Divah

by Susannah Appelbaum

  The air smelled crisp, acrid—on fire.

  Laurent was whispering to her now, reverent. “You see, the Carlyle hotel was built for this,” he said. “Tonight will see the realization of Moses Ginsberg’s lofty dreams. A world of fire, and flesh, and scales—in the gilded Upper East Side. Itzy, welcome to the Cathedral of the Damned.”

  A knot of woodwose appeared, their fur mangy and singed, their faces slavering, eyes bright with anticipation. A wave of stench accompanied them, the smell of the grave.

  “Come. It’s time for the hell-raising.”

  Above them was the choir balcony, a gallery of sorts, where party-goers and masked Bemelmans revelers now gathered. Those she spied were sweating, their makeup running in streaks, wigs and masks askew. A few held opera glasses perched on the bridges of their noses, their polished ends like wide, unblinking eyes. A group of masked musicians was seated to her side, their withering music echoing off the walls. Demon flags and swallowtail banners were draped above them like snakes’ tongues.

  In the center of the chamber was a throne of black and gold.

  In the throne sat a figure.

  Itzy. So good of you to join us.

  The Divah stood, her body wracked with a ripple of spasms.

  My body. It’s betraying me.

  A red ring of coals encircled the Divah, flaring angrily. Approving murmurs came from the viewing audience in the balconies above her. Itzy stepped forward, toward the ribbon of embers, the marble hot and slick beneath her shoes.

  Itzy’s head swiveled, her glinting eyes taking in the full specter of the underground cathedral, its bleak statuary, the choir balcony. Finally, they alighted again on its queen.

  The Divah’s teeth were loose, and her face bloomed with rotting, weeping sores. She swung a stringy arm, securing Aunt Maude’s fox stole around her neck. Her delicate boot seemed to be collecting some sort of fluid, which sloshed as she paced the confines of the circle of embers.

  “Wow. You’ve really let yourself go.”

  The coals flared into angry flames, and Itzy saw insects crawling in the Divah’s elaborate wig.

  “Botulism.” The Divah spoke aloud. “In small doses Botox can be relied upon to stave off age, the ruins of time. But taken more liberally, it only hastens putrification. The Clostridium botulinum bacterium is toxic to the human form. Yet—what wonders it is capable of! So intriguing. So—delicious.”

  The Divah snapped her finger and an entire fingernail went flying, arcing off into the shadow. “But no matter. For I am about to shed this mantle. Great things are in store for us together, Itzy. The realization of Hell on earth. Such a shame you’ll miss it.”

  With a clap of her pincer-hands, the music ceased. A lone violin exhaled its last harrowing note, which echoed throughout the chamber. The silence was filled with whispers and sighs, and the noises of things skittering in the corners.

  And then came the bells.

  They were so close, they rung Itzy’s bones. They rung like bells that had been wronged, of bells buried alive. Sand and mortar sifted down on the cathedral until the very stone walls of the vast chamber were shaking.

  Itzy counted the bells as they reverberated within her.

  Midnight had arrived.

  99

  There was some new commotion off to the side. Laurent was bringing someone forward. As the pair came into the light of the torches, Itzy recognized Pippa. She was dressed in white, her bare shoulders dappled in the flickering firelight. She was tottering on her bare feet, swaying to music only she could hear.

  Pippa’s mystery angel.

  Suddenly, Pippa’s eyes brightened. “Mother?” she said, looking off into the dark.

  Itzy looked around for Mrs. Brill, and at first saw nothing.

  Then, from the darkened halls of the vast chamber, they came. The dead stepped forward from the shadows. Some were newly dead; they bore an expression of confusion, and shambled forward on stiffened legs wearing their funeral finery. And there were those whose eternal sleep had been interrupted much later—shreds of their burial shrouds clinging to them. Stacked bones, skeletons yellowed and gnawed on by mice, clattered forward to their queen.

  They love the Carlyle so much they never left.

