The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant

by Joanna Wiebe

  “I did.”

  “Tell me good news.”

  He kisses me and smiles. “Great news: I’m sticking with you. I told her last night.”

  Crestfallen, I watch Ben as he tells me not to worry and struts happily away. I turn to follow Pilot to Goethe Hall, where we sit and wait outside Dia’s office. I try to clear my head of the frustration of knowing Ben’s giving up a future with me in exchange for the present; I stare blankly ahead as the janitor, Lou Knows, scrapes black letters spelling HEADMASTER VILLICUS off the cloudy window of the door. When he notices Pilot and me, he scowls at Pilot and hands him a stencil pack, black paint, and a thin brush.

  “You’re my assistant,” Lou says, and starts away. “Not the other way ’round.”

  Pilot tugs off his jacket, revealing the coveralls I saw yesterday. So that’s his role here. Not just my Guardian but also an assistant janitor.

  The door to the office swings in. Hiltop stares at me.

  “You’re late,” she says to me.

  “You?”

  But just then a smiling, dazzling Dia appears at Hiltop’s side. He’s a wearing a linen tunic that’s partly tucked into leather pants, which hug his long legs. His feet are bare. His sleeves are rolled up. He seems to have more tattoos, brighter tattoos, than he had yesterday. I can clearly read Dia + Gia = 4Ever on one of the larger ones. I see also tiny tick marks representing his thousands of followers, like Teddy mentioned.

  “Anne!” Dia declares, swinging the door further open and elbowing Hiltop aside as he does. “You’re finally here. Don’t mind Mephisto—what a grouch, hey? Come in, come in!”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts, Dia,” Hiltop says with a sneer.

  “As long as Anne’s around,” he says, “I can depend on you being constantly outsmarted, Meph.”

  I step by Hiltop and follow Dia inside, where I find Invidia lounging on a raised divan and watching me as I enter the room, which has been completely renovated in the mere hours Dia has been headmaster.

  “Please, sit,” Dia says, swinging a thickly cushioned chair on its swivel and stopping it just as it faces me. “It’s comfortable. Go on.”

  I’m sure it’s comfortable. Everything in Dia’s office is inviting. He’s taken what was once an oppressively hot gothic-styled room filled with war medals, lit by fire, and hidden from sunlight, and transformed it into a whitewashed study you’d read a great novel in while sipping hot tea on a rainy day; he’s even filled the bookshelves with what, I squint to see, are art books—thousands of them. Soft light glows in twinkling sconces and chandeliers hanging from the molded tray ceiling and falls on dozens of mirrors in all shapes and sizes, which hang on the newly painted panel walls. Pale white sculptures of Aphrodite, Helen, and Salome look both bashfully and knowingly at me, while toppling stacks of oversized ivory-colored cushions rest uncertainly against the walls behind them, layers of sheepskin blankets beneath. A dozen enormous canvases and an easel rest against the side of Dia’s desk, where he’s gesturing for me to join him.

  Invidia stands. I swallow as I watch her move across the room to Dia’s side with such elegance she could teach elegance a thing or two. Her emerald-colored silk blouse floats with each step. I am transfixed by her and helpless to it. Dia, too, appears enthralled by her as she leans against him and strokes his arm gently, though he still watches me. Only Hiltop looks at Invidia like she’s some sort of foul beast.

  Suddenly I remember! Teddy said Mephisto lost one of the Seven Sinning Sisters. Invidia must be that goddess. In the fallout of my escape, she must have chosen a new master over Mephisto: Dia Voletto. I wonder about the other six members of the Seven Sinning Sisters. Who are they? Where are they? And is Mephisto struggling to keep them?

  As soon as I sit, Dia swivels me to face both him and Invidia fully, stopping the chair with his bare foot. I glance at his foot—or, more accurately, at the few inches of his naked calf that are now exposed. I shift my knee away from him and fix my gaze on my hands, which are gripped together over my uniform skirt.

  “Are you okay, Anne?” he asks.

  His hand passes under my eyes, and I feel his finger under my chin. He lifts my face until we’re eye to eye. Life on Wormwood Island was easier when the devils looked like devils.

  “Just a little nervous, I guess, to be called to the office.”

  “But you shouldn’t be surprised,” Dia guesses.

