Diabolical (8 page)

“The devil,” he replies, “has quite a reputation. What does he bring to a fight?”

“Lucifer is battle trained. He taught Drac his tricks. He can change shape, mess with your mind, vanish at will. Or seem to. He can cater and reframe the experience of hell itself. Beyond that, who knows? He’s had a lot of time to gather strength and forces.”

The Wolf’s scowl is formidable. “Would you recognize Lucifer if you saw him?”

It’s a good question. “I’m a new angel. He fell long, long before my time.”

“So that would be a no?”

Wolfish posturing aside, Kieren is nervous. I answer, “The fact that Scholomance Prep is supposedly Lucifer’s school doesn’t mean that we’ll find him there personally. Where the Big Boss sends down GAs, Lucifer sends up demons. The devil himself has been banished from earth. He has minions but no power except what we give him. That’s why he’s big on temptation. Bargains.”

The blizzard intensifies and we briefly lose all visibility.

Kieren is silent for a long moment. Then he says, “His minions have earthly power, though? They can hurt us?”

I turn down the heater. “There is that.”

The Wolf chuckles. “Your pregame pep talk needs work.”

Minutes later, we come upon a black hearse stuck in a ditch. It has New York plates. We can’t see through the tinted windows, but the taillights are on.

I pull over the Impaler, and Kieren and I go investigate.

“Can we give you a hand?” the Wolf calls, turning on a flashlight.

The driver lowers his front window. He stares blankly at us through long, unnaturally black, uneven bangs. “Do what you want.”

The girl sitting beside him leans forward into our field of vision. “Excuse me, who are you? I have my phone right here, and 911 is programmed into my speed dial.”

When my first assignment, Danny Bianchi, was a boy, nobody would’ve questioned someone stopping to help a motorist in distress. It sucks that people these days often doubt each other’s motives. It sucks more that they’re often smart to do so.

“We’re students,” I reply, “on our way to a school called Scholomance Preparatory Academy. It’s up the road another five minutes or so.”

“Us, too!” the girl exclaims. “Hang on. Can you prove that’s where you’re going? Do you have your admission letters with you?”

There’s cautious, and there’s paranoid. Why is she so high-strung?

Freddy received a curt, officious e-mail confirming our acceptance only moments before we left. Not that I was expecting, say, a formal, embossed parchment on such short notice. But I had no intention of letting my guard down either.

Kieren glances back at the SUV. “We’ve got a printout of the directions from Yahoo! Maps. If you want to stay in the car, though, we can push you out.”

The ditch isn’t deep. Even if it were, the Wolf could handle the job solo, but like most shifters, he’s careful about showing off his strength.

I mean, like most werepeople. That’s what they prefer to be called, even though the term doesn’t make literal sense.
Were-
means “man,” so the translation is “man-people.” No animal-form reference. From what I understand, it’s designed to emphasize that they’re people first.

The driver is ignoring us. The girl hops out of the front and, from the other side of the hood, calls, “Show me your map.”

I jog to my SUV, parked ahead of them on the side of the rural road, and fetch it for her. I’m not surprised to have run into other students along the way.

Meanwhile, Kieren goes around to the back of the hearse. He waits until I wade into the ditch with him before single-handedly half-pushing, half-lifting the car up and out.

“I could’ve actually helped,” I say.

“I know. But if you injured your back or shoulders, could you still fly?”

Valid point, though I’m hoping to get through this without doing anything as showy as flying.

As we return to the roadside, the girl has already climbed into my idling SUV. The guy in the hearse peels out, swerving on the ice.

Our new passenger introduces herself as Bridget Gregory from San Jose. She had a rough flight to JFK and decided to take the train to Burlington. She called the school to explain she was getting in late. Someone named Seth suggested that Bridget carpool with another student, Andrew, the hearse driver.

“Andrew told me he got a recommendation letter from the mayor of New York City. New York City! Can you believe that?”

“We’re glad to have you along,” Kieren says — his way of wondering out loud why she switched cars —“but the school is only a few minutes away.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking when we went into that ditch,” Bridget replies from the bench behind us. “If you two hadn’t shown up, who knows? I might’ve frozen to death. I’ve wasted the last eight hours of my life in that death trap on wheels with Mr. Morose, listening to something called ethereal wave music. It’s a relief to finally talk to some normal people.”

It occurs to me that Bridget is chatting with an earthbound GA and a human-Wolf hybrid. Then I realize that, unlike Andrew, she doesn’t seem the least enamored of the eerie. “What about Scholomance Prep appealed to you?” I ask.

“When the judge interviewed me for the admissions committee —”

“Judge?” Kieren asks.

“A ninth-circuit federal appellate judge,” Bridget replies. “Some say he’ll be the next tapped for a U.S. Supreme Court nomination.”

“Let me guess,” the Wolf says. “When you grow up, you want to be a lawyer.”

“I will be a lawyer,” she agrees. “Like my father.”

“About the judge . . . ?” I nudge.

“He’s an alumnus of the flagship school in Eastern Europe.”

Of course he is. The Scholomance in Romania has a worldwide network of successful graduates.

“He promised to write me a recommendation letter to law school if I graduate, and if I want to get in to Stanford or Yale, I’ll need every advantage.”

“What grade are you in?” Kieren asks.

“I graduated from high school last spring on my sixteenth birthday, but you know what happens to smart kids? We get older, and nobody thinks we’re that remarkable anymore. Then we’re smart grown-ups, and there’re plenty of those in the world. Now is the time to capitalize on my intelligence and set myself up for the future.”

