Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  Also by Susannah Appelbaum

  The Poisons of Caux series:

  The Hollow Bettle

  The Tasters Guild

  The Shepherd of Weeds

  Copyright © 2016 by Susannah Appelbaum

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-674-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-675-5

  Cover design by Georgia Morrissey

  Cover image credit Arcangel

  Interior design by Joshua Barnaby

  Printed in the United States of America

  Angels walk this earth, and sometimes you’re lucky enough to meet one. This book is dedicated to a favorite of mine, Susan Willson.

  divah—(n) (singular) (archaic Persian) a revengeful demon, bent on domination and destruction. Indefinitely female, and more precocious than devhils, their male counterparts.

  See also: deva, daeva, and more popularly today, diva

  If you want to discover demons, take sifted ashes and sprinkle them around your bed, and in the morning you will see something like the footprints of a cock. If you want to see them, take the afterbirth of a black she-cat, the firstborn of a firstborn, roast it in the fire and grind it to powder, and then put some in your eye, and you will see them.

  —The Talmud

  PART I

  THE NEW REIGN OF TERROR

  1998

  1

  Looking back on it, the day was like any other, the day before the demons came.

  The sun rose, and the sun set. The clouds pushed their way across the sky.

  Itzy Nash was traveling by train that day, and as the Hudson River sped by, she pressed her face to the train’s window. The wide river was a deep ribbon of a bruise; above, bloated thunderheads sagged beneath their weight, nearly touching the water. Her camera sat in her lap, cradled between her two slightly damp hands, and she raised it and took a picture.

  The car was unusually empty, and between the silence and the train’s steady progress, Itzy felt her eyes grow heavy. The only other occupant, as far as she could see, was a man in the far corner, down the aisle by the sliding doors. She could just see the top of the man’s head—balding, stringy hair combed over a shiny circle of skin. She took a picture of this, as well.

  Itzy was traveling to the city—New York City—to stay with her aging Aunt Maude—her father’s idea of a fine summer break. But her father’s sister was old and mean, an appalling combination in anyone. She was also incredibly rich, which magnified her meanness and bestowed an unfortunate entitlement to all her opinions.

  Aunt Maude did not like children. The affliction of childhood, in Aunt Maude’s view, continued until one was safely in their middle age. It was Aunt Maude who had advised her father to put Itzy up for adoption when Itzy’s mother had first disappeared—claiming, unsuccessfully, it was best for the infant. When he refused, she disavowed any future dealings with the child, speaking to her only when it was unavoidable and then directing her gaze at some vague point over Itzy’s head. At seventeen, Aunt Maude still placed Itzy at the children’s table at family events. Her father begged her to endure these embarrassments with grace, muttering something about Aunt Maude’s contributions to polite society. And now, a long summer in polite society lurked ahead. Itzy Nash was doomed from the start.

  Itzy’s eyes finally closed as an inevitable rain ran thick rivulets down the window.

  In her sleep, she was on a train—remarkably similar to the one she had boarded that very morning. The sky outside loomed just as threateningly, her old duffel bag was at her feet. Only the occupant of the corner seat was different—the man had undergone a startling transformation and was, for all intents and purposes, no longer a man. He was bigger, for one. A hunchback bulged depressingly from between his shoulders and he had more hair than Itzy remembered. His breath appeared labored as he struggled to his feet. Rising finally with the aid of his armrest, he turned, and it was here that Itzy saw his eyes. Eyes like these, she hoped, could only appear in a dream. They burned with something eternal and dark—and entirely ruined. The creature shuffled toward her, twisting on a broken ankle. He drew closer, and Itzy saw there was something in his hand. In a delicate gesture, almost an afterthought, he tossed it lightly at her as he passed, and it seemed to flutter around like a dying bird. It settled feebly on the seat beside her as the car filled with the stench of burnt hair.

  Itzy’s stomach flailed, and she felt herself falling—and, to her great relief, she jerked herself awake.

  The rain poured down. A streak of lightning lit the purple sky.

  The man was gone.

  Beside her in the empty seat sat at small card. The thing was wrinkled and dirty and showed evidence of being greatly handled. It was the kind of card she had seen before, littered on the subway containing some plea or other for money, some fortune or blessing scrawled across its face. She peered closer at the card. The script was old-fashioned, the letters mismatched and uneven. It said:

  Holding the card in one hand and her camera in the other, Itzy’s train pulled in to Grand Central.

  No one was on the platform to greet her.

  2

  The remarkable vaulted ceiling of the station stretched out over her as she made her way to the center kiosk. Immense arched windows opened onto the morning, beams of hazy light angling down upon the polished floor. Commuters passed briskly, wearing their uniforms of dark coats and determined glares. At the information booth, Itzy paused.

  The card was still in her hand, although she had stowed her Leica in its case and buried it within her bag. Carefully, she placed her bag on the floor between her legs. She thought of her dream and shivered. In dreams begin responsibilities, she remembered hearing somewhere, and now this phrase filled her mind.

