had to ask. You just had to ask.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Kieren announces. “You heard Dr. Ulman. We have forty-five minutes.” The Wolf glances at the digital wall clock. “Make that forty-one minutes.”

  Bridget pauses, clearly reluctant to be left alone with the body, torn between her sense of propriety and her rising fear.

  “I’ll stay with you,” Nigel offers, regaining his composure. “She’s counting on us, me. I’ve composed incantations before.”

  “I’ll stay, too,” I say, recalling Willa’s stories about Nigel’s sacrificing lizards with sharpened Popsicle sticks.

  The shifters trade a look, like they’re weighing their respective abilities. Then Evelyn offers to remain behind, too.

  I glance at Kieren for confirmation. “You’re just going downstairs to fetch some eye of newt or something, right?”

  “That’s the theory,” he replies.

  LUCY BOLTS OUT OF THE CLASSROOM. Vesper and I dog her heels.

  From behind, I hear Nigel saying, “We should start by free-associating words related to our goal. Like revival, restoration, resurrection . . .”

  He’s either the most manic of the group or the sanest.

  That said, saving Willa isn’t half as important to any of us as it is to him. I don’t think they’re together together. But sometimes that just deepens the ache.

  Mr. Bilovski holds the elevator door. “Mornin’, kids. I’ve got your list here.”

  INGREDIENTS

  Lavender candles

  River rocks

  Eye of dragon

  We ride down. When the elevator opens again, we’re faced with a shadowy subterranean space. It’s not a natural cavern. It looks like a warehouse with a blue-gray rock floor and ceiling. The room may have been blasted out. Or conjured.

  “Did you two catch the elevator code Bilovski keyed in for the subbasement?” Vesper asks. “It’s 666.”

  I should’ve guessed. I make a mental note of it.

  The storage area is filled with long rows of high metal industrial shelves. We pass shelves of school supplies, toiletries, cleaning and laundry supplies, prepackaged food.

  Everything it would take to run a boarding school for at least a year.

  Moving on, the selection gets more interesting. Whole animals and individual organs in jars of formaldehyde. Fetal pigs, octopuses, toads, ape brains.

  Lucy mov
es in for a closer look. “Are those human fetuses?”

  Vesper shakes her head. “Demon. See the little horn buds?”

  “Forgive the dust,” Mr. Bilovski calls. “It was all I could do to get the shelves assembled and stocked by New Year’s.” Punching a button, he adds, “I’ll send the elevator back to fetch you. Mind your step. Wild —” The doors close.

  “Anybody else wonder how he got that job?” Vesper asks, tucking in her Scholomance Prep shirt.

  It’s a rhetorical question. The three of us weave deeper into the storage area. We pass containers of sweetgrass, salt, tobacco, honey, cedar, sage. Candles are an easy find. They’re stocked in all colors, sizes, and scents. I identify jasmine, vanilla, cinnamon, coconut, caramel, pumpkin, lime, salt, gardenia, the required lavender, lilac, apple, eucalyptus, and a few more unpleasant-to-nauseating things I can’t quite place.

  “I hear water,” Lucy says, pointing. “From over there.”

  Me, too. An underground stream, probably connected to the lake that wraps around the building. I hear a clicking noise, too, like nails — or claws — on rock. The overhead lights are the same fluorescents as the ones upstairs. But beyond this area, it’s dark.

  I should’ve brought my flashlight.

  Most of the jars are labeled in broad, clear strokes. Like from a Sharpie.

  “Dragon’s eye,” Vesper reads.

  The iris is a flaming orange. The pupil, a long slit. I’m fascinated by the size. I’d been assuming that we were looking for the eye of a Komodo dragon, like at the San Antonio Zoo. This is bigger.

  “Dragons are real?” Lucy asks.

  I nod. “Or were. In Asia, Europe . . . In Persia, a long, long time ago.”

  As Lucy reaches for the bottle, I add, “Careful. Every aspect of this is delicate. Forget what Dr. Ulman said. Nothing we’re doing is ‘beginner level.’”

  “We can handle it,” Vesper insists.

  I hope so. The last time anyone in my life attempted a major spell, the roof of my house blasted off. That involved far less risky Wolf healing magic.