Diabolical by Cynthia Leitich Smith
I smile at that. “Be right back,” I say, wiggling off the netted rope to return Mr. Nesbit to his aquarium in the other room.
I pause, staring out the window at the heavens. I’ve hardly been able to believe it, that I could belong here with my angel among the stars. Yet, here I am. It must be true.
The Miranda that he loves was once an eternal, was adopted by the eternal king, and yes, took lives. Wherever Zachary may be, whatever he’s going through, he expects that same Miranda — who was both a shy human girl and a ravenous preternatural fiend — to greet him in heaven someday.
He hasn’t fallen, no matter what Idelle may have heard.
I believe in Zachary the way he believed in me. I have faith.
Both of us deserve to be forgiven. I know that now, heart and especially soul.
Yet the situation is desperate. It’s starting to look like I’ll have to call on my inner demonic princess if I’m to have any hope of saving my true love.
LUCIFER’S CAPITAL IS STARKLY URBAN. The damned aren’t naked, but rather indistinguishable, shuffling around in filthy, ragged gray robes.
It’s crass, commercial. Everyone’s trying — and failing — to sell something or to promote themselves as candidates for Lucifer’s court. I catch sight of a lone, lanky figure, staring at us from the doorway of Henry’s Greasy Gumbo. He has two watches on.
Someone else on the corner shouts, “I am the true Rasputin.”
No one cares. Except Nigel. I’ve shortened my stride so his steps can match mine. I’ve got a firm hand on his forearm. If I lose the kid, I might never find him again.
“Why does the torture end here?” he asks. “In the city?”
“It doesn’t,” I say. “The deeper we go, the more likely it is that the damned would enjoy physical pain, even desire it. So, the torture is directed where it hurts most — at their colossal egos. These souls idolize —”
“My dad.”
“You don’t have to call him that. You’re a mortal, a child of the Big Boss.”
“If you say so,” he replies.
It’s not hard to find Lucifer’s headquarters. It’s the tallest, most ostentatious building. Every street sign points to it.
As we reach the front steps, Nigel asks, “Do you talk to God?”
“I pray.”
“Does He talk back to you?”
“Not directly,” I say, matching him, up, up, up, step for step. “The Big Boss is always there, always everywhere. But, at the same time, kind of hands-off.”
“Like a divine clockmaker?”
I smile at the expression. It’s inaccurate but charming. “More like really into free will. We’re defined by our choices.”
Now I’m putting more pressure on the kid. What he needs is a distraction, even for a moment. “I’ve heard that occasionally the Big Boss sends a memo.”
Nigel tilts his head. “A memo, really?”
“So I’ve heard. A memo to one of the archangels.”
On the landing, Nigel does the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
He knocks on the devil’s front door.
LUCIFER FELL LIKE A STAR, but he didn’t fall alone. A third of heaven’s angels went with him. One answers Nigel’s knock, and another waves us through security.
What was it that I told Lucy? That the wings of demons are scaly, dragonlike, clawed? That’s true of the little ones, the hell born. Flying around, tearing at the damned mortals. But not the fallen immortals.
They’re forever young, well muscled. Still sporting white robes and gold sandals. Their beauty, it’s blasphemous. However, their hair has been burned away by the fires of hell. When we angels risk showing ourselves on earth, it’s often our hair that draws eyes and awe. A petty vanity vanquished. The obviousness of it is unnerving.
The fallen greet me by name: “Zachary,” “Zachary,” “Zachary.” A reminder that I’ve slipped, that the Big Boss has yet to decide if this is where I belong.
The modern lounge-area furnishings contrast with the art-deco architecture. The chairs, sofas, and tables could’ve come out of the same catalog that stocked SP.
“Hello, boys,” calls an enthusiastic voice from the reception desk. It’s the essence of Andrew, the onetime hearse-driving, monosyllabic vamp student from Scholomance. “Welcome to Temptation Tower.”
Nigel gapes. “Bilovski beheaded you!”
Not that you could tell to look at Andrew. Here, his head appears to be still attached.