  High above, the blue-green ceiling was dazzling. Stars arched across its cavernous span, golden constellations twinkling. Itzy craned her neck, fascinated.

  A voice spoke softly beside her. “It’s backward, you know.”

  Itzy jumped. Beside her was a young man, perhaps only a few years older than she. He wore dark, expensive clothing and carried a folded umbrella. Itzy took an involuntary step away.

  “What’s backward?” she asked suspiciously. She crossed her arms, waiting. His face was like a very old painting; his flesh seemed radiant. He was startlingly attractive.

  The young man gestured. “The heavens.”

  Itzy looked up again, despite herself. She saw the golden outline of Orion, the hunter. His club was ready, aloft and deadly. All seemed to be in order.

  “The heavens are backward?”

  “They were painted in reverse—the mirror image.”

  “Oh. Whoops.”

  She stole another look at her companion, and this time she found herself wondering if indee
d she had been right about his age. Upon closer inspection, he seemed older. Or, rather, ageless.

  “Actually, it was intentional,” he offered.

  “Really?”

  “There are rules, you see.”

  “Rules? What sort of rules?”

  “It was painted by a friend of mine, an artist named Paul Helleu. He knew that one must be very careful when depicting the heavens. Perfection, you see, is seen as an insult.”

  Itzy scowled. The famed ceilings of Grand Central Terminal were painted long ago. She narrowed her eyes at this person and his preposterous story.

  “Miss Nash,” he said. “Would you like to know another rule?”

  A chill ran up her spine. “How did you know my—” She stopped, looked suddenly around.

  Her companion reached out, pointing to the strange card she still held. She examined it again—the awful dream returning to her quite easily. The card had fared poorly in her possession; the scrawl was faded, now illegible, and some of the ink had smudged on her palm. The paper appeared burned at the edges. She frowned, looking back at him.

  The stranger was now holding her bag.

  “Hey—”

  “Miss Nash,” he said. “Never place your bag upon the floor. A demon will crawl inside.”

  “Yeah, right.” But Itzy now remembered something from the train: curiously, when she stowed her camera, she had found her bag unzipped. She was certain she had not left it open.

  3

  Still holding her bag, the young man took off.

  Itzy hurried after him as he headed toward the station’s Vanderbilt exit. He seemed to move effortlessly, parting the sea of commuters, while behind him, flocks of people closed in and around, an army of overcoats and briefcases. Determined, she put her head down and charged after him. Harried-looking New Yorkers shouldered their way by her, jostling her curtly, blocking her view.

  Running now, up the long marble steps, she finally caught up with him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Itzy grabbed for her bag, ripping it out of his hands. She looked around with the thought of finding a policeman. “How do you know my name?”

  The stranger looked at her quizzically, a smile finally etching its way across his elegant features. His eyes were amber-colored, with flecks like small insects trapped in them. His teeth were startlingly white, luminous, and his dark curls were rumpled in a way that called to mind a sleepless night. He was the kind of good-looking that made Itzy’s insides flutter as though she’d had too much caffeine.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Nash. I was under the impression you were expecting me.”

  “Have we met before?” Itzy forced herself to scowl.

  “I am Luc,” he said quietly. “I’ve been sent to look after you.”

  He reached for her bag again as Itzy flushed a deep shade of scarlet.

  Outside, the streets were glossed from the earlier rain. Although the weather had cleared, Luc paused and opened his wide umbrella.

  “Just here,” he indicated a waiting black car. Itzy recognized it as one favored by Aunt Maude.

  “Wait,” she said, reaching into her duffel bag and finding the metallic case. She removed her beloved camera, a gift from her father, and handed the duffel to the waiting driver. The man, wearing a dark uniform and visored cap, placed Itzy’s meager belongings into the trunk, and Itzy saw that one of his eyes was clouded over, blind.

  Luc turned from the car, his hand on the door. As he did, his umbrella was lifted by a sudden wind gust. Through the viewfinder, while Itzy quickly turned the focus ring and adjusted the aperture, she saw something extraordinary. Before the wind died and Luc had recovered his umbrella, his feet left the earth. For a moment, it was as if he were as light as air. This was the same moment she depressed the camera’s shutter button and it made a pleasurable click.

  4

  The city’s noises died away as the driver pulled out onto the small side street. Luc had folded his umbrella and stowed it at his feet. The car traveled quietly, shifting lanes now and then, and soon they were on Madison Avenue. The driver seemed unimpeded by his blind eye.

  The town car’s interior was black and luxurious, as were the shops and storefronts they passed. The Upper East Side, Itzy knew, was where people like her aunt lived—a neighborhood, Aunt Maude said, that had “good bones.” Some people lived in enormous town houses and employed a large staff. And others, like Aunt Maude, lived in fancy hotels, with even more staff.

  “How was your train ride?” Luc asked. His gaze seemed to pierce her.

