“Now it seems that everything I need comes to me. Sometimes earlier than anticipated.” She looked over Emma’s shoulder at her parents. “You weren’t expected until this afternoon.”
“We do apologize for any disruption we’ve caused,” Father said. In spite of the chill, Emma noticed his brow glistening.
“No inconvenience,” she said. “Miss Carreau has already prepared the enrollment paperwork. We just need a mark from each of you acknowledging that you both have a full understanding of what it means to commend your daughters to our care. A quick bit of work, then you can be on your way. Perhaps you can catch an earlier flight? People to meet. Casting calls to attend. No?”
“Well, yes,” Father began, “but if it’s a contract we’re signing, maybe we should have our lawyer read it over first.”
“We don’t have a lawyer,” Mother snapped. She wrapped her arms over her chest, flattening her breasts, hands clenched. Her knuckles shone white. “We’ve already discussed this. We’ve made up our minds.”
“But I don’t understand what this is all about. Not really.”
“A simple enough arrangement, Mr. Wiley,” the headmistress said, her voice husky. “A tried and true one that benefits the parents of every child at Karkhous.” She motioned toward the chairs before her desk. Emma’s parents exchanged a glance then sat obediently. It surprised Emma to see Isabella had drifted away from their father, standing on her own a few feet before the headmistress. “I get something I need. I give back… generously… in return.”
“But what could you possibly need from these kids you have enrolled here?”
The headmistress sighed, the expression bunching up her forehead. “I thought this had all been covered,” she said, casting a querying look at their mother. She must have found her answer, because she gave her head a shake, the coils of her hair jostling one another then springing up individually—as if each tress had a life of its own. “There are higher levels of being, Mr. Wiley.” She worked at her hair, stroking the tresses down in a calming gesture. “I am one of those beings.”
Father puffed out his cheeks, and forced out a fake laugh.
“It’s true, Matt,” Mother said. Father widened his eyes and shook his head, a stupid smile on his face. “You know it is,” she said, spitting the words out. “You must feel it, too.”
He reached out for her, but she leaned away.
“Higher beings at the top of a food chain that overlaps your own.”
Father’s eyes darted between Isabella and Emma, his mouth working silently, his brow wrinkled up. He should’ve been the actor in the family. Emma almost laughed. She might have, if the rage wasn’t rising within her. He would leave her and Isabella here. She knew it. He was putting on a good show. For the headmistress. For their mother. For himself. “You eat…” he began.
Isabella started sobbing. Emma expected Father to go to her. To comfort her like he usually did. But he didn’t budge. He didn’t even seem to notice.
The headmistress did, and she grimaced as Isabella choked back her tears.
“I feed from the children’s vitality,” she said, her voice a tired singsong, as if she’d been forced to explain herself far too often, “just a little each day. Spread out over the entire student body. In return, I help make things… good things… happen for the…” she paused, settling on the word, “donors’ parents. I can and will do the same, or perhaps even more, for you and your wife. There is no realm over which I don’t exert some influence. I have contacts everywhere.
Feelers—” she raised her hands and wiggled her ghastly fingers “—everywhere. That’s how I came to learn about your beautiful family.”
“But the Beck boy,” their father said, looking back over his shoulder in the direction of the office entrance. “His feet…”
“His mother required a favor not covered under the usual terms of enrollment. We can always accommodate special requests, though they require negotiation. She offered me a tiny amuse-bouche and conquered Hollywood in return.”
“This is crazy,” he said, looking at Mother. He turned to face the headmistress. “You’re crazy.”
The headmistress pounced and landed beside Isabella. She placed her hands on Isabella’s temples and turned the girl to face her.
Isabella gasped, and before their eyes her golden tan turned blue. The headmistress had only touched her. Isabella reached up, clawing at the woman, and her hands caught ahold of the necklace and snapped one of the strands. The pearls bounced along the floor, a couple of them stopping before Emma’s feet. Emma stood frozen, realizing that the necklace hadn’t been made of pearls after all. At her feet lay two tiny teeth.
