Diabolical

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “Water calls y’all like the moon calls us Wolves,” I add. “You don’t need it to transform, but it calls. At least that’s what my books said.”

  Evelyn studies the hairbrush. “Dad wasn’t there, thank God. Mom screamed at me that I was shameful and told me to leave and never come back. How did you know I wasn’t a full Otter? How did you —”

  “You’re an adolescent. You were drinking water in mixed company. Depending on how good your control is, you could’ve sprouted whiskers at the dinner table.”

  Her fingers fly to her lips.

  “Sorry,” I say, “what else were you going to ask?”

  “Why do you know so much about Otters? Besides me, there aren’t any others in the local interspecies community right now, and —”

  “I’m a trained Wolf studies scholar. I know more about other kinds of werepeople. More about the demonic. More about a lot of things than most shifters.”

  “Do Wolves eat Otters?”

  It’s not an unfair question. “This one doesn’t.”

  After a long moment, she asks, “Are there any religions that don’t preach that werepeople are shameful?”

  She’s using her mother’s word for it. Shameful. “Sure. Most Otters are Buddhists.”

  I cross to the recliner and give Evelyn time to digest what I’ve said. Then I prompt, “You mentioned a girlfriend.”

  Evelyn perks up. “She was doing a summer marketing internship at Vermont College, and I met her at this outdoor art exhibit on campus. It’s been a revelation. That I fell in love with Ollie, that my body can do these amazing things. Werepeople are everywhere. Now that I know, I see us, smell us wherever I go.”

  “Ollie?”

  “Olinda Ann,” she explains. “Ollie is an Elk.” Suddenly, Evelyn bursts out laughing. She hugs her stomach, as if trying to keep it in. “A wereelk. You know.” She holds up her hands, fingers up, on each side of her head to mimic antlers. She chuckles, snorts. Then she laughs again. The gesture is obviously a private joke between the girls. “Their animal kin was megalo, megatlope . . .”

  “Megaloceros giganteus,” I reply with a grin.

  Evelyn’s laugh is infectious. I’m reminded of her animal counterparts — otters that I’ve seen in zoos and on nature documentaries. Their joy and play in the water. She’s a bright spirit. I should’ve noticed it before. This place is caging both of us.

  I’ve never met an Elk before, either. “How tall is she?”

  “Taller than Zachary,” Evelyn replies, still giggling. “Evie the Otter and Ollie the Elk. It should be Evie the Elk and Ollie the Otter.”

  Like most inside jokes, it’s not that funny. But I like her enthusiasm.

  “She has the most beautiful arms,” Evelyn continues. “Long, like a dancer’s. When I met Ollie, I felt safe for the first time.”

  Too bad Quince isn’t here to hear this. Beneath her ambitious restaurateur exterior, Quince’s nonbeating heart belongs to a confirmed romantic.

  “I haven’t seen much of Ollie lately, though,” Evelyn says. “Her parents found out about me, us. You know how it goes. We’re in a mixed-species relationship. They told her to keep her distance. The fact that I was my father’s daughter didn’t help.”

  “You’re not your father’s daughter,” I assure her.

  Evelyn beams at me. “How about you? Are you involved with anyone?”

  “Quince. It’s Quincie, actually. Our moms were friends before we were born. It feels like we were friends before we were born.”

  “Just friends?”

  “Not since middle school, not really. For years, I tried not to let it show. Until recently, I had control issues with my shift.”

  “You held yourself back to protect her.” Evelyn twirls her hair with one finger. “Because that’s not condescending.”

  “Wolves are more dangerous than Otters.”

  “Than Elk?”

  I think about it. “Depends on the Wolf, depends on the Elk.”

  For a while, we’re both quiet.

  “About the fires in the fireplaces,” Evelyn begins again. “No wood, no control lever for gas. No smoke. The chimneys are sealed, but all we’re getting is heat. Now that we’ve established that neither of us is a bad guy, do you know what’s going on?”

  I told Zach I trusted my instincts. “This is what we know about Scholomance Preparatory Academy. . . .”

