Diabolical by Cynthia Leitich Smith
She pauses. “I hope you all got your flu shots. Now, if you will please stand and follow me, I will show you the library.” Ulman floats out the door.
It’s as though we’ve been spellbound until that moment. Everyone starts talking. Bridget insists that Ulman is a hologram. Vesper mocks Bridget for being naive. Willa begins babbling something about the condemned or condemnation. Nigel stands, muttering about unworthiness. Lucy asks what we should do.
Kieren replies, “Go to the library.”
He, Evelyn, and I hang back as the others file out.
“What is that thing?” the Otter asks.
“Probably a previously descended soul or essence,” the Wolf says. “One that was taken to hell and has come back. ‘Ghost’ is close enough. But her variety is so rare, that’s about all I know about it.”
Given that Ulman has no solid physical form, we can’t fight her or force her to tell us anything. “Do you think she’s the teeth and claws of this place?” I ask.
“If she was a tenth scholar,” Kieren says, “she may not even be evil. Just damned and resigned to her fate.”
The library takes up half of the third floor. Freestanding shelves separate two work areas. Each has a glass-topped, metal-framed table and metal chairs. A few cushioned chairs with matching ottomans offer a more relaxed reading space. They’ve been angled artfully in the corners.
An unoccupied desk toward the front of the room is bookended by custom-designed card catalogs. The books are old, some charred along the spines. They come in various sizes. A couple of larger ones are displayed on podiums.
The students stand in a bunch. They’re trying not to draw attention to themselves.
“Is there a librarian?” It’s the first question I’ve asked.
“No,” Ulman replies. “We’ll require a library assistant.”
Kieren raises his hand. “I volunteer.” He’s a whiz at demonic lore and history. If the answer to our escape were in these books, he’d find it. But this is Satan’s schoolhouse. We can’t trust anything we learn here, except maybe what we learn from each other.
Ulman nods in agreement. “No food or drink on this floor.” Her image begins to fade. “I’ll see you all tomorrow at 9 A.M. in the seminar room. Tardiness will not be tolerated. During class time, you may not leave without my express permission. Ten o’clock P.M. is lights-out. Those of you familiar with the administration are welcome to share your insights with your peers.” Only the eyes and mouth are left. “You have no secrets here.”
New York Weekly Harbinger,
Aug. 6, 1888
Ursula Ulman (1836–1888)
Ursula Ulman, nicknamed the Maleficent Miser and the Miser of Manhattan, died on August 4. The daughter of Russell Rippington, U.S. ambassador to France, and his wife Beatrice, she was born November 10, 1836, in New York City.
Upon her parents’ death in a 1858 suicide pact, she inherited eight million dollars in liquid assets. Ulman neither married nor had children. She relocated to Maine in her forties.
Throughout her life, she pursued a conservative investment policy, primarily concerning real estate and adamant frugality. She never allowed the use of hot water. She warmed her daily gruel on the radiator. She wore only one black dress and, in an effort to conserve soap, washed only those parts of it — the hem and underarms — most likely to become soiled.
Ulman’s entire estate has been willed to the Scholomance, a little-known academic institution in the Carpathian Mountains, with which she had no publicly known previous association.
ZACHARY HAS COME to rescue Lucy and whoever else needs help. That’s what guardian angels do. They work one-on-one to save lives and souls.
We may be stuck in this place for a while. I take point in front of the tinted window in the formal living room. I mostly come clean with the other students. I use the word demonic rather than mentioning Lucifer. I don’t say anything about my Wolf or Evie’s Otter heritage. I don’t out Zach as an angel either.
“Did you see when Ulman changed form?” Nigel asks.
“I saw horns!” Lucy exclaims.
Not everyone came downstairs. After Dr. Ulman vanished, Willa ran out of the library and threw up in the girls’ restroom. Nervous shock. Evelyn offered to sit with her in the second-floor kitchenette. The Otter will tell Willa the rest once she calms down.
