Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  But her father was in Paris. Wasn’t he?

  And her mother? Her mother was—what was she?

  Nothing is as it seems.

  Itzy felt herself grow hot, anger seeping in through her pores. It rose from her feet, closing her throat, gripping her mind. Something burned in her heart—a tiny ember ignited that night in Brittany when she was hidden by the hearth. She drew a breath, feeding it. It burned orange and red, her anger. She let it wash over her. Flames were fanned. Her heart, the ember in her chest, glowed.

  Her camera had been stolen. Her aunt was dead, stuffed in a trunk. Demons had just tried to kill her.

  Ava was prattling on, Itzy noticed, self-pity thickening her voice. “When I die, no one will remember my real, true work.”

  “Now Ava,” Pippa scolded. “You won’t die!”

  “Stupid girl—we all die. And most of us before our time. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Princess Grace. Diana. Marilyn. The list is as sad as it is endless.”

  “Well, you will hardly be forgotten!”

  “Please—I have no illusions. I’m just a washed up pinup girl. A recluse. I can’t even bear to leave my own room! They’ll show a tidy montage of my films on the news, flash my star on the Walk of Fame. And then, they’ll forget me.” She laughed bitterly. “I wonder what the world would say if they knew the truth.”

  Itzy was at the window, neck craning to inspect the hulking guillotine’s blade. Even in the low light, its honed edge gleamed.

  Itzy turned.

  “Really, Ava,” she said. “For someone who abandoned the theater, you’re awfully dramatic.”

  Yes, awful things had happened to her. But no more.

  Itzy narrowed her eyes and walked to the phone.

  It was time to get even.

  82

  “Room service.” The melodious voice was soothing in her ear. Itzy felt her anger abate, a sense of serenity appearing in its place. A buoyancy. “A pot of coffee, please. Strong, and quick.”

  “Of course, Miss Nash. Will there be anything else?” Itzy turned around, surveying the room.

  “Food. Nothing burned. Burgers, maybe. Rare. Whatever else you recommend.”

  “Glad to see your appetite has returned, Miss Nash.”

  Itzy thought of the elevator. She turned away from the room and leaned into the phone. “Um, thanks for before,” she whispered.

  “We aim to please.”

  “How did you know—”

  “Just doing our job. Oh, Itzy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Might I recommend something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ask her why she quit acting.”

  “Ava?”

  “Yes, the legendary Ava Quant. Oh, and Miss Nash? It’s been a pleasure to serve you.”

  Itzy turned, looking at Ava sprawled on mounds of white cushions.

  “Who are you—?” Itzy asked into the phone, but the line was dead.

  Itzy answered the knock on the door when it came. She intercepted the cart, signing for it, and hurried to close the door again. Looking out into the hallway, she paused.

  Mops was there.

  She slammed the door on him, his snarl cut short.

  Curls of steam were coming from the silver spout of the coffee urn, and Itzy poured Ava a large cup. The coffee had dripped in a few places on the pristine white tablecloth, and Itzy watched as the brown blots spread. Turning, she plunked it down before the couch on the low, glass-topped table.

  “Drink,” Itzy commanded.

  Ava sat up, bleary-eyed.

  She held the coffee, sniffing. “Smells okay. Not burned. How’d you manage this?”

  “Friends in high places. Do you want milk or sugar?”

  “Vodka.”

  “Ava—”

  “Kidding.”

  Itzy smiled thinly. “Ava. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Ah—on that we both agree.”

  Ava took a gulp of coffee and then another.

  “They killed Aunt Maude.”

  Ava was silent for some time. Finally, she turned her bloodshot eyes to Itzy, her face grave and grim. “She wouldn’t listen, your aunt,” she said. “I tried to warn her.”

  On the wall behind the couch was a black-and-white image. A pair of girls walking arm in arm, seen from some distance behind. A boardwalk, a Ferris wheel in the distance. One, a blonde, is blurred. Her head has turned, she’s seen something off-frame. From her posture, Itzy can tell she is startled. The other girl hasn’t seen it and is chatting, laughing, pulling her companion away.