  I don’t mention that Zach is an angel. I do explain that his girlfriend Miranda is Lucy’s best friend. I say that Miranda sent him here to rescue her. Then I explain why.

  While I talk, Evelyn brushes her hair. It seems to soothe her. Grooming is something that Otters do a lot.

  When I’m finished, she says, “I can’t believe I fell for such a catastrophic bait and switch.” Evelyn tosses the brush onto her bed. “I guess this isn’t my second chance after all.” She frowns. “Do you think the magic here could make me wholly human?”

  The question surprises me. “Is that what you want?”

  “It used to be,” Evelyn admits. “I wanted to be all human more than anything.”

  Given her parents, I can’t blame her. “I understand. There was a time when I thought that I couldn’t control my shift because I was a hybrid. Before I mastered it, I used to wish I was a full-blooded werewolf.”

  Evelyn slips down from the desk. “If you were human, you wouldn’t have to shift. It wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “True,” I admit. “But I always saw shifting as a blessing. For me, there’s nothing better. Except being with Quince.”

  IT’S JUST LIKE Lucy not to believe Zachary is an angel! Not that it would’ve helped her to escape in that vile place. At the moment, they’re incapable of leaving. Still . . .

  Curious about what the Bilovskis are up to, I try to zoom in on the fourth floor of Scholomance Prep, but my screen goes dark. I try the subbasement, and it happens again.

  I shake the monitor-com. I’m about to blow Mr. Nesbit a kiss and go downstairs to ask Huan what’s wrong with it when I spin back to two and notice Andrew peering into the hallway. With his black-on-black wardrobe, matching chopped hair, and studded leather collar, he looks like Lucy’s type, except that she requires an actual personality.

  The image is snowy, but I can make out Andrew stepping barefoot into the hall. He’s carrying his sheet, rolled into a ball. He takes the elevator to the basement gym and ties one end of the sheet like a noose.

  Leaping to my feet, I rush out of the suite without bothering to shut the door behind me. Minutes later, I show my screen to Huan. “We have to do something! This boy is going to hang himself!”

  Huan’s brow furls, but he’s looking at me, not what’s happening in Vermont. “Miranda, we talked about this when the guardian Zachary was injured in battle. Our ability to affect what happens on earth is —”

  “Zachary is an immortal,” I reply. “This Andrew —”

  “There’s nothing either of us can do.”

  I suppose this is a taste of how my angel felt when I followed Lucy into the cemetery. More than ever, I understand why he broke the rules to try to save my life.

  “My monitor-com is broken,” I say finally. “I can’t see all of this building, and what I can see . . . The reception is awful.”

  This time, Huan takes the device and fiddles with it. “What is this place?”

  I remember what Joshua said: if Michael finds out where Zachary is, my angel could fall. “It’s a school. A high school. Or a finishing school. It’s a boarding school.” I’m babbling. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your device isn’t broken. It can’t transmit from anywhere the divine is absent.”

  Isn’t God everywhere? “I don’t understand.”

  “These areas you’re trying to view, they’re borderlands and territories of hell.”

  SINCE HUAN’S REVELATION, I haven’t been able to stop staring at my monitor-com. What I wouldn’t give to dive through the screen and emerge fully corporeal, ready to battle by my
angel’s side. Unfortunately, I’m stuck here in a rattan lobby chair, my hair nearly covered in celestial butterflies. I shake my head, and they fly away.

  Willa is the first student to wake up. She’d slept fitfully. Likely worse because of last night’s champagne.

  Willa’s eyes open. She sits up abruptly and glances around the room as though she’s forgotten why she’s there. Then a hand goes to her forehead. She’s probably trying to soothe away a hangover.

  Moments later, Willa reaches into the glass shower and turns the control handle to a lukewarm setting. She opens the medicine cabinet to reveal an array of clear gels, lotions, conditioners, shampoos, and the like. Each bottle is marked with the Scholomance logo. I envy Willa for the shower she’s about to take. I adored the feel of warm water pulsing against my bare skin.

  As a human girl, I allowed myself the luxury of long showers and steaming hot baths. I spent much of my meager movie-theater earnings at Bath & Body Works. Bloodletting aside, perhaps my greatest regret about my time at the castle is that I had the maids, rather than Zachary, draw my baths. Why didn’t I command him to sponge off my back and shoulders and . . . ?

