Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  Behind Itzy, a small commotion broke out. A gust of fresh air swept in through the front doors, and a parade of bellhops pushed by, obscuring her view. With them came a sea of packages stacked on polished brass carts. The uniformed men, each with their gilt epaulettes and tilted little hats, wheeled by Itzy with great flourish and converged upon the gleaming black floor. A creaking tower of elegant boxes and shopping bags merged in the lobby’s center, and for a moment the bellhops stood around uneasily. When they finally parted, Itzy was left staring at a younger version of the dog owner, a girl about her own age.

  Itzy stared, despite herself. The girl was a different species. She was tall and her hair was strikingly blonde, and it fell over her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her lips painted a bright red. A string of pearls wrapped itself tightly around her long neck.

  “Pippa, darling!” The older woman yanked the small dog behind her.

  “Mother!” They exchanged a series of air-kisses. The bejeweled dog’s leash was now on Pippa’s wrist, and with each gesture the dog was being yanked about like a puppet, its front feet leaving the floor. Itzy watched, fascinated. The animal bared its small, sharp teeth at her.

  Itzy’s eyes strayed to the vast array of purchases Pippa had made. It seemed impossible that one person could have bought so much before lunch.

  And then her stomach sank.

  There, at the very bottom of it all, Itzy saw her scuffed and threadbare duffel.

  In a panic, Itzy turned to Wold, but he was gone.

  She eyed her old bag, debating. Who needed clothes, anyway? She had her camera, after all. But the long summer stretched out before her with one pair of Levi’s, and she thought better of it. Itzy walked over.

  “Um, excuse me?” Itzy said in a small voice. She pointed to her flattened bag on the cart beside her. The pair hadn’t heard her, but the dog approached the bag and sniffed. It began a confused growling.

  Itzy cleared her throat. “There’s been some sort of mistake—”

  The dog let out a sharp yelp, followed by a terrified whimper. The girl finally turned.

  “What is it, Paris?” Pippa asked her dog. She scooped up the animal, which did little to comfort it. Paris strained, kicking its hind legs, trying to return to the duffel.

  Pippa’s eyes finally found Itzy, and she glared at her. “Pick on someone your own size.”

  “I—”

  The words died in Itzy’s throat, for the animal now emptied its bladder in a wide stream upon Pippa’s fine clothing. A damp blotch spread across her silk shirt. Pippa screeched, releasing the dog into the growing puddle on the marble floor, where it barked furiously at the bag.

  “Mother!” Pippa wailed, hauling the dog back, streaks of wet radiating from its paws. The dog strained against the lead, and its little black eyes bulged.

  The older woman turned to Itzy, her face oddly frozen in place.

  Itzy felt herself flush as a cold silence descended upon the luxury hotel.

  “M-my bag is mixed in with your stuff.”

  A pitiful whine escaped the dog’s throat, but soon died.

  Pippa’s cool blue eyes narrowed. They took in Itzy’s tattered Levi’s and vintage coat. She raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Mother, find Mr. Wold and tell him a vagrant has managed to wander in, and she’s trying to steal my bag.”

  People were looking.

  “Hey, I’m not the one stealing a bag here,” Itzy said. She tried to pull her bag free, but Paris was ready. Scrabbling its stubby nails for purchase on the slick black marble, the creature charged Itzy, sinking its teeth into her ankle.

  Itzy felt the row of sharp teeth puncture her skin and looked down. Paris stared up at her vacantly, its green eyes narrowed to slits. She saw its tiny pointed teeth and heard a low throaty growl as it jerked its neck, digging deeper into her ankle. Burning pain ripped through skin and muscle. Suddenly lightheaded, she had the unusual sensation of falling a great distance. Then she kicked the creature away. The tiny dog sailed back to Pippa through the air in a high arc and landed with a sharp yelp on the stone floor.

  “Paris!” Pippa gasped, bending down. The dog was eerily still. “Paris! Help! Mr. Wold—someone! The vagrant’s killed my dog!”

  6

  Itzy yanked with all her strength and retrieved her duffel bag. A cascade of packages tumbled down after it, landing in the puddle. French silk lay in limp piles. Something shattered as it hit the floor, and the air smelled suddenly of perished flowers.