Bridget is either highly verbal by nature, uneasy about our destination, or trying hard to impress us. The beige sweater peeking out of her unzipped ski jacket appears new. Her diamond-stud earrings look real, not that I’m an expert. Her hair is gathered at the back in a bun and accented with a satin bow that matches her sweater. This is one preppy, well-to-do kid.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” The Wolf clears his throat. “Me and Zach are late admits, so we didn’t get to interview. What else did the judge say?”

Kieren is a brainiac. Growing up, he split his time between his public school and Wolf studies. Otherwise, he could’ve graduated years early, too.

“I went to my interview armed with questions,” Bridget replies. “We’re in the first class. The school admits only ten students at a time. It’s very exclusive, with an amazingly low faculty-student ratio. The majority of admits have a personal referral from someone connected to the Scholomance family. Most of us graduated from high school early.” She finally takes a breath. “Maybe not you, Zachary.”

Kieren replies, “Zach’s education has been unconventional. Go on.”

“My parents liked all that. Given my age, they weren’t keen on the idea of my going off by myself and meeting college boys. A small, elite boarding school sounded ideal. When I asked the judge about course work, he said the final curriculum was still in development, but I’d be sure to leave with a solid foundation for legal study.”

She reminds me of Quincie, so driven and focused from such a young age.

Is that the idea behind Scholomance Prep, to turn unwitting prodigies to evil? Is Lucifer becoming more strategic? Trying to build a brain trust?

It’s a puzzle. Bridget and Kieren fit the student profile — underage, brilliant, motivated teens. I don’t, but that could be explained away by my recommendation from Sabine. Connections. What about Lucy, though? She’s a smart enough kid. Above average, but no Baby Einstein. What would the devil want with her?

“You don’t suppose Andrew took my bags in,” Bridget says, getting out of my SUV to check. “Or at least left the hearse hatch unlocked?”

I turn off the engine. It’s about 6
P.M.
Orientation is tomorrow. I hope to convince Lucy to leave tonight, well before Sabine calls our bluff.

“Looks like an office building,” Kieren says, exiting the car.

He’s right. Scholomance exudes none of the playful Goth posturing of Sanguini’s. None of the old-world elegance of Sabine’s castle. It looks modern, fungible, and utilitarian, which does nothing to reassure me.

Outside in the moonlight, I realize we’re at the bottom of a valley, surrounded by snow-blanketed hills.

Kieren is muttering something about hell freezing over and a volcano in Iceland. He wanders over to the man-made lake. He sniffs the air and bends to touch the water.

“What is it?” I call.

The Wolf shrugs. “Something I’ve never smelled before.”

It’s not the kind of thing that full human beings say. The slip tells me he’s more unnerved by our mission than he’s been letting on.

Bridget doesn’t seem to catch it. She loops a garment-bag strap over her shoulder. “It’s probably a moose.”

Kieren turns to look at me. “The water is tepid.” He doesn’t have to point out how strange that is for Vermont in January. The temperature right now is about twenty degrees and falling fast.

Hopefully, the Wolf and I overpacked. We each brought a duffle bag, a backpack, and a garment bag. They’re not just for show. We have a change of clothes and toiletries. But we’ve also got my sword, Kieren’s battle-axe, holy water and wafers, and an interfaith collection of religious symbols from Alpha and Omega to Zen Circles.

Plus, the Wolf has his teeth and claws.

San Diego Sun-News,
April 19

HIT-AND-RUN DRIVER IDENTIFIED AS HIGH-SCHOOL DEBATE STAR

By Farid Karam

San Diego — The hit-and-run driver who struck a 2002 gray Subaru Legacy has been identified as a San Jose teenager on her way to a high-school debate competition, according to San Diego police spokesperson Jill Lowell.

Although damage to the vehicle was minor, Agnes Blistford, 82, the driver of the struck car, died of a heart attack within an hour of the accident.

Lowell said prosecutors elected not to press charges. She added, “Given Mrs. Blistford’s small stature and the fact that her car was parked, we believe that the young, inexperienced driver in question did not realize that it was occupied.”

It is the policy of this newspaper not to publish the names of underage persons potentially involved in criminal cases.

“WHAT IN BLAZES IS THAT?”
Bridget exclaims, pointing toward the building.

“Porcupine,” I reply. “It’s probably after the salt on the drive.”

The animal — it’s too small to be a shifter — is backing away from us. I’m about to warn Bridget to keep her distance. Then its hind end hits the base of the first step leading to the Scholomance front door. A light flashes. The porcupine flies, spinning off the walk.

“What happened?” Bridget wants to know next.

I recall Zach’s telling me what Freddy said about the Scholomance defense system. The angel strides ahead with his bags. He sets a firm foot on the same step. Nothing.

It might be Zach’s angelic-ness or immortality protecting him from the spell. Just in case, I hurry to his side. I put my foot down on the same step.

I’m fine. Bridget will be, too. I double back to grab her heaviest bag.

I’m usually charmed by snow. In Texas, it’s so rare. Not so here. The blizzard is oppressive. Or maybe that’s just my growing sense of dread.

Moments later, I press the doorbell and a chime sounds.

A silver-haired man with a hooked nose greets us. He’s dressed in flannel, denim, and a hunting cap. “Welcome to SP! Come in out of the cold.”

I pause, midstride. I study the door. It’s made of metal — steel?

“I’m Mr. Bilovski, the handyman. My wife, Mrs. Bilovski, she’s the cook. I’ll show you to your rooms on the second floor. Then you can come down for dinner with the rest. Or, if you’re starving, leave your luggage here. I’ll run it upstairs for you.”

“That’s okay,” Zach replies. His sword is wrapped in a sheet in the unfolded garment bag. “We’ve got it, but, Bridget, if you —”