Читать книгу The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant - Joanna Wiebe - Страница 11

five

THE VIVIFICATION OF DAMON SMITH

I KNOW, WHEN I LOOK AT DR. ZIN, THAT THE DEVASTATING effects of my faulty escape plan were even further reaching than I’d worried. Here stands a man who was once a plastic surgeon to celebrity clients, a man who struck me as dazzling when I first saw him, a man who could have been the poster boy for “the beautiful people”—and you would never know this man is the same man.

Raw redness covers his neck in thick flame-shaped patches. Tender-looking trails of fire disappear under his shirt collar, and the sticky, oozing tips of the flames stretch over his jaw, where they climb like thin claws up the sides of his once-immaculate face. His broad shoulders droop under the weight of a thousand invisible demons. The black bag he carries dangles precariously on his fingertips, which have uncoiled from a fist exhausted by clenching. His feet in their scuffed wing tips are wobbly. A frown is carved into the flesh of his face. And his eyes—they are the most damaged of all. Though not burned like his skin, they are puffy with heartache and black; they are like the half-open flaps of a dingy cellar, revealing a darkness stacked high with shadowy boxes and crates packed to bursting courtesy of fifty years of soul-crushing experiences, not the least of which happened the other night.

As I feel Hiltop’s hungry gaze observing my reaction to this weakened, beat-down, and scarred version of Dr. Zin—a version that is her own making—I look away from it all. My horror will only please Hiltop more, but what she thinks about me right now is the least of my concerns. Because this is my fault. Dr. Zin’s life would be perfectly normal (by Wormwood Island standards), and Ben would be safe in his father’s house, if not for me. I want to tell him how sorry I am for what they’ve done to him, what they did to punish him for his son’s actions. But my lips are sealed. I don’t dare say a word, though I can’t help but think, God, is there anyone on Earth I don’t have to apologize to?

“What’re these kids doing here?” Dr. Zin asks in a slur that can only mean one thing: AA is officially over for him.

Hiltop crosses the room to stand next to me and interlocks our arms like we’re old friends. She explains cheerily to the parents, “We’re writing a piece for the school paper.”

I jerk my arm free.

“What paper?” Dr. Zin asks her. She glares at him. “Oh, sure, um, the paper.”

Under my breath, I hiss at Hiltop, “You burned him? Will your punishments never end?”

“Burned Zin?” she whispers back. “On the contrary. He earned those burns in the car accident he caused years ago. I’ve simply… allowed his true self to shine through again.”

“You’re heartless.”

“Hush. He asked for them as a reminder that he is responsible for Ben’s situation. But never fear, Invidia can return him to his former state of enviable beauty at any moment.”

Dr. Zin speaks directly to Dia Voletto this time. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Robert Smith.” His voice cracks as he offers his black doctor’s bag to Dia. “And the vials, produced in triplicate now,” he glares at me, “of the blood of their son, Damon, the next candidate for vivification at Cania Christy.”

The Smiths stand straighter and try to mask their excitement as the stage is set for this moment they’ve been waiting for—this real-life act of wondrous magic.

As I watch Dr. Zin swing unsteadily back and forth on his heels, only skittishly looking my way, Dia opens the black leather bag, the very one Teddy mentioned yesterday. He reaches into it. The Smiths gasp as he withdraws a long, glistening vial of deep mahogany-colored blood. Damon Smith in a bottle. Dia steps forward and wraps his hands around it.

Almost the moment he touches it, a piercing shrill fills the office, ripping my gaze from Dr. Zin. I clap my hands to my ears—the Smiths do, too—as dense air whooshes over us, seeming to fly in from behind the plaster walls. The chandeliers swing. Paintings rattle. Light-colored fragments appear from nowhere and fly toward Dia, from all directions, and then fuse, with a great sucking force that tugs at my skirt and shakes the books on the shelves, into a glowing, growing sphere in the center of the room. Dia is smiling. Dr. Zin just keeps rocking on his feet; he’s seen this a zillion times.