  Wold appeared by the mother’s side.

  “Mrs. Brill, what seems to be the problem?” the concierge asked.

  “Who is this child?” Mrs. Brill asked, pointing a long painted nail at Itzy.

  Wold cast a sharp look at her and stiffened.

  “Maude Nash’s niece,” he allowed. A look passed between the two.

  “Maude Nash?” Mrs. Brill leaned in, regarding Itzy with a new interest.

  “Indeed,” he replied.

  Itzy scowled.

  “Miss Nash is visiting for the summer,” Wold continued. A porter appeared at his side, and Wold whispered to him. The man scampered off.

  “Mommy? My dog?” Pippa whined.

  “It bit me,” Itzy said sullenly. “I hope it has all its shots.”

  Paris was twitching its front legs pitifully, and Pippa tearfully clasped it to her damp chest.

  “That thing’s possessed,” Itzy grumbled, and a shocked silence spread throughout the lobby.

  It was then, in the quiet, that Itzy heard the tapping. Methodical, it originated from somewhere across the room—the stabbing of something sharp against the marble floor. As it grew nearer, the crowd parted. Itzy was left staring at a peculiar man. He was balding, stringy hair combed over a shiny circle of skin. He carried a sharp cane at his side.

  “Ah, Dr. Jenkins,” Wold exclaimed. “Thank you for coming so quickly. There has been an unfortunate incident.”

  Dr. Jenkins’s eyes met Itzy’s and she felt a rush of terror.

  “Let me see the patient,” he said.

  Itzy took a step backward. There was something utterly dreadful about the man, something ruinous. He was the man from the train, from her dream. Pippa had pushed Paris into the doctor’s arms, but the doctor’s eyes lingered on Itzy. Finally, he handed his cane to Wold and reached to examine the dog.

  “You better have a good lawyer,” Pippa hissed at her. “You’ll need it.”

  7

  Aunt Maude’s suite was on the eighteenth floor. Itzy waited beside the bellman who was carrying her old duffel bag in front of the bank of elevators. She tried to not look at her bag, how old and scuffed it was. She tried to pretend it wasn’t hers at all and stepped away from it, turning to look with feigned interest at the pair of gloomy paintings dominating the small vestibule. Both were extremely dark, with age perhaps. One depicted a pair of bored-looking cherubs, and the other a still life with fruit. She snapped a photo. The fire in the hearth crackled, spitting embers at her.

  Wold was huddled with the Brills across the lobby, and when Itzy stole a glance at them, the doctor was staring at her intently. She looked away quickly.

  A polite chime announced the elevator, and Itzy boarded along with the bellman holding her bag.

  “Eighteen, please.” Itzy looked at the elevator boy in his beige uniform. He was young—a slight fuzz of a mustache shadowed his upper lip. His skin was the color of toffee.

  The numbered panel blinked as they ascended in silence.

  “Eighteen, Miss Nash,” he said as the elevator alighted and the door opened.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  “Call me Johnny.”

  “Thank you, Johnny.” Itzy smiled.

  She followed the bellman to the right and around as the carpeted hallway veered off at a corner, past an unmarked door. The door was forlorn, different from the others in the hotel. It was old, of inlayed wood, and scuffed here and there with deep gouges. It had a worn mat—al
so unusual—which was piled high with several days’ worth of newspapers.

  “Who lives there?” Itzy asked the bellman.

  “No one,” he said.

  But from somewhere far inside, a distant piano was playing.

  When they arrived at her aunt’s door, Itzy realized her ankle was throbbing. The bellman unlocked Suite 1804 with a brass key, and Itzy entered a small anteroom with an elegant side table and a gilt mirror. The door to the coatroom was slightly ajar, and Itzy could see a long row of her aunt’s furs.

  “Where would you like this?” the bellman asked, indicating the offending duffel.

  Itzy sighed. The bag was her father’s, and she suddenly felt a stab of anger at him for simply owning such a thing.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, reaching for it.

  The bag seemed heavier than she remembered. The bellman nodded, handing her the brass key before leaving.

