Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  She leaned against a tall and narrow door of thickly painted wood. Her heartbeat rattled in her head and she shut her eyes, catching her breath. With shaking fingers, she slid the flimsy latch, locking the door. She put her ear to the door, listening.

  She had heard that noise before, that terrible dragging, the corrupt footfalls. The stench of rotten eggs filled her nose, and with it the panic returned.

  Another car’s lights passed by, this one slower, and Itzy followed the beam of light along the ceiling and down the far wall. Strange, burned markings were traced there, black symbols against the old paint. The smell was of acrid powders: flint and sulfur. A small metal table held peculiar tools, menacing scalpels, a few rusted clamps. A roll of yellowed gauze.

  A wave of revulsion passed over Itzy.

  There was another door across the room, and she rushed for it. Throwing it open, she staggered into the next room, upsetting a small table, which crashed to the floor. A bulky beige hotel phone came crashing down, too, smashing on the floor with a hollow metal tang. Rows of square buttons flashed sedately along the phone’s face. The impact had knocked the earpiece loose, and it hung like a ghoulish eyeball from a ganglion of colored wires.

  “Evening, Dr. Jenkins, what can I do for you?” the earpiece said.

  Itzy looked around the room. She was obviously in a medical office of some sort. Framed certificates were clustered on the wall. A rich oriental carpet lay upon the floor. Beside her was a glass-front cabinet containing rows and rows of gleaming ampoules. The light caught them in just such a way that they twinkled attractively. She tried the cabinet door, but it was locked.

  “Dr. Jenkins?” the voice called hollowly from the broken phone.

  Itzy knew that voice.

  It was the concierge’s.

  Itzy took one last look around Dr. Jenkin’s office. There was a door to the street, she could see—and another more familiar one. This let her out into the black polished marble and gleaming gilt of the Carlyle’s ground floor, a hallway with other offices—all closed and locked at the late hour.

  Music from Bemelmans washed over her. Itzy jumped at the sound of a woman’s laughter, but when a woman appeared from around the corner, giddy, she stopped short at the sight of Itzy, backing away in fear.

  Itzy looked down at herself. Her Leica was in one piece, but her clothes and hands were streaked in dirt and grime, and something dark and oily was splattered on her jeans. I must make quite a picture.

  She slumped down, leaving a trail of grime on the pristine wall. When a familiar voice spoke beside her, she was too tired to care.

  “Miss Nash. I see you have been enjoying your stay,” Wold said.

  Wold accompanied her the rest of the way to the elevators and ushered her onto the first one.

  “Eighteen,” he told the elevator operator, an older man in an ill-fitting version of Johnny’s uniform, hunched with age.

  Itzy turned, facing the concierge. She straightened her shoulders.

  “Miss Nash,” his voice held none of the reprimand she was expecting. “May I suggest a nice hot bath? And some sleep.” He looked at her intently. “Who knows what tomorrow brings.”

  25

  The flowers on the eighteenth floor had been refreshed, the bouquet changed for something bright purple and thorny. Itzy stared at the flowers for a moment and reached out and broke one off. It was nice to hold something living, of the earth, after being underground. She held it to her nose as she rounded the corner.

  The hallway stretched out, affording her a perfect view of her aunt’s suite at the far end. Itzy walked halfway and stopped. The door to 1804 was slightly ajar.

  Itzy’s fatigue vanished and adrenaline coursed through her body again. Her mouth went dry.

  She had locked the door; of this she was certain. Maybe it was housekeeping—didn’t maids come and go in hotel rooms at all hours?

  She took a tentative step forward.

  But maids—housekeeping in general—came with carts, did they not? Carts with linens and soaps, shower caps and terry robes. Little packages of nice-smelling things. There was no telltale cart in the hall. And her aunt’s door opened only into darkness.

  Itzy paused, torn. She dreaded facing Wold again. But which was worse? What new terror awaited her in her Aunt Maude’s home?

  Itzy didn’t have to wait for an answer, as—with horror—she saw the dark-suited figure of Dr. Jenkins emerge from the suite and turn to lock the door. He removed something from his breast pocket and hung it on the doorknob. Beneath the Carlyle insignia were the words:

  DO NOT DISTURB

  In panic, Itzy pressed herself against the wall. Any moment he would turn and see her. She had no time to run.