  Willa slips out of her silky pj’s, and I can’t help noticing the scars on her breasts, the backs of her thighs, and her buttocks. She’s had fairly recent cosmetic surgery, and a lot of it — especially for a slender girl her age.

  Willa begins to hum a song I don’t recognize. It’s sad and wistful, and as she steps onto the black tile and turns up the water temperature, I long to talk to her. I remember what she told Zachary about her parents packing her and Nigel off to the academy. I wonder if the surgeries were her idea or something else her parents insisted on.

  I shouldn’t be invading her privacy. I’m about to zoom away when her eyes widen and she recoils from the glass shower wall. It takes some maneuvering with the controls, but seconds later, I see what’s frightened her.

  As if drawn by a finger, the mischievous-looking devil is slowly taking shape — one line, then another, drawn into the condensation on the glass.

  Willa shuts off the water.

  She opens the shower door and peeks outside.

  The bathroom is empty.

  When she checks it again, the drawing has streamed away.

  Willa grabs two plush gray towels and rushes out into her room. Shivering despite the heat, she wraps up her nude form as she goes.

  Catching sight of the image over her fireplace, she jerks back again.

  “Stop it!” she scolds herself. “You’re imagining things.”

  No, she isn’t.

  AN UNGODLY LOUD ALARM sounds throughout the building. Fire alarm? Security alarm? Beats the hell out of me. I wrap my pillow around my head and get up.

  I’m sweating. I kicked the covers off in the night. The fire roars on in the fireplace.

  The noise stops. The digital clock says it’s 8 A.M.

  A wake-up alarm. It’s not like me to sleep in. The stress of this place is taking its toll. I spent most of last night awake. Beating myself up over what I should’ve said to Lucy. Wondering how I’m going to get us out of here. Missing Miranda.

  After a shower and shave, I see the note on Kieren’s door. He’s gone to the basement gym with Evelyn.

  I wander downstairs to the first floor. The front door is still sealed tight.

  I continue to the dining room. “Morning, ladies.”

  Andrew and Nigel haven’t arrived yet. It’s me, Willa, Vesper, Lucy, and Bridget, who’s mysteriously gone gray at the temples. They’re complaining about the heat. The alarm. The ongoing absence of a wireless network. They’re also helping themselves to a continental breakfast: platters of yogurt, croissants, rolls, bagels, various flavors of cream cheese, sliced grapefruit and pears. Pitchers of orange juice and ice water.

  Other than the food and drink service, I see no sign of the Bilovskis.

  Last night we were served with silver and china. This morning, it’s paper plates, paper cups, and plasticware. Nothing that can be made into a weapon. Much like a prison cafeteria, at least in that way.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Bridget.

  “Bad dreams.” She glances at her watch. “Orientation starts at 9 A.M.”

  “It does?” Willa asks, picking apart her buttery croissant.

  Right then, Kieren and Evelyn come running into the dining room.

  “Andrew’s dead,” they announce.

  Upstairs in the third-floor seminar room, I’m the first in. The centerpiece is a glass-topped rectangular table with a metal base. A podium stands in front of a chalkboard secured to the wall. DR. URSULA ULMAN is handwritten on it. I assume that’s the name of the faculty member or administrator or hell beast who’ll be joining us.

  A chalkboard. It’s a low-tech choice for such a modern setting. But evil is old. Sometimes it prefers the retro.

  The framed Codex Gigas illustration is identical to the rest.

  The clock above the door reads 8:58 A.M. A typeset place card marks each of our chairs. It’s five female students on one side, from back to front: Vesper, Willa, Lucy, Evelyn, and Bridget. Three male students on the other, from back to front: me, Nigel, Kieren . . . and the next student would’ve been Andrew. He hanged himself with his bedsheet from the pull-up bar.

  The others trail in. They’re subdued. Bridget is teary. She and Andrew may not have bonded on their road trip, but she spent the most time with him.

  “I didn’t think he was depressed,” she says. “I —”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Lucy assures her. Evelyn is quick to agree.