  A swinging door separated the suite from the anteroom, and Itzy pushed it open.

  It was a room full of shadows.

  She felt for the light switch, her anxiety mounting. The dark made her uneasy, a small remnant of her childhood that shamed her. Her hands ran along the molding and she took one nervous step in.

  Aunt Maude’s apartments were large and rambling, and Itzy had never been permitted to explore them entirely. Her eyes were adjusting, though, and soon she saw thick drapes that lined the tall windows, and through them small slivers of daylight the color of dust cut through the gloom. A silence settled over her—the walls of the hotel were old and thick. Here was the living room, she knew, its tall ceilings and patterned toile couches. Off to the east was the dining room, and ahead stretched an arched hallway lined with her aunt’s priceless art.

  A table held an antique lamp, but the switch on the cord produced nothing.

  She threw open the nearest velvet curtain and stared out at the narrow wrought-iron balcony. At one point, a small but pretty garden had been permitted to grow, but it was brown and dying. Beyond that lay Fifth Avenue and the park, and, finally, the west side of Manhattan.

  Itzy inspected the living room. A fireplace dominated one wall, but Itzy knew it was merely for show. Her aunt would never allow something as cheery as a fire to glow in a hearth. A wheeled cart sat before the nearest couch, a white tablecloth draped over it. A tiered silver tray held a selection of petit four pastries, and a tea service was off to one side. A basket of plump scones and croissants sat beside a selection of miniature jams and honey. A gleaming dome covered a plate, beside which was an untouched napkin.

  As Itzy neared the room service cart, she suddenly realized her own hunger. She had eaten cereal when the sun came up, alone, before catching the train, but nothing since. She grabbed a croissant and bit into it quickly, but it was stale and hard, and she spat it out into her hand. Looking closer now, she saw the cart had been sitting in her aunt’s living room for some time. A veil of dust had settled on the drinking glasses and the silver dome.

  She ran her finger along the dome’s dulled surface and reached to lift it.

  On what was once a half grapefruit was a tight ball of writhing insects. Disturbed, they fell apart, scattering about the white linen. Slamming the cover back on the plate, Itzy groaned. They were earwigs, she noticed with disgust. They scuttled along, their rear pincers dragging behind them or raised in the air angrily.

  Stomping on as many as she could, she watched helplessly as the rest made their escape into the shadows beneath the toile couches or in the cracks of the baseboards.

  8

  The Blue Bedroom was to be Itzy’s, Wold had informed her in his office. It had been the servant’s quarters at one time, he stressed, as though talking to a child. Itzy would know it, he continued, by its color.

  “And what color would that be?” Itzy asked innocently. The annoyed look on his face was reward enough.

  The Blue Bedroom was down the far hall—a smaller, twistier version of the main hall, devoid of precious art. She passed the kitchen on her way, noting its gloominess. Her bedroom was done up in powder blue wallpaper, with a thin and meager-looking blue blanket over the iron frame of the bed. Above the flimsy pillow was an embroidery, a family tree. It was the only thing on the wall, and Itzy examined it closer.

  It appeared to be the Nash family tree, if the banner was to be believed. Many branches twisted out from the gnarled main trunk, and upon the leaves were the names of her various ancestors. There was a noticeable bald patch beside her father’s name, and Itzy’s name was nowhere to be found. In an artistic flourish, the embroiderer had sewn depictions of Adam and Eve at the tree’s base and a serpent between them. The serpent wore a human head, its face twisted and bloated.

  Eyeing the serpent warily, Itzy put her bag down upon the floor.

  Her room had a window, but after parting the curtains, Itzy saw that it let out onto a brick air shaft. She shut them again.

  She brushed away a few earwigs on her pillow and lay down on her bed. It creaked in protest.

  The rest of the day stretched out before her, and she wondered what further surprises it held. She thought of Pippa and Mrs. Brill, her mind idly turning to Pippa’s threat. Could she call down to room service for a lawyer? She thought of Luc, the boy with deep amber eyes. And then, in the way your mind circles those thoughts that you try hard not to think, she thought of her father. And wondered why he had left her behind.