The Smiths, as thrilled as ever, cling to each other, welcoming this unearthly synthesis. I shield myself from the flying spots of blue and white light. Dia’s grin spreads. Hiltop’s eyes glisten—she almost looks emotional. No one can tear their gaze away as a human is recreated before us, re-created in a spectacle that is like all things on Wormwood Island: terrifying and hypnotizing at once.

And then, in a whirl that leaves me choking on my own breath, it’s done.

Damon Smith stands in the suit they buried him in. His back is to me and Hiltop; he’s next to Dia. His parents reach for him, but Dr. Zin holds them back.

“Not yet.” Dr. Zin clears his throat and, flipping open a small notebook, reads to the boy, “Damon Archibald Smith, welcome to Cania Christy Preparatory Academy. You died of leukemia approximately five days ago in Boston, Massachusetts. You have been granted a second chance at life here on Wormwood Island by the venerable Headmaster Dia Voletto. To give you this chance, your parents have agreed to the following terms of admission: to finance the construction of Cania College on Wormwood Island and to guarantee its completion by the end of this school year.”

For the first time, the mention of Cania College interests me. What if there’s a chance that Ben can go there? If he’s decided not to throw himself on Garnet’s mercy—to date her and leave me—is there any chance he could graduate, move along to the college, and try his hand at winning life there?

But, no, surely that’s not possible.

Dia wouldn’t give us more time on Earth. Why would he? Is he the devil with the heart of gold? He sent Teddy away to look for a new home for Mephisto. Is this all just about broadening their reach? High school students weren’t enough. Next up? College students. And then what? A junior high on whatever island Mephisto takes over? An elementary school? A bank, hotel, grocery store, airport, stock exchange?

As Dr. Zin finishes his robotic speech, Hiltop joins Dia at his side.

“Please take a moment to absorb this information, Damon, following which we will reunite you with your mother and father, answer your questions, and proceed with the rules of the school, the assignment of your Guardian, and the declaration of your prosperitas thema.”

“It’s your turn now,” Hiltop tells Dia with a nudge. “Take control.”

She’s broken her cover, but the Smiths would never know it. Tears stream down their faces and run into their mouths as they look at the boy they surely thought they’d never see alive again, a boy who is free of cancer. You can see them restraining themselves, clenching their fists and gritting their teeth to keep from flinging themselves at him.

“Oh, Damon!” his mother cries.

Damon, I notice, has been rocking on the spot. And now, with the cry of his mother, he pivots toward her in a slow, swaying motion. He faces Dr. Zin and his parents. I can’t help myself: I sigh with joy for the Smith family. I get it. I get why parents give up so much for this opportunity.

But he doesn’t stop. He pivots toward me. Only when he faces me does my stomach turn. Damon looks so frail and lost.

Too frail.

And far too lost.

When I was vivified yesterday, I felt wonky for a while. But not for long. Did I look like Damon looks? His face is ghostly pale. His jaw is slack, his head tipped unnervingly to the side. His irises are thin yellow lines circling his oversized pupils.

Something is very, very wrong.

When the Smiths stop sobbing with joy long enough to realize that there may be little to be joyful for, the only sounds in the room become the low wheeze that leaves Damon’s mouth in choppy spurts and the creaking of the floor as he turns toward new noises.

“What’s going on?” Dia asks Hiltop through a clenched smile. “Why does he look like that?”

Mrs. Smith echoes his concern, but louder. “Damon?”

Damon shifts on instinct toward each new sound he hears, pivoting in the center of the room.

Mrs. Smith stumbles back. Away from her husband. Away from what should be her son but clearly isn’t. The blood has drained from her face just as it’s drained from Damon’s. Mr. Smith is no less horrified by the possibility of what has happened here than his wife; he’s just slower to react, slower to believe it could be so.

“Tell me this sometimes takes a while.” Mr. Smith’s deep voice fights a tremble. “Tell me it’s normal for my boy to seem so…soulless. This will change. He’ll be his old self soon. Tell me, Dr. Zin. It just takes a minute for his soul to meet his body. Isn’t that right?”