“What I don’t understand,” I conclude, “is the assumption that, after a year here, any of us will want to transfer to the Carpathian Scholomance.”
Vesper leans back in her chair. She crosses her long legs. “Once you have a taste . . . My parents both graduated magna cum laude — my father first, my mother the following semester — and they married within the next year. They’ve attended every alumni retreat, reunion, and continuing-education program. The knowledge, the magic. It’s addictive. Then there are the contacts. Music and sports stars, captains of industry, heads of state. People who launch social-networking sites.”
“Vesper’s parents are grads,” Bridget says to Kieren from the sofa, “but how do you know so much? Or should I say, you and Zachary?”
I’m ready for the question. “We have ties to the va —”
Zach coughs. “Eternal.”
He’s right. An insider wouldn’t use the word vampire.
“Eternal,” I correct myself. “The eternal underworld. Zach used to work as a servant to the Mantle of Dracul, and I’m dating a neophyte member of the gentry.”
Neither of which is enough to explain my expertise. Hopefully, they don’t know that. I’m doing my best to stick close to the truth.
“Come again?” Lucy asks.
“Zachary used to work for the Mantle of Dracul,” Vesper explains, sounding impressed. “The vampire royal family. And Kieren is dating a vampire of property.”
“Dating!” Nigel exclaims. “A vampire? Is anyone here not suicidal?”
Andrew’s name hangs unspoken in the room. It seems an unlikely coincidence that he’d choose to kill himself on his first night here.
“Vampires are extinct,” Bridget puts in. “Or at least very rare and —”
“That’s what they want you think,” I reply. “In Vermont, Burlington is the only sanctioned hunting ground. Unless we’re dealing with a rogue, eternals are the least of our worries.” I take a deep breath. “When we found out about the school, Zach and I came to warn you. The students. Those who might not realize what you’re getting into. To help you leave.” I don’t single out Lucy. “We didn’t expect to become imprisoned. We didn’t expect a lot of things.”
I raise my chin. “Other than Vesper, is anyone here by choice?”
Vesper begins filing her thumbnail.
Lucy keeps quiet. She’s standing with her arms crossed and staring at the repeated devil image above the fireplace. I keep doing that, too. It demands attention.
“I knew.” Nigel pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. “Willa knew.” He crosses to the fireplace and lights a cigarette. “Not exactly, but we’d figured it would be bad of the seriously evil variety. Her parents brought us, after all.”
It doesn’t make sense that someone, even a parent, could forfeit his own child in a bargain with Satan. Let alone someone else’s child. Surrender their own lives? Their own souls? Fine. But that’s as far as it should go. Even assuming they’re into soul bartering.
Why did Andrew drive himself and Bridget to the school at all? What does the mayor of New York City, who wrote Andrew’s recommendation, have to do with it? How many political leaders are tied to Scholomance? What percentage of the rich and powerful ultimately rests in Satan’s palm?
“Any ideas as to how we might escape?” I ask.
“Chain saw?” Lucy suggests, apparently for the hell of it.
Bridget adds, “Did anyone bring a weapon?”
“Confiscated,” Zach admits for both of us.
Vesper holds up her metal fingernail file. “They didn’t take this.”
“We’re dealing wit
KIEREN AND I go to the gym to look for any hint of foul play in Andrew’s death.
As we stare at the pull-up bar, I ask, “Is that nose of yours getting anything?”
The Wolf crouches, runs a hand over the mat. “You, me, Evelyn, Andrew, and Mr. Bilovski. No one else has been here, at least not lately. Andrew’s scent is off, though.”
“Off?”
“I’m not sure.” Kieren stands. “At the roadside, he never got out of the limo. In the dining room, he exited around the other side of the table. Plus, it was crowded in there.”
“This was a mistake,” I say. “Lucy is no safer because we came.”
“Isn’t it up to me to decide that?” Lucy replies, exiting the elevator. “It’s been a crazy couple of days.” Her smile is slight, cautious. “We could start over. You said you watched over Miranda. You guarded her every day of her life.”
