by Alice Bell
I did.
“There. That’s the proper way to stand, while waiting instruction.”
“Oh, Zillah. Give it a rest.” Vashti came close too.
They were tall. Almost as tall as I was. But not quite.
Vashti made a circle around me. “He’s very pretty,” she said. “From all angles.”
“Pretty is as pretty does,” the one named Zillah said.
11. Zadie
DEVON CAME to her in her dreams. She woke sweaty with lust for her childhood sweetheart. They were only fourteen when they fell in love.
Young love is the best.
They were imprinted on each other, carved into one another’s souls. He’d left her once. But not for long, not compared to eternity.
Her human memories were fractured into disparate images. She couldn’t sort out the order of events. It didn’t matter. Chronology wasn’t important when your life expectancy was forever.
She remembered being lost and poor on the streets of L.A. She remembered how it made her feel; horribly homesick. Not for a place. For Devon. She had needed him.
And yet, he stayed away, on the opposite coast, living the life she’ d always known he would, in a world where she didn’t belong.
She wanted him to be sorry about losing her. When she became a star.
Her face was supposed to haunt him from magazines and billboards and the golden screen (such sad human fantasies). She remembered how it hurt when no one believed in her, how her parents cut her off so she had to work two jobs. Her diner uniform had permanent stains in the armpits, grease spots that wouldn’t come out.
One minute she was eighteen, the next she was twenty-eight.
Needle tracks marred her once perfect flesh and shadows haunted her eyes. She was only still beautiful in the dark, so she hung out on the fringes, in dive bars and night clubs, where she got what she needed to make her feel alive for a little while; drugs and sex.
One night, she headed up to a party in the canyon. She crowded into a car with her dealer, sat on someone’s lap, and tried not to get sick when the car careened around the curves.
A famous band played. There was food and drink and so much beauty. She floated on her back in a turquoise pool and saw stars, like pinpricks in a blanket of black. The water held her.
She remembered everything about that night.
Inka sitting cross-legged on a fur rug. Passing a glass pipe.
“No one here is important.” Inka cradled Zadie’s head in her lap, and stroked her hair. “They think they are but they are just pointless people.” Her laugh was silvery.
Inka took Zadie under her wing. She brought Zadie low, for her own good. To build her up. Scar tissue is stronger than virgin flesh.
Zadie remembered Inka handcuffing her, parading her naked past her friends. Inka strapping her to the bed, whipping her … starving her, and afterwards, bringing a bowl of steaming broth to Zadie’s eager lips.
Inka made Zadie beautiful again.
And she gave Zadie the most precious gift—a chance at immortality. Though immortals could die, it was only the hands of another immortal, and rare indeed. Most immortals lived infinite, gorgeous lives … forever young.
When Inka brought Devon back to Zadie, life was so perfect. The stars and the moon shone brighter than they ever had.
Zadie took Devon down south, to Mexico and Central America, on to Nicaragua and Ometepe, that mystical island of volcanoes and white sand beaches.
Inka stayed in the background, but she funded the trip. “Your honeymoon,” she told Zadie, in private. “Make him your love slave.”
Those last days with Devon were now, constantly, at the front of Zadie’s thoughts, turning obsessively on the wheel of her inhuman mind.
The very last day, the sun slipped down into a glorious sunset; red and pink and orange. Monkeys howled. The sound echoed through the trees. Waves lapped on the shore of the lake, leaving tiny bubbles on the sand.
The last day, Zadie waited for Devon in the four poster bed. A mosquito net fluttered, moved by a fan that hung from the beam of the thatched roof.
At some point, she fell asleep. She woke to Devon’s hand between her legs. Her breathing shifted. His erection stroked along her inner thigh. He eased his way in, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. He rolled her so he was on top. She tilted her hips and opened for him.
He pushed deeper, a little at a time, covering her cries with his mouth.
Later, he propped himself on his elbows and looked into her face. She saw her love for him reflected in his eyes.