  Itzy recognized the elevator operator, his head twisted at an awful angle, his brownish teeth still carrying the remnants of his last meal. A doorman. A maid. These were the Carlyle’s dead, dressed in the uniform of the hotel, splattered with grave soil, worm-eaten and defiled. Dead chauffeurs, telephone operators, and uniformed bellboys from the ages. Waiters shambled with their trays of spoiled food, titans of industry beside their skeletal wives. The happy couple Itzy had seen in the restaurant. Former guests, their corrupt clothing rotting from their forms, their fine timepieces and jewels dulled with dust. Kings and queens, and—

  Mrs. Brill.

  What was left of Mrs. Brill, Itzy saw, stood on her birdlike legs, her face missing.

  They ate her face right off, Itzy thought wildly. The Botox. They can’t resist it.

  “Mother!” Pippa waved happily, her voice a breathless sing-song.

  Beside Mrs. Brill, a shriveled figure stepped forward. The figure’s jaw fell open and something wordless emerged, a wave of comprehension hitting Itzy in the gut. It was Aunt Maude.

  A jagged crack appeared in the black marble floor between Itzy’s legs. It zigzagged along the polished surface, splintering the black rock, a red glow oozing from the void, stopping only at the cathedral’s center, the golden C. The stench of sulfur, thick and pungent, filled the air, as a sickly yellow smoke poured from the gap. Huge slabs of marble heaved and groaned as something vast, something evil, began to rise.

  The Gothic archway shot up savagely through the floor like an enormous, jagged fang, sending broken rock and burning stones scattershot across the room. A roiling cloud of stone dust and ash filled the air, raining down on the Shadowsill guests. The heat from Hell blazed upon them all, like hot breath from fetid bellows. The few woodwose that dared approach burst into flame, their shrieks echoing through the long halls.

  A deathly quiet followed.

  Itzy watched the Gates; their iron-studded portals seemed to breathe. They appeared alive, striated with scar tissue and shiny from old wounds. Gates of sinew, Itzy saw. Gates of gristle. Gates of bones.

  The Divah’s fleshless joints ground bone-against-bone as she prowled the edge of her burning circle of embers, her breath ragged and quick. Her arms were black, shiny, skin falling from them in tatters. She raised them, reciting an ancient incantation.

  Beside Laurent, Pippa’s face had taken on a look of rapture. All around them, the dead pressed forward. Something was stirring in the void beyond the Gates, something wasted and damned.

  Mops trundled over, sniffing at a few foul, protruding spikes that dotted the Gates of Hell. He approached the foul doors, bristling with rusted iron nails, and stopped, circling. He lifted his leg. A hissing stream of steam rose from the heaving archway and up into the shadows of the ceiling.

  100

  Light burned her retinas. An arc of blue shot past, leaving a ghost-trail for Itzy’s eyes. Another followed from somewhere above on the balcony. The bolt clattered to the floor beside a woodwose, who turned to club it, grunting. Another arrow shot past, this one finding its mark deep within the creature’s greasy hide, inflating the hairy woodman like a bloated wineskin until it burst in a drifting cloud of spores and earwigs.

  The room erupted in streaks of icy blue. Itzy crouched down. From the ceiling, a dark shadow was upon her, its wings outstretched—a wide curtain of darkness. She ducked, throwing her arms over her head, her blade dangling uselessly from its chain. The world had gone black, and she was gathered up, as if caught in a net. A sharp snarl escaped her lips.

  Soft breath filled her ear, the familiar smell of him, mixing with something deeper, something new and different—a startling rustling sound, like dry leaves. Or feathers.

  “It’s not a party un
til someone calls the cavalry,” the angel whispered.

  “Luc?” Itzy asked, and somehow her heart spilled out upon the floor.

  She stood back, and the angel drew up his wings beside her. He was bigger, a force even beside the Gates. His wings were thick, dark, ravishing things, a blue-black and the largest Itzy had ever seen. They stretched from his broad back into a wide and sturdy arc. The darkest angel of all.

  “Nice wings,” she said. “Now I see what all the fuss was about.”

  “Itzy, it’s midnight.” He looked into her eyes and a deep crease appeared upon his brow. A ripple of alarm swept down his feathers. “Your eyes—”

  “Isn’t this what you wanted all along—to be with her?” Itzy accused.

  “No! Itzy—what have you done?”

  “You brought her here, Luc. You brought her here to be with her! And then you brought me as an offering. Demon bait.”

