Diabolical (5 page)

Everybody gawks. Though death is the ultimate equalizer, royalty still garners attention. “Princess Miranda!”

I’m not the only Miranda, of course. Yet how many of the others used to be princesses? Everywhere I look, there are strangers, then . . .

“Harrison!” I exclaim.

Flashy in a shiny gold tux, my onetime castle servant zigzags through the crowd, raises my fingertips, and formally bends to kiss the back of my hand.

First Mr. Nesbit, and now this! I’m
not
the only formerly demonic being in the Penultimate. Like me, Harrison was undead when he met his end. He had been a prized legacy servant, the last of a five-generation line. In that role and, later, as a neophyte eternal, Harrison caused (or at least facilitated) unfathomable bloodshed.

Yet last October, he fought by Zachary’s side and sacrificed himself to the holy light as enemy eternals closed in. Harrison gave up his demonic, earthly existence so that his friends and brother might live. He died as something far better than he’d ever been in life — a gallant gentleman.

I exclaim, “I never expected to see
you
here!”

Anyone else would be insulted. Harrison laughs and twirls me on the promenade. “Look who’s talking! Your Highness, you were the most splendidly fearsome creature —”

I stop in place and shush him. “I’m past all that.”

“Are you?” Harrison replies.

Yes. No. “We have bigger problems. Come with me.”

I should apologize for ordering him around like that — I’m no longer a pampered royal, and he’s no longer my sarcastic servant — except he seems to be relishing it.

Harrison notes the book I’m carrying. “That looks familiar.”

Minutes later in my suite, I’ve explained about Lucy and we’ve opened
The Blood Drinker’s Guide
to the section about a certain famed count. Harrison points to the entry on the first Dracula, sometimes referred to as Dracula Prime.

Though royal eternals have long since adopted the name Dracul as an honorific, the original was a beast of unprecedented ferociousness who used sorcery to reinvent himself as a Carpathian vampire — a far more powerful and insidious breed of eternal than the prevalent undead today. It’s
where
the count learned that sorcery that concerns me.

“According to the infamous, blathering Dr. Abraham Van Helsing,” Harrison begins from the sofa, “Dracula Prime ‘dared even to attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did not essay.’ It’s the Evil One’s school, Your Highness, a slice of hell on earth.”

I pace, wringing my hands. “When you say ‘Evil One,’ you don’t mean —”

“I mean Lucifer. Satan, the devil, the beast, the adversary, the prince of darkness, the prince of pain, the father of lies, the deceiver, the cloven hoofed, the serpent, the spoiler, Old Scratch, Old Horny, the fallen —”

“Enough!” I exclaim.

“Angel,” he adds at the same time.

I recall a sermon my minister gave back in Dallas — something about the archangel Lucifer falling like a star, he and those angels who followed him. Or maybe it was Shakespeare: “Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.”

“The Scholomance is located in the mountains of Eastern Europe,” Harrison goes on. “I don’t recollect there being a satellite campus in Vermont or anywhere else.” He checks the index. “There’s no mention of one in this edition. Did you try the Web?”

Vaguely embarrassed, I slip the monitor-com out of my sweater pocket. “I’ve been using this almost exclusively to —”

“Spy on your hunkalicious guardian back on terra firma? Be still, my celestial heart, I, too, have let my screen linger on his pert but muscular gluteus maximus.”

Ignoring that confession, I exclaim, “I also check on my parents! My best friend Lucy! Furthermore, it’s not spying, it’s . . . watching over.”

Harrison takes the monitor-com from me. “Whatever you say, Your Highness. Or do you prefer Your Majesty? You were, however briefly, queen.”

I’d rather not be reminded of that. “I prefer Miranda.”

“I don’t. What’s your read on this Seth fellow you mentioned?”

I pause. “He seemed friendly enough. Young, overeager. He could be a dupe.”