  “No, not surprised.”

  Hiltop joins the two others standing in front of me. Under the weight of their three stares, I ought to be sliding into the chair and disappearing entirely, but something about the way they’re looking at me makes me feel…the opposite. Light, not dominated. Invidia’s jade gaze on me is especially empowering. But just for a moment. Just until I remember my mortality and their eternal darkness.

  “You know what you did this past weekend was wrong,” Dia begins, swinging my chair lightly with his foot. “You destroyed the life of Pilot Stone.”

  “And I was punished when he was assigned as my Guardian,” I say, “among other punishments.”

  “Mr. Stone as your Guardian is a far cry better than Ted Rier.”

  “Do you have something against Teddy?”

  Dia and Invidia chuckle knowingly but don’t bother answering me. They can probably sense he’s a good soul, and they don’t like that.

  “More importantly,” Dia continues, “you almost jeopardized this school’s reputation. We’re a place of hope. And possibility.”

  “Is that what you’re selling this place as?”

  Invidia smirks, and even Dia looks amused. But Hiltop’s thin lips curl just enough to make a frown.

  “The world nearly found out about Mephisto and his,” Dia unsuccessfully hides a smile as he and Invidia look Hiltop up and down, “various embodiments.”

  At that, both Invidia and Dia grin. Hiltop doesn’t flinch and, for a second, I feel bad for her. Until I remember she’s evil incarnate. And she can take care of herself; my pity, even disguised as empathy, is unnecessary.

  “Well, I wasn’t trying to expose anyone,” I explain. “I just wanted to go home.”

  Dia and Invidia look at Hiltop. “That’s a good point,” Dia says to Hiltop.

  I realize then why Hiltop’s here: because no one else knows how to run Cania. It’s a complex place, where secrets and lies are land mines you must carefully tiptoe around. Hiltop is pointing out the land mines. And it turns out I’m one of them.

  Hiltop turns her flat gaze on me. “Give us your word you will not run amok with your stories of underworld führers and our followers.”

  “Give me your word my dad can leave you the moment I get away from Cania Christy and Wormwood Island,” I reply.

  Clearly, nobody saw that coming; even I’m a little surprised at myself. They all lean back. Invidia tilts her head like she’s seeing me in a new light.

  “Tit for tat,” I say, staring at all three of them. I cross my arms. Invidia, too, crosses hers. “Isn’t that the law of the land here? Oh, and, just to be clear—I know how tricky you guys can be—whether I live or die, he’s free once I’m gone.”

  Dia and Invidia wait for Hiltop to make a call.

  “I would have thought,” Hiltop begins, “you’d have asked for the release of your dear, sweet love, Mr. Ebenezer Zin.”

  I hadn’t realized that was an option! I hadn’t even thought that she’d consider my request for my dad, never mind Ben. I was just experimenting, just trying to see if I could get under their skin.

  “Very well,” she says. “It is agreed.”

  I’ve just made my first deal with the devil.

  It doesn’t feel as awful as I might have expected.

  “You’ll say nothing to the students of Cania Christy,” Hiltop clarifies.

  “What about those who already know?” I ask. Like Ben.

  Dia chimes in. “Anne, if the only thing you and the ‘people who know’ have to talk about is what we’re doing, maybe you need to find someone
new to talk to.”

  Dia instructs Invidia to round up the Guardians for a meeting; she glides out of the room, leaving me alone with Hiltop and Dia. When she leaves, I feel stronger and weaker; stronger because the raging jealousy she makes me feel follows her out, but weaker for reasons I can’t understand.

  I rise to go, too, but Dia shakes his head at me.

  Just then, someone knocks at the door. It swings in, and Kate Haem enters with three people in tow: an adult couple and Dr. Zin. He’s back from his travels already.

  “Dr. Zin with the Smith family of Boston, here for the vivification of Damon Smith,” Kate says and, on her way out, sticks her tongue out at me.

  I look at Mr. and Mrs. Smith. And I look at Dr. Zin. And I stop breathing when I see his face.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. What have they done to Dr. Zin’s face?

  five

  THE VIVIFICATION OF

  DAMON SMITH

  I KNOW, WHEN I LOOK AT DR. ZIN, THAT THE DEVASTATING effects of my faulty escape plan were even further reaching than I’d worried. Here stands a man who was once a plastic surgeon to celebrity clients, a man who struck me as dazzling when I first saw him, a man who could have been the poster boy for “the beautiful people”—and you would never know this man is the same man.