  “Coney Island,” Ava said, her voice flat. “My first demon slay.”

  Itzy’s eyes grew wide, and she rose to get a better look.

  “I didn’t see it, of course. It was Marilyn—it was always Marilyn. Her instincts were impeccable. Beneath that coat there, she’s got her claw hammer tucked into her girdle—her weapon of choice. I wasn’t even armed. It was our day off. Who takes a weapon to an amusement park?”

  Itzy thought of Julep in the elevator, the flash of silver.

  “That’s Marilyn? The blonde beside you?” Itzy asked, peering closer. Ava nodded.

  “Marilyn saved me. Afterward, laughing, she grabbed my hands. ‘Ava,’ she said in that breathless way of hers. ‘You’re a natural!’ I never left home again without this.” Ava’s wrist flashed as she slipped off her armload of bangles. They clattered upon the table, each bracelet linked to the next, an intact and heavy chain. A deadly weapon. “Until finally, I just never left home.”

  “Ava—” Itzy suddenly felt cold, shivery. “Why did you quit acting?”

  Ava looked at Itzy for a long time. “There are enough monsters in real life, Itzy,” she said, softly. “Who needs the Hollywood kind?”

  Itzy was feeling really peculiar, a throbbing at her temples. Her hands fluttered to her throat, where her Hermès scarf felt like a necklace of thorns. Black swaths like giant shadow-wings shuddered in her peripheral vision, beating a slow, menacing rhythm. Itzy tried to concentrate. “What is that smell?”

  Luc was at her side as the room started to spin.

  “My head—” Itzy clutched her temples. Ava’s voice was scratchy, far away.

  “Itzy?” Pippa’s voice wavered. Luc was carrying her to the white couch. “Itzy, what’s wrong? Luc? Call someone. My god, she’s gone so pale—”

  83

  For the second time in recent memory, Itzy awoke to a field of blue, but this time there were clouds—beautiful clouds. Clouds of opals and yellows and ochres. Clouds of spun cotton, clouds that billowed and roiled as with a giant’s breath. They leveled out into a flat plane, and Itzy realized she was staring at a painting. A painting on a ceiling.

  And then someone leaned over her, and the clouds vanished.

  A penlight was being waved at her, her eyelids were brusquely pulled back and, as the light passed over each pupil, it seared the inside of her brain like a white-hot poker.

  She groaned, turning her head.

  A skull—a human skull—was staring at her, its cavernous eyes deep pits. A tiny crack ran the length of a cheek bone. The bones were brown with age and polished to a patina from handling, charred at the temples as if burned. It appeared to be grinning.

  Someone else bent over her and turned her face this way and that, looking for something, releasing her chin roughly. She recognized Ava from her fire-engine red hair and propped herself up on her elbows, squinting. Words floated past her, but she hardly cared.

  “Memory lapses,” Ava was saying. “Whitening hair—”

  Other whispers, like the buzz of insects.

  Luc was all that mattered. And he was sitting right there.

  His perfect eyes, she thought. His perfect face. She felt herself flushing. A great shivery sensation in her chest, like jumping off a cliff. Lover boy, she thought—or had she spoken it? She hardly cared.

  “—and a lack of impulse control. These are all definitive signs.” Ava brandished
her bangled arm, clinking loudly as she pointed at Itzy.

  Luc chuckled. “Itzy—how do you feel?” he asked.

  “Never better,” she said, regarding the ceiling of clouds. Time and gravity released their hold on her, and she seemed to soar. “I feel like I’m flying. Am I flying?” she asked, sitting up.

  “No, Itzy.” Luc’s amber eyes stared deep into her. “Someday, I’ll show you flying.”

  She was in an unfamiliar room, vast and airy. There was a balcony off in the distance, a dock floating on a sea of night air. It was filled with angels. Some perched fearlessly on the railing, the city open and infinite behind them. They were modern and chic, torn from pages of a magazine. Itzy recognized a few—Virginie, the silver-winged boys, and some of the others—from Obscura, but many more were new to her. Wings of all shapes and sizes—colored feathers sprouting from their backs. Pippa was there, too, gesturing grandly, recounting some story with practiced confidence. Gaston watched her closely, laughing. A waif-like angel walked by, her wings bound behind her back with golden cord. She passed out drinks from a silver tray, weaving in and out of powdered wings.

