“When Miranda was upset, she’d run and hide,” says Zach. “Mostly in girls’ bathrooms.”
“Quince isn’t hiding,” I explain at the picnic table. “She just wants to be alone.”
I wish Zach wouldn’t compare Quince to Miranda. From what Freddy tells me, Miranda kept a stable of human victims in her castle dungeon. She left drained bodies strewn across the alleys of Chicago. She ordered the tongues cut out of gossiping servants.
Zach pops the tab of a beer. “I never understood my girl like you do Quincie.”
I’ve had a lifetime to get to know Quince. But he’d watched over Miranda from day one. “You mentioned before that you’re a young angel. What does that mean?”
He hesitates before answering. “We new angels were created after the first atomic blast in 1945.”
“And Miranda was . . . not a senior citizen?”
He laughs. “No, she’s not much older than you. She . . .” He pauses. “What?”
I’m not sure how to phrase this. Zach may be my buddy, but he’s still a holy being. “Aren’t you kind of old for her?”
I’ve traced Brad, the vamp who cursed Quince, to the early twentieth century. He’d hit the preternatural scene by at least the 1920s. He used his experience, his worldliness, to try to seduce her. Just thinking about it makes me want to snarl. So maybe I’m oversensitive about the subject. But I need to know where heaven stands on much older guys going after teenage girls. I want to hear that my faith is justified.
Zach puts down his knife and fork. “You know dog years?”
“Is this a werewolf joke?” I like a good werewolf joke. But I want my answer.
“No. I mean, you know how dogs — how different species — reach maturity at different rates? How they have different life expectancies?”
I nod. Werebirds, for example, mature much faster than weremammals. Life cycles vary. On average, Wolves die fifteen years earlier than humans.
It’s unclear what that’ll mean for me, a hybrid. But odds are, Quince and Zach will be here years, even centuries, after I’m gone. It makes his answer to my question that much more important. I know that angels can slip, fall. So how good of a guy is he?
Zach yawns again. “In angel years, I’m about the age I look. I was born this way, fully grown. I’ll look this way forever. But I’m the human equivalent of twenty or so.”
Great to know. On the other hand . . . Suddenly, I can’t help thinking that guardian angels start working awfully young. On-the-job training?
It’s comforting that Zach’s not a letch.
Except . . . how qualified is he to guard Quince? It’s a dangerous world. With a more dangerous underworld. Given that Zach’s slipped already, it’s lucky that he hasn’t stumbled across anyone more diabolical than his own girlfriend.
I WOULD PREFER TO avoid the people I’ve murdered. Yet it’s the second time I’ve spotted Tamara O. Williams in the tropical lounge. She’s forever age twenty-one, a weredeer I killed last spring at the ritzy Edison Hotel on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. She’d been a competitive swimmer in high school and was a student at the Art Institute. We both had grandmas named Peggy. I know most of that from having memorized her obituary.
I pocket my monitor-com and scrunch down on the love seat to avoid being seen. How could I begin to apologize? How could she ever forgive me? I can’t imagine that even Miss Manners has a suggestion for this particular social predicament.
Fortunately, the Penultimate lounges are always crowded, so there’s plenty to distract her eye. I’ve caught a glimpse of her before and, like now, ducked out of sight.
I’m surprised Tamara is still at the Penultimate. I took every last drop of her lifeblood in late April. It’s January first, and I’ve been here myself since the archangel Michael delivered me in early May. What from Tamara’s mortal existence could be haunting her? Or is she simply still furious about my having cheated her out of a longer life?
The Penultimate isn’t purgatory. That was made clear at the welcoming reception. No one confirmed or denied whether there actually is a purgatory, just that this wasn’t it.
Incidentally, nobody said anything about reincarnation either, though I’ve met a few souls here who’re waiting to experience it.
I tend to regard the Penultimate as a sort of ghost world, which isn’t far from the truth, though our souls have risen and ghosts are earthbound.