  Raw redness covers his neck in thick flame-shaped patches. Tender-looking trails of fire disappear under his shirt collar, and the sticky, oozing tips of the flames stretch over his jaw, where they climb like thin claws up the sides of his once-immaculate face. His broad shoulders droop under the weight of a thousand invisible demons. The black bag he carries dangles precariously on his fingertips, which have uncoiled from a fist exhausted by clenching. His feet in their scuffed wing tips are wobbly. A frown is carved into the flesh of his face. And his eyes—they are the most damaged of all. Though not burned like his skin, they are puffy with heartache and black; they are like the half-open flaps of a dingy cellar, revealing a darkness stacked high with shadowy boxes and crates packed to bursting courtesy of fifty years of soul-crushing experiences, not the least of which happened the other night.

  As I feel Hiltop’s hungry gaze observing my reaction to this weakened, beat-down, and scarred version of Dr. Zin—a version that is her own making—I look away from it all. My horror will only please Hiltop more, but what she thinks about me right now is the least of my concerns. Because this is my fault. Dr. Zin’s life would be perfectly normal (by Wormwood Island standards), and Ben would be safe in his father’s house, if not for me. I want to tell him how sorry I am for what they’ve done to him, what they did to punish him for his son’s actions. But my lips are sealed. I don’t dare say a word, though I can’t help but think, God, is there anyone on Earth I don’t have to apologize to?

  “What’re these kids doing here?” Dr. Zin asks in a slur that can only mean one thing: AA is officially over for him.

  Hiltop crosses the room to stand next to me and interlocks our arms like we’re old friends. She explains cheerily to the parents, “We’re writing a piece for the school paper.”

  I jerk my arm free.

  “What paper?” Dr. Zin asks her. She glares at him. “Oh, sure, um, the paper.”

  Under my breath, I hiss at Hiltop, “You burned him? Will your punishments never end?”

  “Burned Zin?” she whispers back. “On the contrary. He earned those burns in the car accident he caused years ago. I’ve simply… allowed his true self to shine through again.”

  “You’re heartless.”

  “Hush. He asked for them as a reminder that he is responsible for Ben’s situation. But never fear, Invidia can return him to his former state of enviable beauty at any moment.”

  Dr. Zin speaks directly to Dia Voletto this time. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Robert Smith.” His voice cracks as he offers his black doctor’s bag to Dia. “And the vials, produced in triplicate now,” he glares at me, “of the blood of their son, Damon, the next candidate for vivification at Cania Christy.”

  The Smiths stand straighter and try to mask their excitement as the stage is set for this moment they’ve been waiting for—this real-life act of wondrous magic.

  As I watch Dr. Zin swing unsteadily back and forth on his heels, only skittishly looking my way, Dia opens the black leather bag, the very one Teddy mentioned yesterday. He reaches into it. The Smiths gasp as he withdraws a long, glistening vial of deep mahogany-colored blood. Damon Smith in a bottle. Dia steps forward and wraps his hands around it.

  Almost the moment he touches it, a piercing shrill fills the office, ripping my gaze from Dr. Zin. I clap my hands to my ears—the Smiths do, too—as dense air whooshes over us, seeming to fly in from behind the plaster walls. The chandeliers swing. Paintings rattle. Light-colored fragments appear from nowhere and fly toward Dia, from all directions, and then fuse, with a great sucking force that tugs at my skirt and shakes the books on the shelves, into a glowing, growing sphere in the center of the room. Dia is smiling. Dr. Zin just keeps rocking on his feet; he’s seen this a zillion times.

  The Smiths, as thrilled as ever, cling to each other, welcoming this unearthly synthesis. I shield myself from the flying spots of blue and white light. Dia’s grin spreads. Hiltop’s eyes glisten—she almost looks emotional. No one can tear their gaze away as a human is recreated before us, re-created in a spectacle that is like all things on Wormwood Island: terrifying and hypnotizing at once.

  And then, in a whirl that leaves me choking on my own breath, it’s done.

