Diabolical (2 page)

IF I SCREW UP AGAIN,
I’m one toasted guardian angel (GA). We’re talking hellfire and damnation. Hot. Searing hot. Chomp the serrano peppers. Chug the Tabasco.

In case there’s any doubt, the archangel Michael himself materializes on the dock to tell me so. “That was unnecessarily costly and dramatic,” he announces. “Zachary, how many times must we review this? Though the neophyte vampire’s soul may have been temporarily salvageable —”

“He was still tainted by evil,” I recite, returning my sword to its scabbard. “When he became an immediate threat to the living, I shouldn’t have hesitated to destroy him.”

I’m not inclined to argue. Michael is the Sword of Heaven, the Bringer of Souls, my supervisor. Besides, he’s right.

I bend to pick up my flashlight and hook it to my belt.

“Once again, you have indulged your feelings at the expense of the greater good,” Michael thunders. “Your friend’s victim, fourteen-year-old Jorge Alvarez, didn’t find out that his father got the janitorial position at Dell until after he recovered from the shock of dying. If Jorge had lived, that drug deal may have been his last.”

I’m not sure about that, but it’s not worth debating. The boy is dead. That’s all that matters now. That and his grieving family.

I’d worried when Mitch didn’t stop by over the holidays to pick up his latest supply of pig’s blood. I should’ve assumed the worst and followed up then. But I wanted to give him the opportunity to choose salvation, and he did. Only too late for Jorge.

Sounding weary, Michael says, “You are a slipped angel, Zachary — granted, one who has shown promise. You earned back your wings and the power of heaven’s light, and you have put them to good use. But that in no way should be interpreted to mean that your current status, let alone eventual full reinstatement, is guaranteed.”

Another bottle rocket whizzes into the night with a bang. Michael adds, “Perhaps this assignment is too much for you.”

These days, I’m only specifically assigned to watch over one vamp, a teenager named Quincie Morris. But the deal is that if I can help save every redeemable neophyte, I’ll be allowed to return upstairs. I’ll be welcomed home, reunited with Miranda.

The only problem? Fulfilling my mission is freaking impossible. Vamps grow in number with each passing night.

Then again, prior to me, the archangel had written off the neophyte undead completely. Devoting one GA to the cause is still better than devoting none.

“Another mistake of this magnitude,” Michael adds, “and you’ll have exhausted your second chance. I’ll have no choice but to recommend that you be permanently exiled from Grace and that your assignment be given to a more capable guardian.”

“But —”

“One more mistake, Zachary, and you’ll eventually find yourself in hell.”

I HATE SECRETS
. From day one, my parents made it clear that I couldn’t tell anyone about our family. I can’t talk about the fact that Mom’s a werewolf, Dad’s a human, and I’m a hybrid. Shifters are naturally born. But I can’t speak out against humans who claim we’re preternatural monsters. I can’t fight back when bigots take away jobs. Even lives.

I have a lot at stake. Mom’s wedding-planning business. Dad’s professorship in engineering. Our middle-class life in the newly repaired McMansion. All that could be ripped away if our family’s mixed heritage became public. When my kid sister, Meghan, was born, I had her to protect, too.

Now, I have secrets to keep from my family as well. Two biggies: (1) Quince is a vampire, and (2) Zach is her guardian angel. A secret is a burden. It’s exhausting, a lie.

Zach hasn’t told Quince what happened with Mitch.

I don’t want to see her hurt. What’s between me and Quince is more than puppy love. She may not need to breathe, but she’s like air to me. If Zach doesn’t tell her soon, I’ll have to.

When the angel yawns, I push the issue. “So, Zach, when did you come in last night?”

The angel shoots me a reprimanding look.

“Yeah, you weren’t here when I got home,” Quince adds. She leans into her open refrigerator. She digs through plastic containers and aluminum-foil-covered plates of tamales and casseroles. Leftovers from the holidays. “I called your cell a couple of times. I was about to go looking when I heard you land on the roof.”

