Diabolical

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  The doorbell sounds again, and I zoom in to locate Lucy and Seth in the foyer. He opens the massive door.

  The new arrival’s salty blond hair looks salon styled, her clothes designer label, and her cosmetics professionally applied.

  “You must be Seth!” she exclaims, rising on her toes to kiss him full on the lips. “I can’t believe I made it.” She glances at Lucy. “Don’t you hate the weather?”

  As a chauffeur begins unloading her fifteen-piece luggage set, Seth introduces the girl as Vesper Simon. I change screen functions to do an online search.

  We ascended souls are unable to post messages or other content on the Web, but we’re welcome to read what’s out there.

  Here it is. Vesper is the daughter of some financial guru worth $139.8 billion. Last year, Vesper herself was named Massachusetts It Girl by a local society magazine, and she’s been romantically linked to a minor Kennedy.

  The chauffeur wheels another of Vesper’s trunks inside, and Seth admits, “I’m afraid I have to hit the road in a few minutes. The caretakers will arrive any moment, and they’ll finish getting you settled.”

  Vesper yanks off her mink-lined black leather gloves. “I thought —”

  “It’s the nature of the job.” Seth helps Vesper out of her fur jacket. “Tables to man, brochures to distribute, students to recruit. A glamorous life. I travel a lot, but I do have an office on the fourth floor, and you’ll see me again before you know it.”

  Zooming out, I observe that the academy is a Mies van der Rohe–looking, four-story, rectangular building made of uniform thin steel columns supporting massive panes of tinted glass. What appears to be the basement is aboveground, and both the circular drive and the black-stone staircase leading to the entrance have been shoveled and sprinkled with sand.

  The structure sits nestled among taller snow-blanked hills (mountains?) on wooded land alongside a fair-size lake, which is oddly not frozen. The closest waterline is about a hundred feet from the front of the structure. It tightly wraps around the east side, though, and laps against glass and metal. I zoom in on the chiseled gray stone sign above the front door, an archaic contrast to the otherwise modern architecture.

  It reads: SCHOLOMANCE PREPARATORY ACADEMY.

  I’M YOUNG FOR A GA. I’ve had only three formal assignments, but I’ve still managed to blow each of them to varying degrees.

  Dan “the Man” Bianchi graduated from altar boy to small-time crooked politician. Alcohol led to drugs, prostitutes, and an early, ugly end in an upscale hotel suite. Only Nonna Bianchi and Dan’s cousin, Vaggio, showed up at the funeral to pray for the boy Dan had once been. (The same Vaggio Bianchi who served as Sanguini’s original chef. The Big Boss works in mysterious ways.)

  Then my girl, my Miranda. A one-time North Dallas teen. She obsessed over Tolkien, dreamed of stage acting, mourned her parents’ failed marriage, and played the loyal sidekick to her adventurous best friend.

  One winter night I broke heaven’s rules and revealed myself in full glory — corporeal, shining, wings and all — to warn her of an impending fall into an open grave. I’d worried she’d break her neck. I’d figured the appearance of an angel would reassure her. Instead, she panicked at the sight of me and fled.

  Then the vamp king himself intercepted Miranda. Captured her, made her undead, and presented her to the underworld as his daughter and heir.

  She lost her humanity. I lost my wings, my powers, and my full angelic status.

  After some months of pointless wandering and burying my sorrow in booze and Miranda look-alikes, Michael assigned me to masquerade as my girl’s personal assistant. I found her irresistible, even in undeath. Miraculously, she fell for me in return.

  We joined forces to defeat the king, and in the final battle, my wings and radiance were restored. She begged me to use heaven’s light to destroy her tainted form. To save her soul by ending her earthly existence. And, out of love, I did.

  Now I’m supposed to watch over Quincie. She’s got the bravado of Pippi Longstocking, the humor and wry dignity of a young Katharine Hepburn.

  She’s also wholly souled — the very first (and so far only) one of her kind to have ever resisted taking a life. A fact that I realized only after trying to convince her to end it all. Fortunately, she believed enough in herself to figure it out in time.