“Oh, dear.” Harrison looks up from the screen. “According to the website, Scholomance Preparatory Academy on New Hermannstadt Street in Montpelier, Vermont, is indeed affiliated with the flagship institution in the Carpathian Mountains.”

As I bury my face in my hands, he adds, “It’s a feeder school to the original.”

With a groan, I sink into a seated position, cross-legged on the carpet.

Harrison, meanwhile, rattles off factoids: “Students are required to live on campus. While foreign students are limited to submitting applications to the Romanian campus only, that’s expected to change in the near future. Admissions are rolling. The first-ever U.S.-based classes are scheduled to begin this coming winter-spring semester on January seventh. Orientation is on the sixth.” After a pause, he adds, “The website is mum on the curriculum.”

I spread my fingers and peek through them. “What do you think?”

He purses his lips. “You’re wise to fear for your friend.”

I’M LURKING
in the reception area outside the Office of the Archangel Michael in hopes of running into Joshua, being eyed warily by a receptionist/assistant named Yasmeen (1965 Istanbul–2002 Istanbul), and flipping through old newspapers and magazines.

In 1929, William C. DeMille became the second president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. He followed Douglas Fairbanks.

In 1984, a weredolphin, who’d been performing in animal form at a California water park, was outed and accused of being a Soviet spy.

In 1961, John F. Kennedy was the
Time
magazine Person of the Year. I remember when Lucy and I visited the Sixth Floor Museum on an eighth-grade field trip. It nearly moved me to tears.

After two hours, I approach the reception desk. “Excuse me, my name is —”

“I know who you are,” Yasmeen replies. “You don’t have an appointment.”

The Office of the Archangel Michael isn’t known for its touchy-feely-ness. “Will Joshua be done soon?”

Few guardians check in so regularly and in person with Michael. However, it’s common knowledge that the archangel is especially interested in Zachary and that Joshua has been assigned to him. It’s unusual for one guardian to watch over another. Then again, it’s unusual for an angel to slip and become earthbound.

“At the Penultimate,” Yasmeen says, “we encourage ascended souls to focus on making peace with their time among the living, not on socializing with guardians who have important business elsewhere.”

The promenade is reminiscent of those at amusement parks. Some people appear as if they’re on a mission, others like they’re out for a stroll. A famous face catches my eye — a young Hollywood actor. I had such a crush on him in middle school. He’s shorter in person, less airbrushed. He looks disappointed. I wonder how he died.

Of late, newly ascended souls have included the lead singer of a popular girl band that went down in a small plane and a baseball star who died on a Jet Ski.

Despite being dead, and undead before that, I still find myself attuned to news out of the U.S. However, I’m told that on the other side of the pearly gates, national alliances fade fast. Heaven is a place without borders, and there’s no such thing as a language barrier. I’m not certain of the mechanics, but basically it’s like everyone has a Federation universal translator. I pause on the promenade as a werecat in animal form springs by.

Behind me, a voice whispers, “Psst! Miranda!”

“Hello?” I turn all the way around. “Hello?”

A tall, feminine figure steps to my side. “I’m the guardian Idelle.”

Like all angels, she’s exquisite — in her case, with waist-long, dark, curly hair, full breasts, wide hips, and long, tapered fingers. She’s wearing the standard guardian uniform — the white robes and strappy gold sandals.

“You’re Zachary’s former assignment?” she asks.

I pause. “Yes, I’m Miranda.”

“Walk and talk,” Idelle urges, and we merge into the crowd. “Is it true, what they say you were?”

I didn’t realize “they” were talking. I glance at my hands as if I can still see the blood on them. “Yes.”

“I heard another vampire connected to Zachary arrived in October.”

“That would be Harrison,” I reply.

“And a third only two days ago?”

Cheered, I reply. “Mitch.” I didn’t realize how much I’d come to root for him until after he died for good. “He’s here at the Penultimate?”

“No, he’s the uncomplicated sort. He proceeded through the gates right away.”