Make him your love slave.
But she couldn’t tell him what she wanted—to be together forever, and never grow old. She knew him too well. She could just see his scorn, once he understood she was serious, once he comprehended there was a way. She imagined the disgust in his eyes. He would think her a monster.
Already, in their short time together, she felt him slipping from her grasp, little by little. She wasn’t smart enough, educated enough, cultured enough. She wasn’t deep enough for him, and all his lofty notions about life.
It was the sad truth. Not even his fault. It was how he’d been raised by that hideous woman. His mother.
His mother was the reason Zadie had gone to California, and not to school back east with Devon. She had taken Zadie aside the day before they were to leave (Zadie’s bags were packed). “You might think you’ve got your hooks in him now,” his mother said. “But it’s just sex, take my word. Be smart, my dear. Don’t follow him. It will only lead to heartbreak. Yours.”
The story enraged Inka. “Your heartbreak? Yours?” she had howled, as she stomped around the room. “The bitch was afraid of you, oh sexy powerful one. You had her son by the balls. Which is how it should be. We must save him from his mother—the Oedipal nightmare.”
But the plan went all wrong, in unforeseen ways, starting with Enid, that nasty little slut from high school. As soon as Zadie laid eyes on her, in the bar, in Nicaragua (of all places) she wanted to kill her.
Enid was born a bad omen. A bad omen with big tits and luscious lips.
“Enid? Oh my God, Enid …” Zadie caught her up in a hug. Devon’s scent was everywhere on Enid, wafting from her pores. She’s been screwing him for years, Zadie realized.
Fury burned inside her.
No doubt Enid had followed Devon to the backwoods of the third world for one reason. To claim him. And take him away from Zadie.
Enid didn’t deserve to live.
Zadie would enjoy breaking Enid’s neck and burying her in the lake. But there was a slight hindrance—Enid’s male entourage. (Enid always picked up a following of admirers wherever she went.)
The men were handsome in a magazine quality way that wasn’t to Zadie’s taste. They played guitars and bongo drums, looking awkward, in their cut off shorts and flip-flops. Zadie bet they were more comfortable in Armani suits. It would have been comical. If Zadie wasn’t deadly serious.
She danced with Enid, keeping her close, while Enid’s companions watched, enthralled. (Or so Zadie thought).
Devon headed out early, which was just as well. One less complication.
The night wore on in a haze of sloshed drinks and dancing and debauchery. Enid and her friends were on the deck, and Zadie came in for another round of tequila shots.
It was a primitive bar, open air. They were the only patrons. Earlier, a middle-aged couple had been eating dinner but they were gone now, so Zadie was surprised when a strong hand grabbed her by the back of the neck.
The collar of her dress cut across her throat. She choked. Inka.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Inka hissed in her ear, before releasing her.
Zadie stumbled back. “Jesus … nothing. Nice to see you too.” She rubbed her neck.
The bartender hurried over. “Is there a problem?” he glared at Inka. To Zadie, he said, “You okay?”
Inka was as tall as Zadie with a more athletic build. (Za
die was model thin). Inka often dressed like a man but kept her nails long and painted red. Her long hair was black, plaited into tight braids. Her face was undeniably feminine; soft cheeks, big kissable lips. She had huge doe eyes, which she turned on the bartender. “We are faab-ulous, doll. Thank you for asking.”
The bartender’s angry expression softened; he was besotted in the span of seconds. “Bring those drinks to the party on the deck,” Inka told him. “And be distracting.” She cast a glance outside.
Zadie watched the bartender scuttle off with a tray. She glanced at Inka and realized Inka was afraid. She’d never known Inka to fear anything.
“Come on,” Inka practically yanked Zadie’s arm from its socket. She pulled her out the back door. “You idiot,” she said, when they were outside. “Your little friend? Her boy toys are angels.”
Zadie’s mind reeled. She could barely comprehend Inka’s words.