“Indeed he did.” Andrew presents us with a sign-in sheet and offers a pen. “Hence my landing this plum assignment — it’s my dream come true.”
“To be Lucifer’s receptionist?” I said. “That was your goal in life?”
“In undeath, actually,” he says. “In life, I was a peace-loving hippie child.”
Wow. “We’re here to see Lucifer.” I almost pick up the pen to sign in, before realizing how stupid that could be. “Unless you could point us to where the mortal girl, Lucy Lehman, is being held. I’d appreciate it, and we’d be happy to leave quietly.”
Andrew reaches to pinch my cheek. “No can do, golden boy!” He gestures toward the left of the desk. “But if you’ll continue that way, you’ll find that the Luminous One is already expecting you.”
Nigel and I move on to an old-fashioned-looking elevator that resembles a large gold cage. Before the door closes, we take one last look at Andrew.
“At least he’s happy,” Nigel muses.
I push the button marked S. Not just for subbasement.
When the elevator doors open, we step onto the plush carpet. Black marble columns punctuate the unoccupied space. It’s a study in vanity — the paintings, sculptures, Hollywood posters. Lucifer, Lucifer, and more Lucifer.
Even the chintzy knickknacks pay tribute to our host. A collection of tarot cards is displayed under glass in the central coffee table.
In repeating the Codex Gigas illustration at SP, he was showing restraint. I don’t even think all of the art pieces were originally meant to depict him. I’d swear one is supposed to be Pan, another Dionysus.
A rear-facing chair in the seating area swivels toward us. He’s holding my holy sword, the one Michael gave me. The one confiscated at SP.
It’s Seth, aka the devil himself, in armor that resembles the archangels’. I’m almost insulted that he didn’t adopt a better disguise. On the other hand, he did stay out of my sight until he was ready to reveal his true self.
“Welcome, Zachary.” He stands to greet me. With a gloved hand, he points my weapon toward the conversation area. “Have a seat. We’re all family here.”
Coming around to one of two parallel sofas, I see that Lucy is seated in a high-backed chair beside his. She’s not bound, though her mouth is covered with what appears to be duct tape. Her eyes are watery. She’s fisted her hands tight.
“I thought I’d save you some posturing,” he says. “You know, ‘Where’s the girl? Bring her to me!’ All that nonsense. You’d end up sounding like a 1950s action hero.”
I hate how civilized this conversation is. I’d love to disembowel him. But he’s armed, and I’m not. He’s having fun, and I’ve got these two kids to protect.
I perch on the edge of a sofa, and Nigel settles by my side.
“We’re taking Lucy with us,” I announce. “You have no right to her.”
“Alas.” The adversary returns to his chair. “All my efforts for naught. You have a lot of gall, making demands in my house.”
I almost retort that he has a lot of gall, failing to acknowledge his own son, but I don’t want to draw more attention to Nigel. I hope that meeting with the devil face-to-face and recognizing the difference between them will reassure the kid.
“I’m the one who left Ulman’s classroom without permission,” I say. “You can’t keep Lucy as punishment for something I did.”
“Can’t I?” The devil taps a contract on the coffee table. “Transfer of punishment is a standard Scholomance disciplinary measur
Lucifer may rule here, but ultimately, the Big Boss still calls the shots.
“You had to give Willa back,” I realize out loud. “Spell or no spell.”
“Her soul, yes. Her life? She was saved by that blasted handyman and his blasted handywench.” He spins my sword. “You, Quincie, and Kieren don’t have signed contracts at all. On the other hand, Lucy and Vesper — they were mine for the taking. In fact, I could go back for Bridget and Evelyn, too. I could mount their heads on my wall.”
“Not so fast,” I say, armed with an argument from Bridget. “This provision for ‘special disciplinary action in accordance with the traditions of this and its affiliated institutions’ — what’s that supposed to mean? How could Lucy or, for that matter, any of the others understand what they’d consented to? It’s overly vague, and you know it.”