  “Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” Itzy cleared her throat, hardly recognizing her voice.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Ava said. From her tone, Itzy knew she wouldn’t like the answer.

  Itzy looked again to Luc, this time for an explanation, but the impulse was so strong to touch him that she had to look away. She sat on her hands, feeling them sandwiched between the denim of her jeans and silky sheets. Someone laughed.

  “This is no laughing matter,” Ava scolded. “This is very serious, very serious indeed. Luc—a word?”

  Luc shut his eyes, his own inner battle raging, and pulled away. “You heard the girl.” Luc looked at Ava sharply. “Everything’s fine.”

  “What we have here is a classic example of possession-by-inches. The girl’s bedeviled—and it’s worse than I thought,” Ava said.

  “Possession-by-inches is the rarest of all afflictions. It’s impossible. Nicolas was the only known case—” Luc glowered.

  “It is slow, insidious. By the looks of things, it’s my guess she’s been compromised for some time, and her angel blood is fighting it off. How else to explain the Hermès scarf? I had to peel it off her neck—just look at those blisters.” When Ava next spoke, her voice was low, desperate. “When the Gates open, all is done, Luc! The Divah will have all the power she needs to complete the possession.”

  “You’ve got your head in too many of those old pamphlets, Ava.”

  “And you’ve got your head up your—”

  “Easy now.” Maurice scowled. “We’re all on the same side.”

  “This is your doing.” Ava pointed at Luc. “It was you who led the Divah to this hellhole. You who doomed Itzy.”

  From somewhere across the room, a voice spoke.

  “She was doomed from the start.”

  No one was laughing anymore. It was Gaston who had spoken, and something about what he said must have been true, for the room was awash in shifty glances; an awkward silence descended.

  “What do you mean doomed?” Itzy blinked.

  “Oh tell her and be done with it,” Ava growled.

  Gaston glared at Luc. “The Divah’s preening you,” Gaston explained. “When the Gates of Hell open, she’ll have all she needs.”

  Itzy looked around wildly. “To do what?”

  “When the Gates open, she will take possession of your body, Itzy. Your power as a fledgling will join with hers. With your mouth, she will call forth the damned and visit ruin upon all that is good on this green earth until there is nothing but a scorched wasteland. With your feet, she will walk her kingdom of ash and ember and turn finally to the sky. The clouds will heave with thunder. And then, when there is nothing left, she—no you, Itzy—will conquer them, too.”

  “She needs a body,” Ava said matter-of-factly. “And she wants yours.”

  Itzy was silent for some time.

  “Why me?”

  “Ask him,” Ava said finally.

  “Luc?” Itzy turned to him, wide-eyed.

  Luc looked miserable, his jaw tensed and eyes flinty where the light abandoned them. “To be with me,” he said. “She thinks we are meant to be together. Her eternal lover. The body she has now—your governess. That is a temporary body, a hasty choice arranged by the doctor to accommodate her arrival. It is failing her. Itzy—”

  “She sees the way he looks at you, Itzy.” Gaston interrupted. Luc whirled about, bristling, but Gaston continued. “And she wants that. And then, with Luc by her side, she will rule over the wasteland.”

  “How very reassuring.” A grim smile crawled across Itzy’s face and she looked around the room, catching Pippa’s eye. “I thought the Gates were in Paris.”

  My father went to Paris to find the Gates of Hell.

  “Change of plans.” Gaston scowled.

  “She tried Paris once. It cost her her head,” Maurice explained.

  Itzy’s eyes fell on the skull. “What makes her think the Carlyle will be any more welcoming?” Itzy asked, grabbing it from its perch on the nightstand.

  “Itzy, this is the Carlyle we’re talking about.” Ava smirked. “White-glove service and a reputation for excellence. What better place to raise Hell?”