She strides across the track toward us. “I saw for myself a vampire in the cemetery. I’m willing to believe a demon could be interested in her. But I somehow doubt one stuck around 24/7, 365 days a year, for her entire earthly existence. Much as I love my best friend, she wasn’t that fascinating on a cosmic level.”
At the pull-up bar, Lucy adds, “So, prove it. Prove you’re Miranda’s guardian angel. Try again. Try harder. Tell me things about her that only her angel would know.”
Kieren shifts his weight. “I’ll head upstairs. I want to talk to the Bilovskis.”
As the Wolf leaves, Lucy pushes herself up on the nearby balance beam. She’s wearing loose enough jeans that she can swing her leg over.
“Careful,” I warn her. “You don’t want to break your arm again.”
Lucy bites her lower lip. “A lot of people know that. I wore a cast for —”
“You started your period when you were nine years old. You were home alone, though your mom, Susan, was just next door. She went over to borrow an egg from Mrs. Chopra and stayed to chat for a while. Susan had never told you about menstruation. She hadn’t started until she was fifteen. It never dawned on her that you’d start so young. You called over there, but a boy answered. I forget his name. He was a cousin, visiting from Washington, D.C. So you hung up without saying anything.”
“I forget his name, too,” she says. “That all happened to me, not Miranda.”
I stand with my back to the bar and raise myself to sit next to Lucy. “I know, but after about ten minutes you called Miranda. You told her all that. I was watching and listening, like I always did.”
Ultimately, Lucy will have to decide for herself whether or not to believe me. To have faith in what I’m saying, to choose her fate.
“The worst fight you girls ever got in was about Geoff Calvo, the varsity soccer star. After second hour, in the girls’ restroom, you said it was a waste for her to pine for him. You argued that he didn’t even know her name. You were tired of hearing her go on about a guy she knew only from a distance. You said it was Miranda’s way of not taking a chance on someone who might actually like her back. You thought she lived a narrow life. It frustrated you, especially when she second-guessed some of the risks you took.”
“I can be a loud mouth,” Lucy admits. “That morning —”
“Her dad had moved out for good, but you didn’t know it. For the first time ever, my girl screamed at you to shut up.” I’m uncomfortable on the beam. I don’t get off, though. I want to stay at Lucy’s level. “You never would’ve brought up Geoff if you’d known what was going on with Miranda’s family at home.”
“But I did know,” Lucy says, biting her lip. “Or at least there was this rumor that Mr. McAllister had been seen kissing some woman in the Holiday Inn parking lot.”
Lucy didn’t used to hold so tight to her regrets.
But at least now she’s finally listening to me.
THE SCHOLOMANCE KITCHEN is stocked with modern appliances. I don’t see a door leading outside. “Afternoon, Mr. Bilovski. What did you do with Andrew’s body?”
Mopping the kitchen floor, he looks up at me in surprise. “Me? What makes you think I did anything with it?”
“It’s gone,” I reply. “None of the students moved it. Dr. Ulman —”
He shakes his head.
Play it that way. I start opening drawers and find only plastic and rubber utensils. No knives. “What about notifying the police, his family?”
“I mind my own business.” He returns to the task. “You should, too.”
“What is your business?” I ask, checking the counters. Paper plates and napkins. Flour and sugar. Spices and rice.
“I’m the handyman,” he tells me. “Mrs. Bilovski is the cook.”
That’s not good enough. “You know what this place is. Get help for the rest of us. Say you need something from town and —”
He wrings out the mop. “We’re beyond help ourselves, beyond salvation.” His weathered face crumbles. “We believed his lies and lost it all.”
Transcript of Call:
Vampires Quincie Morris and Queen Sabine
1/6, 3:45 P.M.
Sabine: Did I not make myself clear to Zachary? In light of his foolish behavior, I am severing my relationship not only with him, but also with his various teenage neophyte associates. You included. I hereby command you to leave me alone. In reward for your compliance, I am willing to waive your future taxes. That is how serious I am.