They leaped off the porch and over garbage cans.
The night was black. “Through the trees,” Inka commanded. And she was gone.
But Zadie’s reflexes had been numbed by shock. Unfamiliar with the terrain, she couldn’t visualize her destination, which made her slow. She could only run, like a human.
Through the trees … through the trees.
She ran in a jagged line toward the heart of the forest. A terrible growl shook the earth, and struck terror into her soul.
The growling came from Howler Monkeys but to Zadie’s ears, it was the sound of the devil rising up. With each foot fall, her power drained, as her panic mounted. Blood pounded in her veins. Her heart strained. She gasped for breath and veered away, toward the lake.
She burst out into the open, a fatal mistake. Sand stretched white. Wings beat the sky above her. She plunged into the water, the opposite of what Inka had told her to do.
Her arms flapped. She sputtered and flailed, as the poisonous net of angels stung her flesh, like a swarm of sea wasps.
12. Ruby
THE LOWERING sun dazzled yellow and gold, belying the fact that it was barely above freezing outside. Earlier, when I’d hurried across the parking lot, the wind nipped. Now, I stood by the radiator, warming my hands and waiting for the workshop girls.
They straggled in one by one, except for the twins who always seemed to be together.
We arranged our desks in a circle and I handed back the short stories they’d turned in. They were quiet, reading my comments.
I suppressed a smile. There were moments when I was struck by the fact that no matter how many countless things I’d done wrong in my life, this one thing I’d done right—becoming a teacher. I loved almost everything about teaching. With my students, I felt connected to the world. My life was meaningful.
“Miss Rain, you said you weren’t sure I was being funny … on this part, right here,” Chastity leaned across her desk and jabbed a pencil at her paper. “The whole story is supposed to be funny.”
“Good,” I said. “It was.”
“It’s all wrong, Miss Dean, if you can’t tell.” Her voice was nearly a wail.
“I’ve suggested some ways to improve your tone,” I said. “Like a secret code between you and the reader.”
“Oh yeah?”
I glanced around. “Okay, girls. Finished?”
They were reluctant to turn away from their stories.
“Listen,” I said. “So you know this was a first draft, right?”
No, they had not known.
“How many drafts do we have to do?”
“As many as it takes,” I said.
Though they wanted their stories to be brilliant on the first try, now they were eager to get to the rewrite and void my annoying comments.
“The assignment for next week,” I paused to add weight to what I was about to say. “Is to write a second draft employing all of my advisory notes which you cannot miss. They are underlined in red, as I’m sure you noticed.”
“What if … well, uh, what if we feel your comments … don’t really apply? No offense.”
“Just do it my way. You’ll get to do it your way on the third draft.”
“Oh my God.”
“Three drafts?”
“We’ll ruin it, Miss Rain. With all those drafts.”
“What if we’re dead … before we get to the third draft?”
“I’ll give your eulogy as an assignment. The thing is, girls, you want your stories to shine. Because in a few weeks, you are all going to read at the Downtown Café for open mic.”
“Wha-at? No way.”
“I’ve already arranged it. And open mic is very popular. The place will be packed. So. Like I said. As many drafts as it takes.”
“Wow …”
“Crap.”
They all started talking. One girl shoved her books into her bag and stood up to leave, her face bright with excitement. I rapped on my desk. “Hold on, hold on. We’re not done yet. What do you want to call yourselves? I’m going to make posters and we need to have a name.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. You know, like The Merry Pranksters.”
“That’s dumb,” Chastity said.
“Ken Kesey? Really? You’re the dummy,” her sister said.
“Don’t worry. This will be a democratic decision.” I opened my folder and took out an envelope containing nine perfectly uniform pieces of paper. I’d cut them in the office this morning using the ruled paper cutter. The blade was sharp as a guillotine.
“Careful you don’t get a paper cut,” I said to the girls as I passed them each a slip. “Now write down your idea for a group name and we’ll take a vote. Please don’t vote for your own idea.”