Our spiritual forms mimic the shapes we took in life. Upon arrival, we’re all a translucent blue. After a day or two, our color fills back in, though everyone retains a shimmer of blue. I’m uncertain as to whether it’s the lighting or the Light.
The landscape is comfortably tropical, home to colorful birds like cockatiels, hummingbirds, and quetzals. Palm trees sway, gentle breezes blow, and bright blooms span larger than my hand. The furnishings are framed in wicker and rattan, accented by koi ponds, and everywhere I look, I see black-and-blue butterflies.
Peeking over the back of the love seat, I’m relieved that Tamara has moved on.
“Miranda Shen McAllister?” A woman in a smartly tailored blue suit offers me a warm smile from the other side of a clipboard. Her name tag reads RENATA (1868 MUNICH–1930 NEW YORK). The staff is made up of souls who’ve passed through but returned here because their preferred afterlives involve working in these jobs. You can tell them apart from the rest by their professional dress.
“Yes?” I speak when spoken to but otherwise have been fairly antisocial.
“A family member of yours has joined us,” Renata announces. “Please follow me to the reunion desk.”
A family member? Last I checked, Mom had been laid off from her job selling cosmetics and was considering going back to school for a degree in fashion design. Dad’s new wife had told him she wanted to repaint the master bath in some color called Arizona Bisque. They all seemed perfectly healthy. “It’s not Grandma Peggy, is it?”
Renata is already zipping across the lounge.
Upon reaching the desk, I resign myself to standing in line. I don’t know how long it takes — a tsunami hit India yesterday, and the death toll has passed three thousand.
I take advantage of the opportunity to confirm via my monitor-com that Grandma Peggy is alive, well, and staring at an armadillo-shaped construction-paper ornament that I made for her in art class back in second grade. Its black button eye is missing.
Then a voice announces over the loudspeaker that the second-floor ballrooms have been opened for the tsunami victims, and I find myself at the front of the line.
Renata places a ten-gallon aquarium tank on the desk. “Here you go.”
It’s my pet gerbil. “Mr. Nesbit!”
“Yes, Mr. Nesbit,” Renata agrees, using a quill pen to make a decisive check beside his name. “It’s up to you whether to upgrade him to a larger tank. If so, we suggest you wait until he’s had time to adjust to eternity. Meanwhile, you’re of course welcome to keep him in your quarters. In cases like this, where a pet and owner have been reunited in the Penultimate, both typically pass through the gates together.” Renata pauses. “When the time is right.”
I’m in no hurry. It was explained at orientation that, though the territory of higher-ranked angels (like archangels) is more fluid, most guardians have been assigned to earth. During transitional periods, they await their next mission here at the Penultimate. They won’t return through heaven’s gates until after the End Days when there are no more mortal souls to guard — or, in Zachary’s case, no more neophyte vampires who might be saved. Consequently, when I finally feel ready to pass through, I’ll be leaving Zachary even further behind.
What’s more, if he’s ever fully reinstated, he might return only briefly to the Penultimate, where he’ll wait for the archangel Michael to deploy him again.
“Would you like me to have Mr. Nesbit delivered to your suite?” Renata asks.
“No, thank you,” I reply, signing on the line. “I’ll take him.”
Mr. Nesbit! I can hardly b
elieve it. He looks perky and cozy enough, staring up at me as he chews on a toilet-paper roll. “I missed you.”
Last I checked, he’d been living in a tank like this one in Lucy’s dorm room at the University of North Texas. The sun has already risen in the central time zone. I wonder if she knows yet that he died.
Sweet Lucy. My human self is considered missing, and she’s dedicated herself to searching for me. Her blog, Missing Miranda, has thousands of subscribers. She manages tie-in pages on a handful of social networks and has appeared on television dozens of times. I guess we’re both unwilling to move on.
Of course, no new leads have panned out. It’s often that way when a human is contaminated with vampirism. Not that anyone at the Penultimate could understand what I’m going through. To my knowledge, I’m the only formerly demonic being here. The only one ever to have repented and been forgiven.