  Nigel strolls in last. Blurry eyed. Hungover.

  Kieren breaks the news about Andrew.

  “Nine becomes eight.” Nigel puffs on a cigarette. “For us, it’s too late.”

  I scoot my chair to the foot of the table. Whatever creature is about to appear in this room, I want to face it head-on.

  At breakfast, I considered telling the students to lock themselves in their rooms, at least until Kieren and I could find a way out. But what Andrew did — or what happened to him — may be proof that we’re safer together.

  “Didn’t you say Andrew was driving a hearse?” Vesper asks Bridget. “I’d call that a tip-off. Plus, his Goth look screamed —”

  “Shut up,” Lucy snaps. “This isn’t about —”

  “It’s nine o’clock,” Evelyn says in a soft voice.

  Everyone checks the clock. Kieren knocked on my door last night to say he’d filled in the Otter on the school. So far as I know, the three of us and Lucy are the only ones in the know. No one expected a student to die within twenty-four hours.

  Everyone else is clinging to whatever explanations they can muster.

  “Good morning,” intones a raspy, disembodied voice. “Welcome to the Scholomance Preparatory Academy. I am Dr. Ursula Ulman.”

  It’s coming from the front of the room, near the podium.

  “Speakers,” Bridget whispers. “Hidden speakers.”

  I have to give her credit for trying.

  “You may call me Dr. Ulman. We’ll be spending a lot of time together, and I’m not inclined to stand on ceremony.” The voice is clearer now.

  “I see that your tenth has yet to arrive. I myself was once a tenth scholar. Those who know what that means may make of it as you will. Those who don’t will likely find this orientation disconcerting. Please note that we do not provide health care, mental or otherwise.”

  As she’s speaking, Mr. Bilovski strolls in, passes out schedules, and exits.

  “No Language of Animals?” Vesper queries. “No Weapons and Technology?”

  “Next semester,” the voice replies. “This one-year, year-round program is devoted to study in preparation for admission to the Scholomance in the Carpathian Mountains.”

  A shadow catches my eye.

  “For those of you familiar with that institution, please note that while areas of academic concentration largely overlap, this campus operates by its own set of r
ules.”

  Willa gasps as the shadow solidifies. We can make out a buxom woman with short — no, pinned-up — hair. She’s wearing a long, dark gown.

  “There is no option to withdraw. Minimum performance standards must be met, if a student is to advance in the program. My available discretion is limited.

  “Anyone who compromises the sanctity of this academic community will be punished according to the severity of his or her crimes. To further encourage compliance, disciplinary action may be doled out on a transferable basis to any or all of you.

  “Rules will be enforced without appeal. We have a zero-tolerance policy, and again, my available discretion is limited.”

  So she keeps saying. The figure standing (floating?) alongside the podium is gray, transparent. It’s increasingly clear that Ulman’s face is full and oval. Her eyes must’ve been blue or gray. Her hair is arranged in two braids, tucked to cover her ears and accented by brocade. Lace decorates the gown at the bust and from midthigh to the floor. A lace-trimmed handkerchief is tucked at an odd angle in the bodice.

  “You’ll find school uniforms hanging in your closets. Plan to wear them to class, beginning tomorrow morning.”

  Bridget pipes up. “My parents know I’m here. My father won’t let you —”

  “Your father,” Ulman begins in a voice perfectly mimicking Bridget’s, “has exchanged a dozen text messages and two voice calls with someone he believes to be you. You promised to tell him about orientation tonight after dinner.”

  “That’ll only work for so long,” Kieren says. “Sooner or later, someone will insist on seeing one of us in person.”

  “By then,” Ulman replies, “it will be too late.”

  Too late for what? Before I can ask, Ulman’s image flickers. I see horns, claws.

  “Are you a ghost?” Vesper whispers.

  Ulman ignores the question. “Your chances of success are best in a full-immersion setting. Therefore, you will not be leaving the building or contacting the outside world until you graduate. Please note that the Bilovskis are likewise permanent residents and have no more choice in the matter than you do. They have no power to facilitate your defying school policy or leaving the premises.”