“Why not?” Charity said.
“Think about it,” Chastity said.
It took a good five minutes. When I’d got all the slips back, I got up and shuffled them at my own desk. Then I wrote each idea on the board.
The Hermiones
Mysterious Muse
Merry Pranksters
“Come on,” Charity said.
“I couldn’t think of anything,” Chastity said.
“So you picked the one you said was dumb?”
BO$$
Liars
Catchers in the Rye
The Edward-ians
Eden’s Bitches
“Really?” (Chastity.)
“It’s better than plagiarizing,” Charity said.
“Ugh. Bitches? That’s just terrible. The worst.”
Team Rain
I brushed chalk off my hands and delivered more slips. I told them to write down their vote. When I’d collected the papers, I marked off each vote on the board.
There was a hush in the room. I wished they would talk to each other. Or something.
Liars – 1
Eden’s Bitches – 3
Team Rain — 5
“You are all officially Team Rain,” I announced, relieved. I had to agree with Chastity. Eden’s Bitches was the worst. Personally, I liked Liars.
They erupted into noise and motion, talking, laughing, shouldering their backpacks and heading for the door. Charity’s cheeks were flushed, as she followed her sister.
I checked the handwriting on the slip and confirmed my suspicion that she had posed Eden’s Bitches. I also thought she’d voted for it.
* * *
“You seem happy today,” Dr. Sinclair said.
“I got a make-over. I changed my hair.”
“I noticed. You look nice. Has changing your appearance lifted your mood?”
“I hadn’t thought about it but yes. I’ve been more decisive, lately. Not going back and forth so much and agonizing over every stupid thing. I want to make choices, like you said. Be in charge of my life. So I can be empowered. And not afraid.”
Dr. Sinclair’s eyes smiled at me. She wasn’t an effusive person. Maybe it was her professional presence but I got the feeling she moved through her personal life in the same businesslike manner. I envisioned her fiancé
following her around with a check-list.
But I felt I’d pleased her. Which pleased me.
I smoothed a piece of fuzz off my baby blue skirt and adjusted the cuff on my jacket. My shoes were silver Gucci stilettos. I loved them very much, more than I should.
“What are you thinking right now, Ruby?”
“Well, I had a date the other night.”
Now, Dr. Sinclair’s eyes really smiled.
“He’s a colleague. In the history department. Don’t worry, I checked and there’s nothing in my contract against fraternizing.”
Dr. Sinclair nodded.
“Things went well. Mostly …”
She waited.
“He came to my house. We kissed. I—it was nice.”
She cocked a delicate eyebrow.
I gazed down at my hands folded in my lap and admired my French manicure.
“Just nice?”
“Well, I wanted more to happen. But I was scared. I kissed him, and then when things progressed, I chickened out.”
“It’s good to take things slow, Ruby.”
“I know. But. I guess I wonder if I’m addicted to my fantasies. They are always so beautiful, Dr. Sinclair. And then … reality is a disappointment.”
“Nice is good, Ruby. I promise you.”
* * *
That night, I had trouble falling asleep.
A voice whispered inside my head, soft as moth wings, but sinister too, like the glint of a blade in the shadows. I almost caught an image of who had spoken, but then the memory was gone, covered up, like a coffin under dirt.
Part 2
ZADIE TRAVELED the world, searching for her sire, Inka, and always, always for Devon. The other demons she met were strangers to her. There were too many cultural differences, and often, a language barrier.
In Europe demons were afraid. Angel soldiers had become blood thirsty, killing more demons than they captured.
On her knees, Zadie prayed. “Mother Ishtar, whose might no god approaches. My heart is not glad. My sickness is great. Oh my lady, help me find the ones I seek, and keep them safe, until we meet again.”
She went back to where she felt most at home—Coffeen Sanitarium, that glittering castle of madness, where she fed on the potent dreams of insane humans.