“I had something to do.” Zach disappears into Quince’s dining room. He’s carrying two glasses of iced tea. A mug of porcine blood is warming for Quince in the microwave.

“Aha!” Quince finally locates the Sanguini’s take-out bag. She sets it on her kitchen counter. “I want you guys to try this proposed dish for the catering menu.”

Sanguini’s is the vampire-themed Italian restaurant that Quince inherited from her late parents. It’s closed for New Year’s Day. Last night’s party sold out at a thousand dollars a head (75 percent of which was donated to a local food kitchen). It attracted a country-and-western superstar, the latest Heisman Trophy winner, and several NASA astronauts.

Last night I walked her home at 3
A.M.
(I don’t normally get to stay out so late. We’re out of school for winter break.) It’s weird for Zach not to leave with her, too. It’s his holy mission, watching over Quince.

I’m being too hard on him. It’s not like he won’t tell her about Mitch. He’s just waiting for the right moment.

The microwave dings, and I take out her mug.

Not every guy would be as accepting of my girlfriend’s liquid diet. But since I’m part Wolf, the smell of pig’s blood makes my canines itch, too.

We join Zach in the dining room.

“Cold Italian pasta salad,” Quince announces, setting down the bowl, “with prosciutto, chopped red pepper, chopped red onions, and cannellini beans. Nora let it sit in the fridge overnight.”

Nora also left a pot of black-eyed peas on the stove. She’s Sanguini’s famed and acclaimed chef.

Nora, Zach, and their pal Freddy rent out rooms in Quince’s 1930s home. It’s not your typical household arrangement. Quince’s mom and mine had been best friends since before we were born. My folks are Quince’s legal guardians. But last fall, Nora offered to pitch in as an extra supervisory grown-up.

It’s better for everyone. It was a nightmare for Quince, trying to pass as human in front of my parents. Meanwhile, my folks didn’t want two love-struck, hormonally charged teenagers living under the same roof.

I distribute dinner plates. Zach ducks into the kitchen for silverware and napkins. Tonight, it’s just the three of us. Nora went out for sushi with her son, who’s visiting from Boston. Freddy is on a date with some Australian guy he met through the rowing club.

They come and go, whereas Zach is a constant fixture. Not that I mind. Usually.

If he were a full-status angel, he’d be invisible. Watching over Quince 24/7. Being slipped, he’s corporeal all the time. That makes the logistics of “watching over” more complicated. Among other things, it’s seriously cramping my love life.

Don’t get me wrong. Zach’s a great guy. An angel — literally. Don’t think that revelation didn’t knock this good Catholic boy off his boots.

But Quince and I need our alone time.

We settle around the antique table. Quince says grace and announces, “We’re taking down the Sanguini’s holiday decorations before reopening tomorrow. Enough with the fangs and mistletoe. I’ve had it with
The Nightmare Before Christmas
—”

“Until next year?” I finish.

She blows me a kiss. I laugh. Quince adores the holidays.

She takes a tiny experimental bite of the pasta salad. “Delicious, but I don’t know. It says to me, ‘corporate picnic,’ ‘Tarrytown baby shower.’ Not ‘Sanguini’s.’”

“What about taking out the prosciutto?” I suggest. “You could market it as a prey dish.” Sanguini’s menu is divided into two sections — one for customers who call themselves “predator” and one for those who call themselves “prey.”

It’s partly a matter of carnivore versus vegetarian. It’s partly sexual posturing.

“You’re quiet,” Quince says to the angel. “You’re not eating. Are you feeling okay? You’re not sick, are you? Can you get sick?”

“It’s my job to keep an eye on you,” he replies, “not vice versa.”

Waiting, I take a sip of sweet tea. Tonight, it’s living up to the “friend” part of boyfriend that’s my job. When she needs me, I’ll be here.

“Zachary,” she prompts, “would you mind picking out the prosciutto and letting me know how it tastes?” For my restaurateur girlfriend, one of the toughest things about being undead is that it’s a struggle for her to keep food down. She’s still building up her tolerance for anything heartier than gelatin or whipped cauliflower. “Zachary?”