  At sunrise, I’m pleased to find my latest assignment propped on a chaise lounge on her new screened-in back porch. Quincie avoided me yesterday, but I take this as a sign that she wants to talk. Normally, she’d be chatting with Nora and hovering over the pastry team in Sanguini’s kitchen.

  “Does your cell phone range go all the way to heaven?” she asks, flipping through a restaurant-supply catalog. “Can you talk to other angels?”

  “Good morning to you, too,” I reply. “No, my phone is a Samsung. Not heaven-sent, like my sword. My supervisor Michael appears sometimes, mostly to yell at me. My buddy Joshua visits, too.”

  “Michael and Joshua are angels?”

  “Full status,” I say, bracing myself. “Josh is my best friend.”

  “Could you ask him if he’s seen Mitch in heaven?”

  There it is. Not long after we first met, I scolded her to respect heaven’s mysteries. It’s become a joke between us. Quincie asks, and I don’t tell. I’m tempted sometimes. But I’m in enough trouble already without divulging more secrets. Granted, I confided in Kieren last night about angels and aging. I really should watch my mouth after a couple of beers. But that wasn’t heaven-and-hell stuff. Certain separations exist between the living and the dead, even between the dead and undead, for a reason.

  “Never mind,” Quincie says, apparently resigned. “Truth is, I’ve thought more than once that it might become my responsibility to take my axe to Mitch. You spared me that.” Brightening, she changes the subject. “By the way, how many times have I told you not to come outside without clothes on? You’re going to cause a riot.”

  What? “I’m not naked.”

  I’m wearing the oversize white terry-cloth robe and slippers that Nora gave me for my birthday. Plus, under the robe, I’ve got on boxers with fanged smiley faces on them, a gift from Miranda.

  Thinking Quincie is teasing, I open the Statesman to the sports section.

  Then she points up at three middle-aged ladies, partially hidden by the vine-wrapped treetops. They’re taking turns studying me through a telescope mounted on the third-floor balcony of the backyard neighbor’s house.

  I guess I have been coming out here on mornings fairly regularly.

  I wave, which sends them squealing and ducking for cover.

  I APPROACH THE UNIFORMED DOORMAN for my honeycomb tower at the Penultimate. His name is Huan (1945 Oakland–2002 Oklahoma City), and he looks like Grandpa Shen, only plumper.

  “Howdy, Miranda,” Huan says. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a book, though it may not be permitted here. I wouldn’t blame anyone if it weren’t. I —”

  “The title?”

  I close my eyes and steel myself for his response. “The Blood Drinker’s Guide.”

  “Would you like a hard copy? Or I can show you how to download the text to your monitor-com. It has an e-reader built in.”

  It does? I’m certain someone explained that at registration, but I was distracted by being newly dead. Since then, watching over Zachary and, to a lesser extent, Lucy and my family has occupied most of my attention, so I haven’t played with the device like I otherwise might’ve. “How long will it take for a hard copy?”

  “English language?” He hits a button on the stand and keys in the title. The guide materializes. “The macabre is fascinating, don’t you think? Have you ever read Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian —”

  “Thanks!” I grab the guide. “I have emergency research to do.”

  “Emergency?” he echoes as I sprint toward the elevator. “Here?”

  I’m tempted to grab the nearest lounge chair, but I’m
not convinced everybody is as open-minded about demonic literature as Huan is. So I’m sprinting around souls floating down the promenade (theoretically, we could concentrate, dissipate, and pass through each other, but it’s considered rude) when someone calls, “Your Highness!”

  Everybody gawks. Though death is the ultimate equalizer, royalty still garners attention. “Princess Miranda!”

  I’m not the only Miranda, of course. Yet how many of the others used to be princesses? Everywhere I look, there are strangers, then . . .

  “Harrison!” I exclaim.

  Flashy in a shiny gold tux, my onetime castle servant zigzags through the crowd, raises my fingertips, and formally bends to kiss the back of my hand.

  First Mr. Nesbit, and now this! I’m not the only formerly demonic being in the Penultimate. Like me, Harrison was undead when he met his end. He had been a prized legacy servant, the last of a five-generation line. In that role and, later, as a neophyte eternal, Harrison caused (or at least facilitated) unfathomable bloodshed.