The headmistress shrieked in anger, and Isabella cried out, trying to cover her ears. “I’ll take from your mouth to replace any beads that are lost!” With a wave of her hand, Isabella shot into the air, convulsing, arms and legs splaying in opposite directions, her head snapping back.
Emma looked to her parents, her eyes pleading with them—do something!—but they sat there slack-jawed, gaping as their daughter jerked about like a kite in the wind.
No relying on them for help. Emma raced over and grabbed her little sister with both hands, tugging with all her might, freeing her from the headmistress’s invisible grip. Isabella somehow landed on her feet, but in her terror tried to climb into Emma’s arms, as if her sister were an adult capable of saving her, of taking her away from this place. Emma barely managed to keep them both from tumbling over.
Bardalea advanced, snatching at Isabella with her terrible pointed nails, but Emma spun her little sister out of the way and swung out, her palm connecting with the headmistress’s cheek. A loud smack echoed through the room. Bardalea jumped back, placing her hand over the struck cheek, eyes wild with fury. She dashed to her desk and lifted the phone receiver. Emma could make out the purplish outline of her own hand on the creature’s sallow, gray-green face. There was a soft click as the headmistress’s taloned finger pressed a single button.
“Bring the paperwork,” she said, her voice calm now. “Please.” She’d no sooner hung up than Miss Carreau appeared at Father’s side, clipboard in hand.
He accepted it without looking at her, his gaze fixed on the objects crowded on the desk before him, anywhere but on his daughters. “I need a pen,” he said, his tone flat.
“Here,” Miss Carreau said, but when he reached up, she grasped his hand and ran the edge of a razor blade over the tip of his index finger.
He gasped, but said nothing. His eyes fell to the blood bubbling up on his fingertip, then he finally looked at Emma. She could see it was only now dawning on him that any of this could be real and not some initiation prank.
“By the X,” Miss Carreau guided him.
He turned his face to Mother, searching her face for direction. To Emma, her mother’s expression was inscrutable, but her father must have found the guidance he sought. He nodded, pressing his finger against the form.
“And now you, Mrs. Wiley,” the headmistress said. “Your dreams await.”
Their mother tugged the clipboard from Father’s white-knuckle grasp, then offered her own hand to an obliging Miss Carreau. She hissed at the bite of the blade, but didn’t hesitate before smearing her blood onto the page.
“Excellent,” the headmistress said, a bright smile on her lips. “Your first autograph.”
Miss Carreau stuck a cartoon character bandage over Mother’s wound, then offered a pink and yellow polka dot one to their father. She leaned in and placed a kiss on his finger before wrapping the cut. The tip of her tongue darted out to lick the blood.
“May we leave now?” their mother said, holding the clipboard out to the headmistress.
“Miss Carreau has a few more forms for you,” Bardalea responded. “To collect a few bits of information. That’s all. Then we’ll get you on your way. Ad astra.” She smiled a wild and toothy smile—all sharp like a row of incisors—then turned to her assistant. “You’ll finish up with the
Wileys, won’t you, dear?”
“Certainly, headmistress.” Miss Carreau looked down at Emma’s parents. “You’ll want to say goodbye to your daughters, of course.”
Mother was already rising. “No. Let’s just go.” Emma watched her mother’s ponytail bob back and forth as she strode away without even a backward glance. Isabella lunged at their father, but Headmistress Bardalea moved in even more quickly, snatching her up into the air with a single hand. “Now, now, we’ll have none of that.”
Isabella kicked and screamed, screeching “Daddy!” over and over. Emma put her hands in her ears to block out the sound, but not before she heard their father say, “Sorry, pumpkin. Sorry…” He looked down at Emma, but she turned her back to him and walked toward the far end of the room, moving into the shadows.
“Close the door behind you, won’t you, dear?” Headmistress Bardalea called out to her assistant.
“Yes, Headmistress.”