He covers her hand with his own. “You heard about the boy found dead on the lakefront.” The angel takes a deep breath. “Well, I found Mitch on the hike-and-bike trail last night after work. It was him. I mean, he —”

“I know what you mean,” Quince says, pulling away. “So you —”

“I didn’t strike him down against his will,” Zach assures her. “Mitch offered his soul up to the Big Boss. He said he was resolved.”

“Good.” Quince pushes her chair back and stands. “Good for him. We’re supposed to be happy for him, right? Isn’t that the drill?”

Zach winces. “There’s no one way that you’re supposed to feel. You —”

At preternatural speed, she bolts out of the room, upstairs and slams her bedroom door behind her. I’ll be surprised if the hinges held.

“Should we go after her?” he asks.

I shake my head. “After dinner, I’ll go up.”

We polish off the pasta salad. Then we head to the back porch to grill up a couple of T-bones. Split a six pack. Dissect U.T. football.

Zach and I have a lot in common. As an earthbound guardian angel and a hybrid werewolf, we’re both different from everyone we know. He’s been cast out of heaven. I’m no longer welcome at the training pack. We both have big appetites. And we both — or so we’re constantly told — have great hair. Plus, we love Quince. In different ways, but she’s as precious to him as my little sis is to me.

Then there are our vampire girlfriends.

Quince had her uncertain days. Her blood-starved nights. In the end, though, she became stronger. More confident. Even in undeath, the true Quince thrives.

“When Miranda was upset, she’d run and hide,” says Zach. “Mostly in girls’ bathrooms.”

“Quince isn’t hiding,” I explain at the picnic table. “She just wants to be alone.”

I wish Zach wouldn’t compare Quince to Miranda. From what Freddy tells me, Miranda kept a stable of human victims in her castle dungeon. She left drained bodies strewn across the alleys of Chicago. She ordered the tongues cut out of gossiping servants.

Zach pops the tab of a beer. “I never understood my girl like you do Quincie.”

I’ve had a lifetime to get to know Quince. But he’d watched over Miranda from day one. “You mentioned before that you’re a young angel. What does that mean?”

He hesitates before answering. “We new angels were created after the first atomic blast in 1945.”

“And Miranda was . . . not a senior citizen?”

He laughs. “No, she’s not much older than you. She . . .” He pauses.
“What?”

I’m not sure how to phrase this. Zach may be my buddy, but he’s still a holy being. “Aren’t you kind of old for her?”

I’ve traced Brad, the vamp who cursed Quince, to the early twentieth century. He’d hit the preternatural scene by at least the 1920s. He used his experience, his worldliness, to try to seduce her. Just thinking about it makes me want to snarl. So maybe I’m oversensitive about the subject. But I need to know where heaven stands on much older guys going after teenage girls. I want to hear that my faith is justified.

Zach puts down his knife and fork. “You know dog years?”

“Is this a werewolf joke?” I like a good werewolf joke. But I want my answer.

“No. I mean, you know how dogs — how different species — reach maturity at different rates? How they have different life expectancies?”

I nod. Werebirds, for example, mature much faster than weremammals. Life cycles vary. On average, Wolves die fifteen years earlier than humans.

It’s unclear what that’ll mean for me, a hybrid. But odds are, Quince and Zach will be here years, even centuries, after I’m gone. It makes his answer to my question that much more important. I know that angels can slip, fall. So
how
good of a guy is he?

Zach yawns again. “In angel years, I’m about the age I look. I was born this way, fully grown. I’ll look this way forever. But I’m the human equivalent of twenty or so.”

Great to know. On the other hand . . . Suddenly, I can’t help thinking that guardian angels start working awfully young. On-the-job training?

It’s comforting that Zach’s not a letch.

Except . . . how qualified is he to guard Quince? It’s a dangerous world. With a more dangerous underworld. Given that Zach’s slipped already, it’s lucky that he hasn’t stumbled across anyone more diabolical than his own girlfriend.