  84

  “I wonder if that’s what she plans for the party tomorrow night.”

  “What did you say?” Luc demanded.

  “The party,” Itzy replied.

  The chatter ceased.

  “Ooo. Did someone say party?” Pippa clapped her hands.

  “Yes, tomorrow. The Divah’s having a party at Bemelmans Bar.”

  Luc turned to Maurice, his words rushed, urgent. “Maurice—tomorrow. What is the date tomorrow?”

  Maurice looked stricken. “July fourteenth.”

  “July fourteenth,” Pippa said. “That’s—”

  “Bastille Day,” everyone spoke at once.

  “Here we go again.” Gaston grinned.

  Luc’s suite was open and airy, and the sounds drifted down on her. A cool breeze raised the little hairs on her arms. The party had broken up quickly at the mention of Bastille Day, a selection of thoughtful, exuberant, and worried expressions on the angels’ faces as they said their good-byes. In the air, the soft fine powder from their wings twinkled, catching the golden light of the candles. Luc locked the balcony door with a soft click.

  Itzy turned to the charred skull by her side.

  “You must be Nicholas,” she said, examining him. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  She held him close. His eyes—or the holes they once nested in—were dark caverns, and his teeth, what few he had in life, were yellowed and loose. French dentistry did not leave many teeth in Nicolas’s mouth at the time of his beheading. She saw the cracks running haphazardly along the skull’s ridge, splintery little lines that crept along the surface following their own mysterious design.

  Itzy smiled to herself, a laugh bubbled up from deep inside her, and she giggled into the feathery pillow. The place inside her that always felt alone and small—that place had disappeared. She felt full and complete—as if every inch of her body, from her skin to her marrow, was bursting with vitality—with new life. There wasn’t a part of her body that didn’t feel flushed, like a newborn babe, scrubbed pink.

  She had never felt better.

  The problem was she had never felt less like herself.

  85

  Luc was lying beside Itzy on the sprawling bed in the quiet penthouse. The wispy sheets were tucked under her chin, and she was curled up like a baby beside him, shivering. The skull was between them, a candle jutting from the polished dome of his head.

  “Nicolas, meet Itzy. Itzy, Nicolas.”

  Itzy giggled. “Hello, Nicolas.”

  “He only speaks French,” Luc said, a smile beginning in the corners of his mouth.

  “Ah, excusez-moi. Bonsoir, Nicolas,” Itzy sa
id to the skull. “Not very talkative, is he?” she asked Luc.

  “He’s had a hard life.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Luc smiled, touching her cheek. “A good friend is hard to find.”

  “I’ve met Maurice, and Gaston, and now Nicolas. Everyone except Laurent, it seems. Where is he?”

  Luc’s face hardened. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not his keeper.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Luc had gone silent, staring at the ceiling, brooding. Sighing, Itzy leaned back on her pillow; between them, the candle flickered atop Nicolas. The ceiling was even more spectacular in the low light.

  When Luc finally spoke, his voice was gentler. “I had the clouds painted by Ludwig Bemelmans when he did the bar downstairs. He lived at the Carlyle for some time while he painted, until his family went missing and he went mad. He was a scholar, you know. Like your father.”

  “Who knew being a scholar was so dangerous?”

  The clouds on the ceiling were still tantalizingly out of reach. So real I could touch them.

  “Why do you like clouds so much?” Itzy asked.

  He lifted a glass. “They remind me of home.”

  Itzy smiled, stealing a glance at his profile.

  “Why don’t you paint anymore?” Itzy asked.

  Luc was silent. When he spoke, she could barely hear him. “Because after Marie, I burned down my atelier.”

  She reached for his hand, and his tattoo caught her eye. It was made of ink of the blackest black, as if a crack in the world of light were etched upon his fourth finger.

  “What is this?” she asked, tracing the circle.

  “My halo.”

  “Your halo.” His face was deadly serious. “Do all angels have them?”

  “Just us. The Fallen.”

  Itzy peered at it closer. The band encircled his finger where it met his hand.