  Something hard was at her back, she noticed. A knob.

  The unmarked door.

  Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she thought. Desperate, she turned and wrenched the doorknob. With a soft click, it opened inward.

  26

  This suite faced west, like Aunt Maude’s living room, but that was where the similarities ended. The room was wide and bright and dominated by a large white grand piano. In fact, everything was white, and standing before it all, hands on her hips, was a woman unlike any other Itzy could remember seeing—and yet, this wasn’t entirely so. Her face was strangely familiar.

  “Well, if it isn’t our intrepid explorer,” the woman said in a smoke-stained voice. Someone had been playing the piano, but the music abruptly ceased.

  Itzy stared at the woman in amazement. In the way of many aging rock stars, she was all sinew and veins. Her face was lined, yet somehow ageless. Her eyes were sharp, and her hair was cut into a blunt bob and dyed candy-apple red. Her thin arms were weighted down in a heavy array of bangles, which clinked as she moved. She wore a pair of leather pants, but what drew Itzy’s eye was the scarf around her neck. It was silk, and patterned, and tied in an ornate knot—a demon hitch.

  The woman smiled.

  “You’re never too old to wear leather,” she said, gesturing, a sparkle in her eye.

  Itzy liked her immediately. “Wow—you’re that movie star, Ava Quant, aren’t you? You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “They haven’t killed me yet,” the star scoffed. Ava crossed the room to Itzy. “Here, let me take a look at you. Underneath that layer of dirt, you’re the spitting image of your father!”

  “You know my father?” Itzy’s jaw dropped.

  “Of course I do. Jack Nash, scholar, obscure French history. Everyone knows your father.”

  Itzy allowed herself to be led into the room. A figure rose from the piano bench.

  “Luc,” Ava said. “I do believe she’s brought you a flower.”

  Itzy looked at her fist where she still grasped the purple thistle from the hallway. Her cheeks were fiery ovals.

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” Ava smiled, prying the flower from Itzy’s grasp and threading it through Luc’s lapel. “When you get to be this old, you call it as you see it.”

  Ava stepped away, leaving Luc staring at Itzy.

  Itzy’s head spun, but not unpleasantly, and she felt weak at the knees. His amber eyes searched hers. Vaguely, she was aware of Ava’s voice on the phone behind her.

  “Room service?” the movie star said. “Send me tea for three—yes, three. I have visitors, believe it or not. Oh—and a cabbage. Yes, a cabbage. You know, big and round—about the size of a head.”

  27

  “Okay, kid. Show us what you got.” Ava leaned back on her sleek, white sofa and crossed her legs.

  Itzy looked at Luc, confused, but Luc was inspecting his shoes intently.

  “What do you mean?” Itzy asked.

  Ava smiled encouragingly, waiting. Itzy shifted her weight from her sore ankle. A frown appeared upon the star’s face.

  “C’est une blague, n’est-ce pas?” Ava turned to Luc, who had now turned his attention to his nails. “She is the scholar’s daughter, is she not?” Her tone was cautious.

/>   Luc nodded.

  “And she is your charge, yes?”

  Luc nodded again, smaller.

  “Did you teach her nothing?”

  A silence hung over the room.

  “I was forbidden,” he finally said.

  “What?” Ava stood suddenly, a clatter of bangles jangling on her wrist. Itzy was surprised at how quickly the woman moved. Luc and Ava were soon conferring across the room, and Itzy could make out the movie star’s angry tones. “You knew of this and did nothing?”

  Luc towered over Ava, his words too low for Itzy to grasp, but his face was tormented.

  “All these years, Maude was right! She warned me, but I didn’t believe it.” Ava cast a quick, withering glance at Itzy. “Just look at her. The poor thing looks meeker than a dormouse.”

  Itzy felt a stab of anger, and she clenched her fists.

  “There are certain expectations, Luc. She was supposed to be trained.”