“Fine.” Smug in his chair, the devil leans back. “No Bridget, no Evelyn. But Lucy and Vesper knew full well that the academy was a demonic institution. They understood that enrolling could cost them their lives and souls.”
“Did you know that?” Nigel asks Lucy.
She shrugs, apologizing with her eyes. Out of love for Miranda, she risked everything and lost.
“Forget it,” I tell the adversary. “You never would’ve had this chance at Lucy or Vesper if you hadn’t laid your trap for me. Their contracts were signed under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses,” he replies. “How very droll. You and the boy — only you and the boy — are welcome to go.” Lucifer pauses. “I’m curious, Zachary. How does one lone guardian hope to best my ferocious army of demons and escape with the girl?”
Claim or no claim, there’s a history of souls stolen away from hell. But I haven’t exactly snuck in. We can’t leave undetected. It’s impossible. So is my slim hope of finding Vesper, too.
What was I thinking? Crap, I wasn’t thinking. I was leading with my heart. Again.
“Tell you what, brother.” Lucifer leans forward. “I’ll make you a deal. How about you stay — of your own free will — and I’ll let them both go? It’s not so bad here. Look at how happy your classmate Andrew is! Besides, you’re the only reason Scholomance Preparatory Academy exists in the first place. It’s you I’ve wanted all along.”
“I’ve figured that much out,” I reply. “What I don’t understand is, why me? There are plenty of GAs, and I —”
“You’ve been saving souls marked as mine.” He gestures at Lucy. “This one would’ve been damned back in Dallas, if it weren’t for you. The undead king would’ve taken her, not Miranda. Now you’re arguing that I shouldn’t get either one.”
He stands, suddenly losing his composure. “There’s to be no fraternizing with the eternal queen! No rehabilitating neophytes!” Lucifer stomps his foot. “Who ever heard of vampires spurning blood? The whole point of the damned things is to drink, kill, contaminate!”
“They’re not all damned things,” I reply. “Most became undead against their will, through no fault of their own. The young ones can still achieve salvation. So, that’s it, Lucifer! No more freebies.”
“Every one of the formerly undead essences in my kingdom has killed —”
“Without the guidance or support of a guardian,” I remind him. “We will surrender no more souls without a fight.”
“‘We’ nothing! It all started when you broke heaven’s rules. Why has that turned into my problem? You’re a rebel. Heaven’s bad boy. You should be on my team.”
“I may be heaven’s bad boy. But I’m still heaven’s.”
“Ha! If you think you’re such a divine angel, prove it! Sacrifice yourself so this mortal girl may return to her life with all the blessings and perils that implies.”
It’s the noble thing to agree, the hero’s thing to do — save the dearest friend of my true love. It’s also everything I’ve been warned against.
Miranda may hate me forever. I may be abandoning Lucy to an eternity of torment and humiliation. But the number-one rule of heaven is, no matter what the adversary asks, the answer is always: “No.”
“No? No!” Lucifer waves my sword. “I’m the victim here. I’m the one who’s lost what was owed to him.”
“You?” Nigel lights a fresh cigarette. “What about me? I’ve been reading up on your limited dictatorship for my Underworld Governments paper. I’m sitting right here. And, oh, right! I’m your son. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ll trade my soul to free Lucy?”
HARRISON STORMS IN FIRST. He throws open the double doors of the reception area outside the Office of the Archangel Michael. “I demand to speak to someone in management! My afterlife thus far has been wholly unsatisfying. I have combed, literally combed, the streets of the entertainment district, and I’m yet to find one showing of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats!”
Marching to Yasmeen’s desk, he adds, “If this, madam, is a taste of Kingdom Come, then I, for one, am sorely disappointed!”
Taking a brisk turn toward the hall leading to Michael’s office, I’m positive that Yasmeen has never encountered such an unreasonable, ungrateful, or loud ascended soul.