  Lifting the hem of her jeans, she inspected her ankle. A small row of puncture wounds laced her Achilles tendon. She would wash in the bathroom.

  She began to unpack her bag. She hadn’t brought much—she didn’t own much—and her clothes fit easily into the plain chest of drawers in the room. The closet was filled with more of her aunt’s fur coats and a few steamer trunks and offered little room for anything else. She stacked her few toiletries on top of the dresser, beside a small hand mirror. She inspected her reflection quickly; the mirror was quite ornate, and heavy—probably silver. There was a patina of age beneath its glass. Itzy could see her hazel eyes, and her hair the color of molasses, but everything was clouded with a gray bloom. Angels’ breath, she remembered it being called.

  As she pulled out the last of her things, she saw something black skittering in the deep shadows of her bag. Gasping, she jumped back. Luc’s warning returned to her. Never place your bag upon the floor. A demon will crawl inside.

  Plucking up her courage, she grabbed her Leica and crept back, camera at the ready. She slowly peered down into the bag’s depths, adjusting the viewfinder. After her eyes grew accustomed to the bag’s dim interior, she gave it a soft nudge with her shoe.

  Nothing.

  She tried the other side, where the black thing had gone.

  Still nothing.

  With an audible sigh of relief, Itzy relaxed and stood. She wiped her hands on her jeans and blew a lock of stray hair from her face.

  Then she saw it.

  A black, shadow-like creature emerged from her old duffel bag and raced for the small closet. As it fled, it made a horrid clacking sound.

  A rat, she thought. There was a rat in my bag. I’m in the city, and there are rats in the city. Itzy snapped a picture. Big ones too.

  Picking up the duffel bag, Itzy threw it into the closet and slammed the door. She leaned against it, breathing hard. It took her a long time to realize somewhere in the suite a jarring phone was ringing.

  “Hello?” Itzy said, lifting the old-fashioned beige phone to her ear. On its base a series of lights twinkled, various call buttons.

  Itzy thought she heard something—something scratchy, as if the call were coming from far, far away.

  “Hello?” she tried again.

  The scratching noise continued. Itzy thought she heard a whisper on top of it. She slammed the phone down. Picking it up again, she stabbed the room service button.

  “Room service,” a kind, matronly voice answered.

  “Hi. This is Suite 180—”

  “Yes, good aftern
oon, Miss Nash. What can I get you?” said the calming, melodious voice.

  “Um. Well, nothing. There’s a cart here, though, that was overlooked. It’s been here for some time. Can you send someone up?”

  “Immediately. And I apologize for the disturbance.”

  “Er—that’s okay. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Nash.”

  Itzy hung up the phone thoughtfully, and almost instantly it started its loud jangling again. Ignoring it, she slung her camera bag over her shoulder and walked to the door.

  9

  A small parchment had been pushed beneath the suite’s front door, and Itzy bent to retrieve it. It had been ripped from a book and had been folded hastily, erratically, many times over.

  Itzy opened it.

  Ava Quant's

  OBSERVATIONS

  Historical and theological, upon the NATURE and NUMBER of the OPERATIONS of

  divahS.

  Accompanied with Accounts of A brief treatise on the Grievous Molestations that have Annoyed the country, with several remarkable CURIOSITIES therein occurring, and some CONJECTURES on the GREAT EVENTS likely to Befall.

  I.Ava, how do you RECOGNIZE a divah?

  A.A divah is a demon-a she-devil, a powerful force of wickedness from the Underworld, one you ignore at your own peril. Divahs are quick, ruthless, and nothing can match their feverish desires. You don't stand a chance.

  B.The identification of a divah is very, very difficult. Demons are not the coarse, crimson, pitchforked creatures of medieval paintings-in their dangerous, parasitic form they are indistinguishable from you or me. They walk the city streets, their diabolical origins invisible to all but a select few. They are served by various servants and spies, each more hideous than the next, who cultivate them through their early-and vulnerable-larval stages.

  C.Demons augment their eyes so they do not glitter. This makes locating a demon more difficult. There are spectacles that reverse this. Hermes makes a fine pair.