  “There were letters, yes, invitations. But not from me.”

  “Who then?”

  “Laurent. It was all Laurent, Itzy. Maurice ordered him. To prevent a war.” His voice turned soft, his magnificent black wings ruffling. “For my wings.”

  “You can thank me later.”

  The room had erupted in battle as the host of angels swept down from above the balcony and the statuary, shedding their disguises. Vaporous blue arrows shot through the air, finding their marks on the grunting woodwose and party revelers.

  One arrow went wide.

  It sped across the sleek black marble, the polished stone like black ice. It shot through the gnarled, calloused feet of wildmen, its silver tip racing between Mops’s legs.

  Laurent was holding Pippa by the waist. Something wasn’t right about her posture, Itzy noticed. She was swaying and unsteady. Glowing a fierce blue, an arrow raced between Laurent and Pippa and pierced the sinewy Gates of Hell.

  A rumbling, undulating quake, and a lone curl of heavy black smoke belched forth.

  And then all Hell broke loose.

  101

  There were searing-hot whites. Brutal bright light held writhing, twisted forms. This overexposed world, a world of light, a population of shadow and gray. Was this Hell? Itzy wondered. But when the answer came, it was little comfort.

  This wasn’t Hell. This was the Carlyle hotel.

  The Divah’s roar ripped through the confusion.

  Where are you, you little savage?

  Itzy was on her belly, and some part of Itzy’s mind knew to keep crawling. The battle raged around her while her insides were at war. She clawed her way forward, but with each hard-won inch, she felt a sickening tug deep inside. She needed to reach the crumbling hot stone of the stairs of the exit, to leave oblivion to the damned.

  “Going so soon?” Before her, magnificent in ivory and gold, was Laurent. “We were only just getting to know each other.”

  Itzy staggered to her feet, steadying herself. Possession rolled over her like waves of nausea.

  “Laurent.” The angel moved so quickly she barely had time to blink. “Thanks so much for the tour. Too bad I’ve got to cut it short.” Itzy threw open her arms, the guillotine blade flashing.

  Suddenly, the air crackled, electrified.

  Laurent had retreated just above her, to the overhang of the balcony, where he hung bat-like upside down from his legs.

  “Oo. It has a bite. I’m beginning to see what Luc liked about you.”

  Itzy stepped back, searching for any way up.

  “You know something? I liked you better as Johnny.”

  Again the air crackled, this time more heavily, and Itzy was left with the bitter taste of ozone in her mouth. Laurent was gone from his ledge. Looking desperately around, she leveled the blade, slicing in a wide horizontal circle. She came up empty.

  “After I kill your boyfriend, I will teach you some manners.”

  Itzy dropped, rolling along the ash-covered floor, just in time. A wide flash of white swooped down where she was standing, and uncoiling, it became Laurent—his face white with fury. His statuesque arm brandished a sword, dull blue flames burning from the blade.

  He spun around, leveling the blazing sword at her. Itzy scrambled to her feet, but her heel caught in the hem of her dress, and she fell sprawling to the floor.

  The world erupted in sparks, and they rained down on Itzy. The tang of electricity stiffened the air, and shockwaves washed over her.

  Luc stood before her, dwarfing Laurent, holding an immense blue-black staff. A noise—a shriek unlike any other—perforated her eardrums, slamming her head back onto the ground. The cathedral spun. The two angels fell upon each other, talons streaking in the low light. A vortex of blue-black and creamy gold reeled first before her, then above her, vanishing in a cloud of vapor only to appear on her other side.

  Luc and Laurent were locked in battle midair. A large smoking hole had opened up where Luc’s staff had sent a smoldering ball of blue flames, and Itzy watched as a woodwose teetered on the edge. Luc had Laurent cornered against a pillar, and Itzy saw her chance.

  She slashed at Laurent—but there was only empty air, a few sheered feathers floating lazily in the wake. The feathers were caught in an updraft, bobbing—taunting her—in the empty space where Laurent had just stood. She grabbed them.