  “Excuse me—Miss Quant?” Itzy narrowed her eyes. “Luc? Hello? Could somebody tell me how you know my father?”

  Itzy realized she had been shouting.

  Ava turned, and Luc stormed over to the window. The star sighed, the anger vanishing. “I studied with him,” Ava said simply.

  Itzy sank onto the sleek white couch.

  “You what?”

  “At the Institute.”

  “What Institute?”

  “The Hermès Institute.”

  “I see.” She thought of the shop on Madison Avenue, the rearing horse on top.

  “It seems we have a little catching up to do, Itzy—but you’re tired. I can see it’s been a long day.”

  It had been a long day—the morning, her train ride, Grand Central—it seemed a lifetime ago.

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me.” Itzy glared.

  Ava sighed, shooting Luc one last sharp look, and sat beside Itzy on the couch.

  “The Institute is old—ancient, in fact. An ancient alliance of exorcistes, of scholars. We are demon hunters. Your father is the director.”

  “Isn’t my father in Paris?” Itzy squeaked, suddenly unsure of anything.

  “Yes, dear.” Ava patted her knee. “The Institute is based there, although there are outposts everywhere in all the best neighborhoods, posing as fine luxury-goods shops.”

  “He’s there teaching?” Itzy asked.

  “Call it research.”

  “What sort of research?”

  Ava looked at Luc, who was watching, his expression inscrutable.

  “He’s looking for the Gates to Hell, Itzy,” Luc said. “Their last location was in Paris in 1789, around the time of the Reign of Terror, and there’s reason to believe they will rise up there again.”

  “The Gates of Hell?” Itzy repeated. Her father was a professor of obscure French history, not a crusader to the Underworld.

  “The demons are coming,” Ava said simply.

  Itzy thought of the pipeworks again, the dragging sound of the creature’s footfalls.

  “I think they’re already here,” she said.

  28

  “The last time the Gates appeared, Itzy, Marie Antoinette was queen of France.” Luc had joined Itzy and Ava on the couch.

  “That was over two hundred years ago,” Itzy said.

  “A blink of an eye for eternal beings.” Ava smiled at Luc. “That was a particularly difficult time for the Institute—the chaos of the French Revolution, the peasant revolt. People got carried away. We lost control.” Ava’s eyes narrowed. “There were riots in the streets every night, demons and innocents torn from their beds. Blood lust. It was lawless. No one can say for sure how many demons were banished during the Terror. We are at a bit of a disadvantage, you see. Most of our records—dating back to ancient times—were lost in the uprising.” Ava grew thoughtful, her voice low. “Still, she almost succeeded.”

  “She?” Itzy repeated.

  “Marie,” Ava said, blinking.

  “Marie Antoinette?”

  “Really, my dear. Haven’t you been listening to me at all?”

  “Of course,” Itzy stammered. “I just—” She paused. Inexplicably, a rhyme her father taught her as a child ran through her head.

  Keep the demons from your stair

  —find her lair, find her lair.

  Keep the demons from your bed

  —off with her head, off with her head.

  Keep the demons from your soul

  —heads will roll, heads will roll.

  “She raised the Gates to Hell, but we succeeded in stopping her before they were opened,” Ava said.

  “Are you saying Marie Antoinette was a demon?” Itzy asked quietly.

  “Not just any demon, my dear.”

  Itzy looked at Luc, who finally returned her stare. His amber eyes made her stomach feel funny.

  “The Divah,” Itzy said, her voice flat.

  “Touché.” Ava stood, walking to an orderly shelf. “She was beheaded just in time. Demons are not the coarse, horned and beaked creatures of medieval paintings, Itzy. No, they appear, for all intents and purposes, very much like you and me.” She returned with a large book, full of glossy, richly colored prints. “Oh, there were simpler times, I assure you, when a demon was a demon and there was no guesswork involved identifying one. But these days their faces are smooth, youthful, perfected by surgeons.”

  “But the thing I saw in the basement—” Itzy said.

  “Things from Hell are corrupt—rusted, broken, or defiled. But not everything from Hell is a demon, Itzy. And not all demons are queens.”