  Yet last October, he fought by Zachary’s side and sacrificed himself to the holy light as enemy eternals closed in. Harrison gave up his demonic, earthly existence so that his friends and brother might live. He died as something far better than he’d ever been in life — a gallant gentleman.

  I exclaim, “I never expected to see you here!”

  Anyone else would be insulted. Harrison laughs and twirls me on the promenade. “Look who’s talking! Your Highness, you were the most splendidly fearsome creature —”

  I stop in place and shush him. “I’m past all that.”

  “Are you?” Harrison replies.

  Yes. No. “We have bigger problems. Come with me.”

  I should apologize for ordering him around like that — I’m no longer a pampered royal, and he’s no longer my sarcastic servant — except he seems to be relishing it.

  Harrison notes the book I’m carrying. “That looks familiar.”

  Minutes later in my suite, I’ve explained about Lucy and we’ve opened The Blood Drinker’s Guide to the section about a certain famed count. Harrison points to the entry on the first Dracula, sometimes referred to as Dracula Prime.

  Though royal eternals have long since adopted the name Dracul as an honorific, the original was a beast of unprecedented ferociousness who used sorcery to reinvent himself as a Carpathian vampire — a far more powerful and insidious breed of eternal than the prevalent undead today. It’s where the count learned that sorcery that concerns me.

  “According to the infamous, blathering Dr. Abraham Van Helsing,” Harrison begins from the sofa, “Dracula Prime ‘dared even to attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did not essay.’ It’s the Evil One’s school, Your Highness, a slice of hell on earth.”

  I pace, wringing my hands. “When you say ‘Evil One,’ you don’t mean —”

  “I mean Lucifer. Satan, the devil, the beast, the adversary, the prince of darkness, the prince of pain, the father of lies, the deceiver, the cloven hoofed, the serpent, the spoiler, Old Scratch, Old Horny, the fallen —”

  “Enough!” I exclaim.

  “Angel,” he adds at the same time.

  I recall a sermon my minister gave back in Dallas — something about the archangel Lucifer falling like a star, he and those angels who followed him. Or maybe it was Shakespeare: “Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.”

  “The Scholomance is located in the mountains of Eastern Europe,” Harrison goes on. “I don’t recollect there being a satellite campus in Vermont or anywhere else.” He checks the index. “There’s no mention of one in this edition. Did you try the Web?”

  Vaguely embarrassed, I slip the monitor-com out of my sweater pocket. “I’ve been using this almost exclusively to —”

  “Spy on your hunkalicious guardian back on terra firma? Be still, my celestial heart, I, too, have let my screen linger on his pert but muscular gluteus maximus.”

  Ignoring that confession, I exclaim, “I also check on my parents! My best friend Lucy! Furthermore, it’s not spying, it’s . . . watching over.”

  Harrison takes the monitor-com from me. “Whatever you say, Your Highness. Or do you prefer Your Majesty? You were, however briefly, queen.”

  I’d rather not be reminded of that. “I prefer Miranda.”

  “I don’t. What’s your read on this Seth fellow you mentioned?”

  I pause. “He seemed friendly enough. Young, overeager. He could be a dupe.”

  “Oh, dear.” Harrison looks up from the screen. “According to the website, Scholomance Preparatory Academy on New Hermannstadt Street in Montpelier, Vermont, is indeed affiliated with the flagship institution in the Carpathian Mountains.”

  As I bury my face in my hands, he adds, “It’s a feeder school to the original.”

  With a groan, I sink into a seated position, cross-legged on the carpet.

  Harrison, meanwhile, rattles off factoids: “Students are required to live on campus. While foreign students are limited to submitting applications to the Romanian campus only, that’s expected to change in the near future. Admissions are rolling. The first-ever U.S.-based classes are scheduled to begin this coming winter-spring semester on January seventh. Orientation is on the sixth.” After a pause, he adds, “The website is mum on the curriculum.”

  I spread my fingers and peek through them. “What do you think?”