It’s a miracle what love can inspire, even in a pampered hell beast wearing haute couture.
The Penultimate population wavers between a few to several hundred thousand a day — about the same range as that from Plano to Austin — but feels more intimate because of the side-by-side, honeycomb-shaped residential towers located around a series of interior lounges, places of worship, arts venues, and businesses.
When I first arrived, other ascended souls treated me like a celebrity — many had been watching my and Zachary’s love story unfold on their monitor-coms — but almost everyone who was here back then has since passed through.
These days, I spend most of my time alone, gazing down at my angel, and relishing memories of the two of us together. The way he smells, like musk and vanilla, the way he held me when we danced.
I’m more comfortable having a lower profile. People come and leave every day, and it’s not as though I waltz around introducing myself as an ex–vampire princess.
IT’S AFTER TEN O’CLOCK. No sign of Quince. I don’t hear her moving around upstairs.
She and Mitch became pals in middle school. It was after her parents died in that car accident. He’d fall in step with her on the way to school.
She balked at first. Not because he was homeless. Or because his mind didn’t work like most people’s. She’d withdrawn from all of her friends except me. Mitch didn’t give up, though. Or maybe he didn’t realize she wanted to be alone.
This fall, when Quince found out Mitch was a vampire, she started supplying him with porcine blood. Over time, Zach began counseling Mitch, too.
The angel has retreated to his futon in the attic. Freddy isn’t home yet. Nora already went to bed. I knock lightly on Quince’s door.
She asks, “What took you so long?”
I inch the door open. She’s sitting cross-legged in the dark on her calico-print bedspread. “Should I have come up sooner?”
“I want to show you something.” Quince moves off the bed. She reaches under it for a piece of torn cardboard that reads:
Mitch was famous for his signs.
“When I saw this, I laughed out loud for the first time since Mama and Daddy’s funeral. You know, Mitch helped convince me to give the world another chance.”
“Like Zach did,” I say, “after you became undead.”
That sounded more pointed out loud than it had in my head.
Quince stares at Mitch’s sign for a long moment. Then she stores it in the chest at the foot of her bed. “You’re right.” She reaches for my hand. “About Mitch, I’m not being a baby. I’m not mad at Zachary. I know he had no choice.”
“Nobody thinks you’re being a baby,” I reply. “Least of all me.”
GUEST SUITES ARE ARRANGED like those at an atrium hotel. Each has one window that looks out to the heavens and another that opens to a tiered walkway above the nearest promenade and lobby lounge. Otherwise, the décor has been personalized.
When I arrived, mine featured framed theater posters — for Chicago, Grease, Macbeth — and shelves of fantasy novels. It’s not like any room I’ve lived in before, yet it’s exactly what I would select for myself now.
My understanding is that the respective guardians usually coordinate with interior designers, based on their knowledge of their assignments. Since Zachary was earthbound, his best friend, the guardian Joshua, stepped in for my job. The multicolor feathered boas hanging from the coatrack? Definitely Joshua’s influence.
We ascended souls don’t have to sleep, but sitting cushions are provided for those who choose to meditate. I toss one onto my window seat next to where, a couple of days ago, I put my gerbil’s tank so he’d have a view of the moons and stars.
At the moment, he’s more interested in the tiny black-and-blue butterfly climbing up the glass. “Mr. Nesbit, now that you’re here, the place feels more like home.”
I don’t know if every animal ascends or if only pets do because that’s in keeping with the promise of heaven. Are the koi, the birds and butterflies, born in heaven or earth?
I don’t know a lot of things. I’ve hardly explored the Penultimate beyond my neighborhood. I’ve heard that other areas are more in keeping with other cultural and religious expectations, though my local population is clearly diverse in terms of heritage, dress, faith, and fandoms. The African-Canadian gentleman living next door, for example, dresses like a Star Trek officer, and his was one of the three picture windows on our floor last month to feature a Hanukkah menorah. Likewise, some holy experiences are tailored to specific faiths — how angels manifest, for example. On this side of death, seemingly contradictory belief systems coexist more comfortably.