  Again, the angel’s unearthly shriek filled her ears but Itzy turned away. Behind her, in the center of the Cathedral of the Damned, were the Gates. The sinew and slick tissue of the closed doors heaved—as if breathing. Pippa was dwarfed before them, swaying slightly on bare feet. Above her, Gaston and Maurice were a whirlwind of flashing wings and flying arrows. Itzy could just make out a little shadow, a skulking worm-of-a-thing, pulling on the hem of Pippa’s white dress. It was Mops. He was pulling Pippa closer to the doors. Itzy watched as Pippa reached out a langid hand and pulled on a twisted, bony handle, and to Itzy’s horror, the door began to open.

  Itzy crawled across the floor slick with ashes.

  A wave of flames rushed past Itzy, searing her eyebrows. Sulfur and burning hair stung her nostrils. The ceiling was a plane of fire, and the walls were burning, controlled, as if made of flame. She heard the tinkling of breaking glass, the polished stone cracking in the heat. Blindly, she clawed her way forward, through coals and fire. Within her ring of embers, the Divah was bent, the borrowed body of the governess weak and failing as the Divah pushed her way inside Itzy’s skull.

  Fire transforms everything, Luc had once said.

  My wise, wise Luc, Itzy smiled wickedly.

  My Luc, said the Divah inside her head.

  Itzy stood, throwing her arms open.

  The fire—it was so close. Just like in Brittany. Her mother left her in the dark, by the ash, by the embers. She had wanted to see, she remembered. Just a peek. The flames were calling her then. She could answer now.

  At last—at last. It was time to run in the fire.

  The Gates to Hell stood open and she teetered on the threshold. There was no sign of Pippa. Behind her, there was the crisp crinkling sound of burning feathers. She hoped it was Laurent, but soon that somehow seemed distant, unimportant. Someone else’s war.

  It was just her and the Gates.

  A burning curiosity filled her and she sunk to her knees, her blade clattering on the stone.

  She slithered forward on her belly.

  She felt the demon inside her, and she wanted her dark world.

  This is mine, she thought. I’m your Divah now.

  Beyond the Gates, stretching out for all eternity, was a never-ending black sea, a slick of boiling oil, smelted iron, bubbling tar. It lapped the shores of the stone floor of the cathedral. A coagulated mass of the darkest, most vicious stew.

  Her stomach lurched, dizzy with vertigo, at the infinite size of it all. She heard a low, desperate call over the ocean, at first one reedy voice, but then a chorus, a cascade—finally a tidal wave of voices that swept up off the black sea and blew upon her with the force of a gale—calling for her. Calling her name.
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  Hell is a cauldron of souls. A stew of the damned.

  The hot wind blew her white hair crazily about her face. She reached out a trembling finger. The surface looked sticky, treacly. She felt a great longing, an irresistible urge. Itzy touched it.

  The ensuing shock was wordless. No—it was as though every dark and dreary word she’d ever known were spoken at once, a sea of sound.

  Hopelessness—

  Agony—

  Broken dreams—

  Regret—

  Betrayal—

  Her mind whirled forward at lightning speed, and she saw the world overrun. The Carlyle, the Upper East Side, New York City—all of humanity fell before her. She saw her father’s university, a ruined wasteland, Paris crumbling. Ruin rained upon the green earth, until there was nothing but a scorched inferno. Itzy walked her kingdom of ash and ember, finally turning to the sky. The clouds heaved with thunder. There was nothing left but to conquer them, too.

  The souls of the damned called to her. They wanted her. They thrilled her.

  And then, an inexplicable vision of white. Searing, drifting, pure light arranged itself before her in the shape of Marilyn Monroe. A ghosty carnival behind her, a vacant Ferris wheel spinning soundlessly. Marilyn’s head was tipped back and she was laughing a throaty laugh, talking to someone, some shadow. A world of black-and-white film. She held in her hand a twinkling claw hammer and turned to Itzy and winked.

  “Here’s to all those stars that burned so hot, died so young,” Marilyn said to Itzy, in her breathless way.

  And then, as sometimes happens in dreams, Itzy felt Marilyn’s touch, light and cool on her hand. And what was left behind was Itzy’s blade, her fingers threaded through the holes, the chain slung around her chest.

  In dreams begin responsibilities, Marilyn smiled.

  Itzy was staring at the endless span of the molten damned.