Quincie: Chill, Sabine. No one is asking you to prom. It’s just that he and Kieren aren’t back yet, and I —
Sabine: This is not my problem. I am hanging up now. I should have refused this call.
Quincie: Wait. You don’t have to lie to the Scholomance.
Sabine: If I am not to lie, then what would you have me say?
Quincie: Say nada. Don’t reply to the e-mail at all. Ignore it. Delete it.
Sabine: What if I find myself confronted in light of my lack of response? What do you suppose I tell Lucifer’s minion then?
Quincie: Tell him that it must’ve gotten caught in your spam folder.
Sabine: You are suggesting this strategy? You who keep company with an angel of the Lord? Is that not a sin?
Quincie: It’s the electronic age. If that’s a sin, hell’s about to get a lot more crowded.
LUCY AND I TALK until dinner. I’m not sure she’s sold on my story, but it’s a start.
The atmosphere at the meal is somber. None of us mention being locked in. Or the still-blazing fires in the fireplaces. Or our specter of a teacher. Or Andrew’s suicide. Or the fact that we’re cut off from the outside world. We don’t talk at all.
Evelyn and Bridget keep obsessively checking their phones, though, like they hope that the lack of reception is a temporary glitch.
Vesper has begun tapping her fingernails on the closest available surface.
Mrs. Bilovski silently serves bread bowls of clam chowder with oyster crackers and fresh cracked pepper. Plastic soup spoons.
Finally, Bridget stands. “None of us really knew Andrew. I wish he’d given us a chance, but it’s too late now. Nigel and Willa never even met him. But . . .” She raises her iced tea, and I can almost imagine the lawyer she’ll be someday. “To Andrew.”
“To Andrew,” Vesper echoes without her usual irony.
“To Andrew, to Andrew, to Andrew,” the rest of us chime in.
I notice how carefully Kieren and Evelyn make a point to carefully sniff their food before anyone takes a bite.
That evening, I hole up in my room. I’m hoping Joshua will appear.
Kieren stops by to report that the new normal has started to sink in. The girls have been speculating on why Andrew killed himself. “Nigel is binge drinking and chain-smoking,” the Wolf adds. “On the way here from the airport, he had the limo driver stop and buy him two cases of beer, a fifth of vodka, and an entire suitcase of Lucky Strike cigarettes.”
Not helpful. “How do you think Quincie is holding up at the B and B?”
Kieren kneels on the floor. He’s trying to stare up the fireplace shaft without getting burned. “Better than we are.”
Most GAs know their assignments better than anyone else, but I’ve never been able to observe Quincie from an incorporeal vantage point. I wasn’t even assigned to her until she was seventeen and already undead.
The Wolf adds, “We’ve been gone too long. Her stress meter has kicked up a notch. She’s working on a plan B. She has Frank open. There’s a to-do list involved.”
Frank is Quincie’s nickname for her planner book, a present from Kieren. He buys the refills, too. No matter that everyone else on the planet is tech obsessed. Quincie likes flipping through the pages. She likes the feel of the leather cover on her fingertips.
Giving up the idea of a chimney escape, Kieren grins. “I’m also guessing Quince is the reason that Sabine hasn’t ratted us out to the administration.”
I’d almost forgotten about Sabine. With everything that’s happened, I lost track of time. We’ve spent our first night and whole day here. How many more lie ahead?
The Wolf touches the olive shell hanging at his collarbone, the one Quincie gave him for Christmas. “About the last twenty-four hours: it’s felt longer than my nearly three weeks at the pack.”
Apparently, not all the answers are in his books. “Time passes differently. . . .” I pause. That’s not quite right. “It’s perceived differently — in heaven and hell — than on earth.”
Kieren draws his thick eyebrows together. “You’re saying we’re in hell?”
“Or damned close to it. Even without Lucifer pulling strings, that may be enough to mess with our heads.”