  He purses his lips. “You’re wise to fear for your friend.”

  I’M LURKING in the reception area outside the Office of the Archangel Michael in hopes of running into Joshua, being eyed warily by a receptionist/assistant named Yasmeen (1965 Istanbul–2002 Istanbul), and flipping through old newspapers and magazines.

  In 1929, William C. DeMille became the second president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. He followed Douglas Fairbanks.

  In 1984, a weredolphin, who’d been performing in animal form at a California water park, was outed and accused of being a Soviet spy.

  In 1961, John F. Kennedy was the Time magazine Person of the Year. I remember when Lucy and I visited the Sixth Floor Museum on an eighth-grade field trip. It nearly moved me to tears.

  After two hours, I approach the reception desk. “Excuse me, my name is —”

  “I know who you are,” Yasmeen replies. “You don’t have an appointment.”

  The Office of the Archangel Michael isn’t known for its touchy-feely-ness. “Will Joshua be done soon?”

  Few guardians check in so regularly and in person with Michael. However, it’s common knowledge that the archangel is especially interested in Zachary and that Joshua has been assigned to him. It’s unusual for one guardian to watch over another. Then again, it’s unusual for an angel to slip and become earthbound.

  “At the Penultimate,” Yasmeen says, “we encourage ascended souls to focus on making peace with their time among the living, not on socializing with guardians who have important business elsewhere.”

  The promenade is reminiscent of those at amusement parks. Some people appear as if they’re on a mission, others like they’re out for a stroll. A famous face catches my eye — a young Hollywood actor. I had such a crush on him in middle school. He’s shorter in person, less airbrushed. He looks disappointed. I wonder how he died.

  Of late, newly ascended souls have included the lead singer of a popular girl band that went down in a small plane and a baseball star who died on a Jet Ski.

  Despite being dead, and undead before that, I still find myself attuned to news out of the U.S. However, I’m told that on the other side of the pearly gates, national alliances fade fast. Heaven is a place without borders, and there’s no such thing as a language barrier. I’m not certain of the mechanics, but basically it’s like everyone has a Federation universal translator. I pause on the promenade as a werecat in animal form springs by.

  Behind me, a voice whispers, “Psst! Miranda!”

  “Hello?” I turn all the way
around. “Hello?”

  A tall, feminine figure steps to my side. “I’m the guardian Idelle.”

  Like all angels, she’s exquisite — in her case, with waist-long, dark, curly hair, full breasts, wide hips, and long, tapered fingers. She’s wearing the standard guardian uniform — the white robes and strappy gold sandals.

  “You’re Zachary’s former assignment?” she asks.

  I pause. “Yes, I’m Miranda.”

  “Walk and talk,” Idelle urges, and we merge into the crowd. “Is it true, what they say you were?”

  I didn’t realize “they” were talking. I glance at my hands as if I can still see the blood on them. “Yes.”

  “I heard another vampire connected to Zachary arrived in October.”

  “That would be Harrison,” I reply.

  “And a third only two days ago?”

  Cheered, I reply. “Mitch.” I didn’t realize how much I’d come to root for him until after he died for good. “He’s here at the Penultimate?”

  “No, he’s the uncomplicated sort. He proceeded through the gates right away.”

  Last night my angel returned to the site of Mitch’s destruction. He lit a candle, said a prayer, and downed a tequila shot. If only I could reassure him that his friend died at peace.

  “Three fully redeemed vampires.” Idelle purses her lips. “My first assignment — an exceptional young man, a firefighter and father of two — was cursed with unholy blood, and so I was immediately reassigned. Now, I learn that he might still have been saved —”

  “At least for the first year or so,” I put in, oddly reminded of castle politics.

  “Yes, for that long, I abandoned him to face probable damnation when there was still a chance that he could’ve eventually joined us upstairs.”

  A parakeet swoops between us and then angles higher, above the crowd.

  “Should we be talking about this?” My minister often said that God was everywhere, but I feel his presence here at the Penultimate in a way I never did before. If he’s listening, the last thing I want — me, of all souls — is to show disrespect.