  “Fine,” Itzy shrugged, but the image of that creature, its slavering face and burning eyes, returned to her.

  At Sixty-Second, they stopped for traffic. Itzy gazed out her window at an impressive corner building. This shop was different from the others in that it was a single story—albeit a very tall one. Atop its square marble facade was a solarium of sorts, a glass chamber. And atop that was a carved stone figure of a horse, rearing up spectacularly.

  On the street, a figure stood in the opening of the building’s large glass door beneath a sign.

  “What is Hermès?” Itzy asked Luc.

  “A bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief at the gates,” Luc quoted.

  This answer was so very much like one her father would have given, Itzy was momentarily taken aback. He was a professor of obscure French history and was often cryptic and unforthcoming. Itzy turned to look at the shop again, but the figure in the doorway was gone.

  “I see.”

  Raising her camera and adjusting the focus ring, she took a picture of the building and the rearing horse.

  “Hermes is the god of thieves and of persuasion,” Luc explained. “He carries the souls of the dead to Hades. But most of all, Hermes is the guide to the Underworld.”

  “Actually, I meant that store.” Itzy pointed, but Luc was silent.

  Something was thumping loudly in the trunk.

  The car glided into place before the Carlyle hotel, on Seventy-Sixth Street. Itzy stared down at her old torn Levi’s and black trenchcoat. A uniformed doorman opened the car’s door, and the trunk was emptied of Itzy’s luggage. She stood on the inlaid walkway beneath the Carlyle’s black and gold awnings and breathed the rarefied air.

  “This way, Miss Nash,” a valet spoke after conferring with the driver. He ushered her through the revolving golden doors while her duffel bag was whisked away elsewhere.

  Itzy entered the hotel lobby. A great chandelier hung above her, glittering like cats’ eyes in the dark. Ahead, Itzy saw the dining room, and, off to the left, the elevators. The black polished marble of the lobby’s floor caught her eye, as did a man standing upon it. He wore a dark morning coat and immaculate white gloves.

  “Miss Nash, I am Mr. Wold. The concierge,” he announced crisply. “Welcome to the Carlyle.”

  “Thank you.” Itzy found herself smiling broadly. The gesture was not returned.

  “I trust you found your way, then, easily enough?” the concierge asked.

  “Oh yes. Someone met me at the station.”

  Wold looked at her blankly. Itzy looked around for the young man and his umbrella, but Luc had not followed her inside.

  “Miss Nash, your aunt has left something for you. This way, if you please.” He gestured with a gloved hand to a golden door, tucked into the wall beside the entry.

  Itzy nodded and followed Wold to a small, elegant room decorated with antiques and old Persian rugs—the concierge’s private office. Wold indicated she was to sit on a spindle-legged chair.

  “Your Aunt Maude sends her apologies.”

  “Apologies?” Itzy asked. That seemed highly out of character.

  “Yes. And this letter.”

  The concierge brandished a cream-colored envelope with the Carlyle’s insignia upon it. It became apparent that he expected Itzy to read it.

  Itzy,

  I am away and unreachable for an indeterminate amount of time. As you are a child, I have
taken the precaution of securing a governess for you. Upon her arrival, please mind her in Every Way, as you would me. She will keep me abreast of your studies, so see to them satisfactorily. As this is a fine and exclusive hotel—not a theme park—you are to keep to your room at all times. Never forget your behavior at the Carlyle is a direct reflection upon the Nash name, and therefore upon me. Remember, Gratitude is the only appropriate emotion for a child of your circumstances.

  Your aunt,

  Maude

  “A governess?” Itzy’s jaw dropped.

  “A tutor,” Wold explained.

  “But I’m seventeen! I’m too old for a governess!”

  Wold suddenly looked extremely nervous.

  5

  Back in the lobby, Itzy remembered something.

  “Wold? Can you tell me where I can get 35mm film developed around here?”

  Wold seemed relieved at the prospect of dispensing information, a concierge’s one calling in life. “I believe there is still a place that will do that on Lexington, Miss Nash. Obscura & Co. Would you like the address?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage.”

  Itzy surveyed the room before her. Richly dressed people were moving about quietly, coming and going from the elevators and the front desk. Wold’s station appeared to be in the far corner of the lobby, where a discreet window was perched, small letters announcing CONCIERGE below. To the left, in a tidy vestibule, the gentry awaited their elevators amid the opulence of fresh-cut flowers and overstuffed chairs. A small hearth twinkled between two large and dreary paintings. The famed Bemelmans Bar lay past the elevators, up a narrow set of stairs and around the corner.

  Itzy watched a birdlike older woman in dangerous-looking shoes march over to the front desk. She dragged a small dog behind her. The dog strained uselessly against the leash, its manicured nails skidding along the high gloss of the marble floor. The dog turned, panting, its black eyes falling on Itzy. Itzy stared back. A low, throaty growl emerged from the back of the creature’s throat.