Meanwhile, Idelle tosses aside her copy of Interfaith Archaeology Bulletin. Rushing to Harrison, she heightens the scene. “What an insensitive question!” she scolds, as I start running. “The famed werecat peace advocate, Palpate Kith, has petitioned for Cats’s banishment from heaven and the Penultimate as an insensitive mockery of —”
“Censorship!” I hear Harrison yell. “Who is she to suppress . . .”
At the heavy mahogany door, labeled MICHAEL in engraved gold, I reach for the handle and swing it open. “I hereby demand an immediate audience with the archangel Michael, the Sword of Heaven, the Bringer of Souls.”
As Michael himself rises from behind the desk, I feel my knees quiver.
Though occasionally mistaken for a werelion because of his golden mane, Zachary can pass for human. I’d say the same for Joshua and Idelle. They’re all angelically gorgeous, but the archangel is, for lack of a better word, more.
There’s no wall behind him. The backdrop is a symphony of moons and stars. He’s dressed for battle, and his full attention is trained on me.
“Miranda Shen McAllister,” he says by way of greeting.
I resist the urge to clear my throat. “The guardian Zachary is in peril, along with six young mortals and the only wholly souled eternal. They’ve been lured into a satanic academy called Scholomance. It’s located in Vermont and affiliated with —”
“I’ve heard of it,” Michael replies, crossing his arms over his chest shield.
“I’ve been watching them,” I continue, “with my monitor-com, yet they’ve disappeared from view. All of them. You know what that means.”
He settles for raising an eyebrow. “Guardians are assigned to the mortals. Zachary, on the other hand —”
“How far can those other guardians follow?” I want to know. “How far down?” When Michael doesn’t answer, I exclaim, “Are you the Sword of Heaven or not?”
He does not look pleased with my tone.
This is it. My redemption will be revoked. If the others are in hell, I’ll soon be joining them.
The archangel takes one step onto his desk and one step down from it. “Since his creation in 1945, the guardian angel Zachary has had a spotty work record and is currently earthbound because of it. He broke the rules, which is why you became undead in the first place. His first assignment, Daniel Giacobbe Bianchi, turned out to be a crooked, petty politician, dead at the hand of a call girl with a toxic cocktail.
“He counseled his current charge, the vampire Quincie P. Morris, toward self-destruction when it turned out that she’d been wholly souled all along.”
I clasp
“I wasn’t her angel!” he exclaims. “There is a reason that I delegate. And now Zachary has abandoned his post, abandoned young Quincie, on this disastrous errand —”
“The original mission — to help neophytes — was my idea in the first place,” I remind him. “He’s been trying. You, on the other hand, oversee all of the world’s souls and their guardians or lack thereof. With the End Days nigh, do you think it’s fair to assign only one angel to every demonically infected —”
“Fair?” He marches toward me. “Do you think Lucifer plays fair?”
“No, but I expected more from you.”
It silences him for only a moment. “Zachary is a slipped angel. He doesn’t even have full status under —”
“Again, it comes back to you, Michael. You’re the one he calls his supervisor.” I recall what Idelle said about Michael when we first met. That he’s been given a lot of leeway. Yet he isn’t infallible. He isn’t God.
“You’re the one who grounded him to the mortal plane,” I continue. “Yet is it your place to dismiss him as fallen? Or does that decision have to come from the Highest?”
Michael closes the distance and grasps my shoulders. “What did you say?”
I will my hands to stop shaking. “Isn’t it your responsibility to watch over the guardians, to guard the guardian angels, like Zachary used to watch over me?”
The scowling archangel closes his eyes, for a moment, two. Then he does something extraordinary. He kisses me quickly but firmly on the top of my head.
“Lucky for both of you,” Michael says, “I could use a good battle today. Now, what’s this nonsense about the apocalypse?”
I find myself at a loss. “Well, you know. Everyone’s talking about it. There’s that Nostradamus and a supervolcano under Yellowstone and turmoil in the Middle East. One natural disaster after another. Not to mention all the movies and books and —”
“Only the Executive knows when the end will come,” Michael replies. “Lucifer, I suspect, is the one stirring it up. He works through fear like we do through faith.”