“Why don’t we see how Lucy’s doing?” I say, raising myself onto the cushion. “I bet she’s already missing you.”
I touch a few buttons and peer at the screen of my monitor-com. The reception isn’t good, static perhaps. Possibly the weather is causing interference.
I shake the device, which seems to help, and notice that my best friend has had her hair cut. It bounces beneath her chin.
“My, you’re here early!” exclaims someone I’ve never seen before.
He’s tall, as tall as a guardian. Perhaps taller. He has no eyebrows or eyelashes or facial hair. He’s bald in a good-looking way. My first thought is chemo, but he exudes health, strength. Perhaps it’s an allergy or stress response or chemical reaction. He’s leaning against a doorframe and watching Lucy unpack. “You were originally expected to be our last check-in, and now you’re our first.”
“I hope it’s okay that I let myself in,” she says. “The front door was unlocked.”
“Completely okay. You just caught me by surprise. Have you had a chance to look around yet? It’s a brand-new building, state of the art.”
“Not yet.” Lucy rubs her arms. “Mr., um —”
“You can call me Seth. It’s nice to finally meet you in person. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed our chats on the phone.”
“About the heat?”
Seth offers a wry smile. “The heat is on. It’ll take a while to warm up.”
Who is Seth? Is he flirting with her?
A chime resonates throughout the ultramodern building.
“Shall we see who that is?” Seth asks.
Lucy abandons her stack of sweaters — price tags still attached — and jeans on the platform bed, shoves a key into her back pocket, and follows him.
Through her window, I can see several inches — feet? — of snow on the ground. Those hills, the pines! That’s not the University of North Texas. Where is she?
I use the monitor-com to look around. Five identical rooms are located on each side of the hallway, making ten altogether — three on each side to the east of the stairs and elevator, two to the west along with an opposing laundry room and kitchenette.
The furniture is metal framed and contemporary, in black, white, and gray with glass tabletops and canvas cushions. Each bedroom features an armoire, full-size bed, and dresser (against a side wall); a desk set loaded with office supplies (centered, facing the door); a Euro recliner with matchin
g ottoman (alongside the window wall); and an empty shelf unit next to the unlit fireplace (on the other side wall).
In addition, each room has a walk-in closet and a restroom with a toilet, sink, medicine cabinet, mirror, towel bar, and glass-walled shower with a black tile floor. Plush gray bath linens have been rolled and piled artfully on metal-bar shelves.
Back in the main living area, a digital wall clock hangs above the door. The floors are likewise tiled in black, the walls are painted snowy white, and the ceilings soar thirty feet high. The overhead lights are cold fluorescents. The outside-facing wall is made up of tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, and a dead bolt has been installed in each of the thick doors.
The only pieces of art — framed in silver lacquered metal, hanging above each streamlined black lava-rock mantel — are prints of the same painting, depicting a yellow, potbellied monster with a scaled head, red horns, red claws on his four fingers and toes, and a red tongue protruding from his bluish-green face. The colors are brightly modern to Day-Glo, and the image repeats four times in two rows of two.
If my eternal-art education is worth anything, the style is a tribute to Andy Warhol. The beast is naked, except for a diaperlike cloth around his waist to cover his privates, though he’s squatting so low that it looks like his dewclaws are about to skewer them. His expression is mischievous, as if he’s barely keeping a secret. The eyes suggest an ancient evil, some thing that’s having fun. The effect is disconcerting, goblinlike . . . creepy in a way that crawls beneath your toenails and digs.
As Lucy and Seth chat about the weather (“How’s the skiing?”), I zoom in to view the third floor and take note of the seminar-style room, the library, and the restrooms. The same devilish print is the artistic focal point in each of those spaces, too. I move the monitor-com focus up and get no reception for the fourth floor. It’s all gray.
When did Lucy decide to transfer to a new school? I should’ve been paying more attention to her. However radiant Zachary may be, I was wrong to neglect my best friend.