Last night my angel returned to the site of Mitch’s destruction. He lit a candle, said a prayer, and downed a tequila shot. If only I could reassure him that his friend died at peace.

“Three fully redeemed vampires.” Idelle purses her lips. “My first assignment — an exceptional young man, a firefighter and father of two — was cursed with unholy blood, and so I was immediately reassigned. Now, I learn that he might still have been saved —”

“At least for the first year or so,” I put in, oddly reminded of castle politics.

“Yes,
for that long,
I abandoned him to face probable damnation when there was still a chance that he could’ve eventually joined us upstairs.”

A parakeet swoops between us and then angles higher, above the crowd.

“Should we be talking about this?” My minister often said that God was everywhere, but I feel his presence here at the Penultimate in a way I never did before. If he’s listening, the last thing I want — me, of all souls — is to show disrespect.

It’s as if Idelle can read my mind. “Michael is my supervisor, but he’s not the Big Boss. He’s been given a lot of leeway in running the GA operation. That doesn’t mean he’s infallible or omnipresent.”

“You’re certain that Michael can’t hear us?” I’m not eager to antagonize him either.

“Not unless he’s making a special effort, and if he’s going to take anyone to task, it’ll be me, not you.”

Of all the luck! There’s unrest among heaven’s angels, and Zachary and I have become symbolic of their main point of contention. This can’t help his chances of reinstatement, our dream of reuniting someday.

As the lobby lounge comes into view, Idelle changes the subject. “I heard that you were looking for Joshua. He’s working in the stables today, which is strange. He should be watching over Zachary. I suspect Michael ordered him there to think.”

I take an uncertain step forward. “The stables?”

“Straight ahead until you reach the entertainment district, all the way past the clock at the corner of Marshall Field’s, and turn right at the theater in the round.”

“Marshall Field’s?” I echo.

“Great stores go to heaven,” she replies. “Don’t say that I sent you.”

I’ve heard tales of heaven’s chariots, and I know that ascended souls can sign up for group tours of the stables on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. However, this is my first time here. These magnificent black horses are definitely born of heaven, not earth. They snort and whinny and shake their manes, yet project a greater majesty.

Something is missing, though. The smell of hay, sweat, even manure.

While the Penultimate has its blessings, newly ascended souls, unassigned guardians, and the staff who serve them forgo sensory and, for that matter, sensual delights. No food, no drink, no lovemaking. Apparently, celestial horses don’t eat either.

I find Joshua brushing a stallion. Instead of his guardian uniform, he’s sporting a long-sleeved, western-style shirt with black jeans and boots. He’s tied back his dreads with a gold cord, and his belt buckle reads:
HEAVENLY
.

In my undead days, I met Joshua once in passing. He was pretending to be a waiter at an Irish-themed chain restaurant in Chicago. My heart may be spoken for, but he’s not someone I’d ever forget. One of the most popular odes in the Penultimate is a tribute to his lush eyelashes. Another celebrates his toned thighs.

“Miranda!” Joshua exclaims. “Hey, girl, I was going to find you later.”

I seize the opening. “Listen, I need you to tell Zachary —”

“Whoa.” At the stallion’s snort, Joshua says, “Not you, boy.” Returning his attention to me, he explains, “My cranky-face archangel supervisor just totally busted me for playing messenger boy.”

“I’m sorry about that, but —”

“Now, you know that nobody is a bigger Miranda-Zachary ’shipper than me. In his time of need and misdeed, I have been Zachary’s most loyal wingman. But I can’t keep on —”

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” I begin, launching into the story.

When I finish, Joshua says, “Don’t. Panic. Lucy has her own GA.”

“Then can you tell her guardian that —”

“GAs aren’t supposed to compare notes. As Michael says, ‘Collusion could lead to interference’ with our assignments’ free will.”

I cross my arms. “Well, whoever it is obviously isn’t doing a good job of —”

“An angel may encourage,” Joshua recites, patting the horse, “may inspire, may nudge, but each soul ultimately chooses its own fate.”