The door pulled shut with a loud bang, causing Emma to turn back.
In that instant, headmistress Bardalea stood before her. She now held Isabella with great tenderness, stroking the girl’s hair as she sobbed with abandon.
Emma stared up in wonder. “Let her go,” she said, trying to sound unafraid. She reached out to catch hold of Isabella’s leg, but Isabella yanked it from her grasp and held onto Bardalea for dear life, nestling her head into the headmistress’s shoulder. Bardalea shifted the girl to her hip. Emma stood there, dumbfounded, as the headmistress knelt down to speak to her.
“Our Isabella,” she said, “knows a secret. One I shared with her before our scuffle. One I tried to share with you, but you pulled away from my touch too soon.” A smile that seemed as genuine as possible—when stretched over the tips of sharp teeth—rose to her lips. An impossible gleam of kindness welled up from the bottomless blackness of her eyes. “You never need fear me.” Bardalea touched her as she said it, that same cold touch that had seeped into her skin earlier. This time she did not flinch. “Your sister and I, we were only playacting. For your parents’ benefit.”
Strangely, Emma felt this to be true. Isabella pulled her head back from the headmistress’s shoulder and met Emma’s gaze. Her little sister seemed at home in the creature’s embrace.
“Your mother,” the headmistress said, “believes she’s an actress. But I believe you would make a better one. Shall we test my theory?”
Emma nodded.
“Good,” Bardalea said. “Your sister has played her part, but now I need you to scream. Scream like you’re being hurt worse than you’ve ever been hurt before.” She reached out and placed her palm on Emma’s cheek.
“Shall we try?”
Emma nodded once more, and Headmistress Bardalea patted her shoulder. “On three, then?” Emma nodded again. “One… two… three!”
The headmistress hadn’t begun the final number before Emma’s lips parted. She screamed, reaching down and touching the shame and anger and fear instilled by her parents’ abandonment.
Isabella reached up and covered her ears, but then began keening along with Emma, giving voice to her own fury and despair.
Headmistress turned Emma to face the wall behind them. She and Isabella both fell silent as the shadows gave way to the image of her parents fleeing the building and getting into their rental car. The tires skidded as the car hurried down the icy drive. Neither of them looked back.
“There. That’s done,” Bardalea said. “It is finished.”
Someone took Emma’s hand, and she looked up to find Miss Carreau’s face smiling down on her. Her unpleasant scent was gone, replaced by a sweet smell that reminded Emma of orange blossoms.
“I’ve never harmed a child,” the headmistress said, setting Isabella on her feet before rising to stand. “I would never harm a child, though some have been… broken in my name. I never wanted such a thing. Never needed such a thing. Children suffer. Children die every day. Starving. Washing up drowned on shores. If the suffering of children nourished me, man’s fearful greed and indifference would see to it that no arena could contain me. But it isn’t you children I feed from.” She reached out and pulled Isabella in for a squeeze. “I feed from the souls of the parents who would willingly sacrifice their babies to me.”
The Beck boy came running into the room, his bare feet slapping against the floor. He threw his arms around Bardalea’s waist, demanding to be taken into her embrace. Emma had to look twice to confirm it was the same boy. His complexion was rosy, and he looked fuller and a good three inches taller than when she had seen him in the hall minutes before. Emma, her fear reborn in a flash, cast a nervous eye at his feet. But they were whole, all ten toes intact.
The headmistress leaned over and placed a kiss on his head. “You put on your shoes, then take your new friends outside to play. Introduce Emma and Isabella to the others, make sure they feel at home.”
“But…” Emma began, thinking of the snowy fields and icy air.
“Go on, dear,” the headmistress replied, placing Isabella’s hand into Emma’s, giving them both a gentle squeeze. “I believe you’ll find it’s gone spring out there now.”