  Damon Smith stands in the suit they buried him in. His back is to me and Hiltop; he’s next to Dia. His parents reach for him, but Dr. Zin holds them back.

  “Not yet.” Dr. Zin clears his throat and, flipping open a small notebook, reads to the boy, “Damon Archibald Smith, welcome to Cania Christy Preparatory Academy. You died of leukemia approximately five days ago in Boston, Massachusetts. You have been granted a second chance at life here on Wormwood Island by the venerable Headmaster Dia Voletto. To give you this chance, your parents have agreed to the following terms of admission: to finance the construction of Cania College on Wormwood Island and to guarantee its completion by the end of this school year.”

  For the first time, the mention of Cania College interests me. What if there’s a chance that Ben can go there? If he’s decided not to throw himself on Garnet’s mercy—to date her and leave me—is there any chance he could graduate, move along to the college, and try his hand at winning life there?

  But, no, surely that’s not possible.

  Dia wouldn’t give us more time on Earth. Why would he? Is he the devil with the heart of gold? He sent Teddy away to look for a new home for Mephisto. Is this all just about broadening their reach? High school students weren’t enough. Next up? College students. And then what? A junior high on whatever island Mephisto takes over? An elementary school? A bank, hotel, grocery store, airport, stock exchange?

  As Dr. Zin finishes his robotic speech, Hiltop joins Dia at his side.

  “Please take a moment to absorb this information, Damon, following which we will reunite you with your mother and father, answer your questions, and proceed with the rules of the school, the assignment of your Guardian, and the declaration of your prosperitas thema.”

  “It’s your turn now,” Hiltop tells Dia with a nudge. “Take control.”

  She’s broken her cover, but the Smiths would never know it. Tears stream down their faces and run into their mouths as they look at the boy they surely thought they’d never see alive again, a boy who is free of cancer. You can see them restraining themselves, clenching their fists and gritting their teeth to keep from flinging themselves at him.

  “Oh, Damon!” his mother cries.

  Damon, I notice, has been rocking on the spot. And now, with the cry of his mother, he pivots toward her in a slow, swaying motion. He faces Dr. Zin and his parents. I can’t help myself: I sigh with joy for the Smith family. I get it. I get why parents give up so much for this opportunity.

 
; But he doesn’t stop. He pivots toward me. Only when he faces me does my stomach turn. Damon looks so frail and lost.

  Too frail.

  And far too lost.

  When I was vivified yesterday, I felt wonky for a while. But not for long. Did I look like Damon looks? His face is ghostly pale. His jaw is slack, his head tipped unnervingly to the side. His irises are thin yellow lines circling his oversized pupils.

  Something is very, very wrong.

  When the Smiths stop sobbing with joy long enough to realize that there may be little to be joyful for, the only sounds in the room become the low wheeze that leaves Damon’s mouth in choppy spurts and the creaking of the floor as he turns toward new noises.

  “What’s going on?” Dia asks Hiltop through a clenched smile. “Why does he look like that?”

  Mrs. Smith echoes his concern, but louder. “Damon?”

  Damon shifts on instinct toward each new sound he hears, pivoting in the center of the room.

  Mrs. Smith stumbles back. Away from her husband. Away from what should be her son but clearly isn’t. The blood has drained from her face just as it’s drained from Damon’s. Mr. Smith is no less horrified by the possibility of what has happened here than his wife; he’s just slower to react, slower to believe it could be so.

  “Tell me this sometimes takes a while.” Mr. Smith’s deep voice fights a tremble. “Tell me it’s normal for my boy to seem so…soulless. This will change. He’ll be his old self soon. Tell me, Dr. Zin. It just takes a minute for his soul to meet his body. Isn’t that right?”

  “It looks to me like the body of your boy is with us,” Dia says like some sort of rookie policeman poking around the scene of a murder, “but his soul’s long gone. Probably moved on to its next life.”

  Dia raises an eyebrow in Hiltop’s direction, and I realize that Hiltop’s walking our new headmaster through the vivification process; this is Dia’s first time. Hiltop steps up swiftly to calm the Smiths, though her message does little to end Mrs. Smith’s whimpers. The child they thought they’d be holding is, once again, being taken from them.