  Ava placed the heavy book on Itzy’s lap, and Itzy examined it. The book was open to a portrait. She recognized it immediately. She knew this painting—she had seen it on her father’s wall beside his desk, where he had torn it from a catalog. Marie Antoinette stared back at her from the opened book, her porcelain skin smooth and supple, her hair piled high upon her head in a wig of lavish blonde curls, her waist impossibly thin. Her cheeks flushed, her lips scarlet. A dimpled chin. She leaned on an ermine fur upon a cushion, a frilled ribbon tied around her neck.

  “Do you see?” Ava asked, waiting.

  Itzy peered closer at the reproduction.

  “Her eyes, child. You can tell a demon by its eyes.”

  Itzy stared again. Indeed, the queen’s eyes shone with an inner light—a humanizing twinkle, both bemused and coy. Even from the page, they held her gaze.

  “Relax. It’s like looking at the surface of a still pond—and then shift your perspective to beneath the surface. Look deep into the water, to the bottom. To the rocky depths. You’ll get it. It will come, in time. A fever helps.”

  Itzy did as she was told. The surface of Marie’s eyes were glassine, and Itzy stared at them. She let her eyes relax, and soon she was aware of only the weight of the book on her lap and the likeness of the last queen of France upon it. What Itzy had first mistaken for a touch of humor now seemed to be an expression of haughty arrogance. Relaxing further, she saw that beneath this was a vast, eternal depth—small windows, she thought, into another world—not a winning place, she realized, but a place of torment. These were eyes of the wicked, the devious—not at all human. They were dark, congealed pits. Itzy felt her stomach clench. Marie Antoinette’s eyes were like those of a beast.

  The book slid from Itzy’s lap.

  “You will know a divah by her eyes.” Ava nodded, satisfied. “But don’t worry. The males are easier. Devhils carry pitchforks. Later, when you’re up for it, we will discuss the entire diabolical menagerie.” Ava ticked off a few on her fingers. “The sympathies—some of those you are aquainted with, such as earwigs. There are spectres, servants and spies, fiends, imps, acolytes, conjurers, fanaticks. The fanaticks are some of my favorites.”

  “And the woodwose,” Luc said bitterly.

  “Yes, of course. And the woodwose.” Ava looked at him with pity.

  “But Marie Antoinette is long dead!” Itzy heard herself say.

 
; “The arch-demon that inhabited her can never die,” Ava said. “And she has unfinished business. Marie Antoinette was interrupted by the guillotine. Now, the Divah’s back to finish what she started. And, Itzy, she’s coming to the Carlyle.”

  A discreet knock sounded from the door. Itzy jumped.

  “Ah!” Ava spun on her heel. “I do believe it’s teatime.”

  A white-uniformed waiter rolled a room service cart over to the far wall, beside the balcony door. On it was a silver tea service, a tiered platter of scones, finger sandwiches, and a familiar domed plate cover. Ava waited for the man to leave before continuing.

  “You’d be surprised how many celebrities are drawn to the work of demon hunting. I was recruited at the height of my career. Demons are drawn to fame, you see, so it’s helpful for demon hunters to be famous.”

  “Marilyn Monroe!” Itzy gasped. She thought of the tunnels, Marilyn’s reassuring monogram.

  “While some critics have questioned Marilyn’s acting talent, there can be no dispute about her demon-hunting abilities.” Ava peered into the teapot, approvingly. “Marilyn was one of our brightest stars. In the end, though, those demons got her.” She held up a delicate teacup. “Sugar?”

  Itzy shook her head, wide-eyed.

  “Who—who else is a scholar? A demon hunter?”

  “In time, you will meet the few of us who remain. Many, like Marilyn, died in the line of duty. Even during the Old Reign of Terror, the demons far outnumbered us. And then we were at the height of our powers.”

  “Is everyone famous?” Itzy blurted.

  Ava smiled. “We are all famous in our own way, Itzy. Even you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re known the world over! At least, in our circles. The daughter of Jack and Anaïs Nash. Such high hopes we have for you. You’re to follow in your father’s footsteps.”

  Itzy took a sip of her tea and cradled the steaming cup in both hands. She thought of her father in Paris.