CAIM
It might be tempting to link the name Caim with that of the biblical Cain, but in all likelihood there is no connection. Formerly one of the order of angels, Caim (sometimes known as Camio) is a “great president” of hell, with thirty legions of demons at his command. He is said to take the form of a thrush, or, alternatively, a blackbird. He can also take on human form, and when he does, he carries a sharp, tapered sword, which may be symbolically linked to one of his chief traits, since he has been called the wisest occupant of hell. (Swords have long been associated with sharpness of wit.)
Caim has the power to teach human beings the languages of the animals, including birds, bullocks, and dogs. He also bestows the power of understanding the voice of the waters—probably an allusion to verses in Ezekiel and Revelation in which God speaks with the voice of many waters, for example: “And, behold, the glory of the God of Israel came from the way of the east: and his voice was like a noise of many waters: and the earth shined with his glory” (Ezekiel 43:2). These passages appear in prophetic contexts, so this detail may be connected with another of Caim’s salient abilities, because he is said to be the devil most adept at foreseeing the future.
Caim is also said to naturally excel in debate. One nineteenth-century demonology says that he was the devil who disputed theology with Reformer Martin Luther. But whether Caim was the devil at whom, in a famous episode, Luther threw an inkpot, claiming he was distracting him from translating the Scriptures, cannot be determined. In any event, for centuries, Luther’s room at the Wartburg castle in Thuringia displayed a large blue stain on the wall that was supposedly connected with this incident, although the stain has long since worn away.
BY PROMISE PREORDAINED
SEANAN McGUIRE
The scent of absinthe and sandalwood coiled through the air like the body of a great snake, thick and cloying and bitter at the back of the throat. Ian struggled not to choke on the smell, all too aware that it would make him look weak. He didn’t want to be the first to break. The cost of failure, here, would be too high.
Somewhere off to the left, Molly began to cough. His throat relaxed as the fear of being chosen left him. Now that he didn’t need to be afraid, breathing the burnt offerings was easy, almost pleasant.
Molly was still coughing, sounding increasingly alarmed. Jared pounded on her back, hitting her between the shoulder blades, trying to knock the intangible obstruction away.
Sucks to be you, thought Ian languidly. Jared thought no one knew that he and Molly were fucking after ritual every Wednesday night. Jared wasn’t half as subtle as he believed himself to be.
Across the circle, writhed in ribbons of smoke, Helene offered Ian a slow smile. Unlike their companions, they hadn’t been foolish enough to yield to the temptations of the flesh, not when they knew this hour was coming. Ian allowed himself
to give her a more appreciative glance than he usually dared. She was a lovely woman, and they got along well. Maybe now that they knew neither of them was going to be chosen, they could reconsider their hands-off policy. They were about to be rich and powerful beyond their wildest dreams, and like those wildest dreams, none of it was going to make any sense to anyone who hadn’t been there. They could do worse than choosing their partners from inside.
(There should have been more of them. There should have been ten, twelve, thirteen of them, some larger, sacred number, something to distribute the lottery that they had all entered into before they really understood what they were doing. There should have been better odds. There could never have been better odds.)
Barbara stood at the head of their circle with her toes almost brushing the Seal of Solomon, the Book held protectively close to her chest. “It’s time,” she said. She turned her disapproving gaze on the choking Molly. “Can you stand? If you can’t stand, we’ll carry you.”
Molly’s breath caught in her throat, the reality of her situation finally appearing to sink in. “You’re not…” she said, voice raspy and torn. “You’re not serious.”
“You came. You agreed. You signed in blood, signed with bone, swore that this was what you wanted.” Barbara raised her own left hand, her missing index finger a silent reminder that everything she said was true. “You were chosen. How many would have died for the right to be chosen in your place? How many would have killed for it? You came of your own free will.”
The incense grew thicker as it burned down, turning the air into a perfumed mire, a swamp intended to be inhaled and allowed to linger in the body, thick and dank and terrible. Ian took another breath. It was so easy to breathe it now, now that he knew it wasn’t for him. So very, very easy.
Molly shot a panicked look at Jared, clearly expecting him to help her, and paled when he turned his face away.
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