“It looks to me like the body of your boy is with us,” Dia says like some sort of rookie policeman poking around the scene of a murder, “but his soul’s long gone. Probably moved on to its next life.”

Dia raises an eyebrow in Hiltop’s direction, and I realize that Hiltop’s walking our new headmaster through the vivification process; this is Dia’s first time. Hiltop steps up swiftly to calm the Smiths, though her message does little to end Mrs. Smith’s whimpers. The child they thought they’d be holding is, once again, being taken from them.

A lump is in my throat. I can’t swallow it down.

“My apologies, but this happens from time to time, as I’m sure Dr. Zin told you,” Hiltop says, flicking a stony glare as she walks by an unfazed Dr. Zin. “Cania Christy cannot guarantee that every child can be vivified. Naturally, understanding that we could not fulfill our end of the exchange, your contract is now null and void.”

“What do you mean this happens? What do you mean no guarantee? Why can’t you do what you said?” Mrs. Smith looks frantically at each of us. She bounces on the spot as if torn between rushing to hold the animated body of her son, a body that appears far healthier than Damon must have been in his last days, and cowering from the dismal monster that teeters in confusion. “Where’s Damon? Where’s my baby boy? What is this atrocity? Zin didn’t tell us anything about—what the hell is this?” She shoots a stinging glare at me and Hiltop. “Did you know this would happen, you little freaks? Is this some sort of edgy story for your stupid paper?”

My tongue knots. Hiltop looks expectantly at Dr. Zin, who, inebriated, shrugs like it’s not his problem.

“Would you like me to walk them out?” Dr. Zin asks Dia.

“No!” Mr. Smith insists. “No. That’s not the answer. There’s no walking us out. No. No, make Damon be here. It doesn’t get simpler than that. You said you would. What more do you need? What more can I give you?”

I drop my eyes the moment Mr. Smith fumbles to remove his watch, as if this is one of those problems you can solve by hocking your Rolex. When I dare to look up again, I find him with his hands fidgeting helplessly at his sides; his fingers are stripped of rings; his jewelry is pooled in Dia’s hands alongside the vial of blood.

His wife bolts from the room. She slams the door and attracts Damon’s vacant stare.

Mr. Smith’s reddened gaze falls on the boy. “Why is he like this?”

Hiltop nudges Dia, who hands the jewelry back to Mr. Smith and says, “Each of our souls is on a continuum. It stops in bodies— in different lives—along the way. Being Damon was just one stop on his journey. Usually we’re able to vivify before the next stop. That wasn’t the case today.”

“Are you talking about reincarnation?”

“Exactly.”

“So, wait,” Mr. Smith sniffles, taking a silk handkerchief from his coat and blowing his nose as his gaze rolls to and from the rocking boy. “Are you saying that Damon—hold on, can you please do something to get rid of this abomination? It breaks my heart to see him like this. Even if it’s just his body.”

Dia holds the vial up and, without a thought, tosses it into the fireplace. In moments, the glass heats enough to shatter, drizzling blood into the flames. Damon Archibald Smith gradually vanishes; Mr. Smith turns his eyes away like he’s been slapped, and I’ve gotta say that, as cool as I think I am with death thanks to growing up in a funeral home, even I have to glance away.

Again, Mr. Smith blows his nose. When he turns back to Hiltop and Dia, he looks more composed.

“I don’t want the contract to be null and void,” Mr. Smith says. “I died the day cancer took Damon, so I’ll be happy for the distraction of building your college.”

“We can’t bring your boy back,” Dia says.

“I will give you what you wanted—that college in the village—if you will tell me this: Who has my son been reincarnated as? When we’re finished building your college, I intend to move to wherever he is and watch him grow.”

Dia begins to protest, but Mr. Smith holds his hand up to silence him and turns instead to Hiltop.

“You,” he says to her. “You’re the one running this, right?”

“Until recently, yes. Now I’m more of an advisor.”

“And you, too?” He looks at me.

I stammer, “No. Not me. Not at all.”

“So you’re just a dead kid this actually worked on?”

Hiltop brings the conversation back on track. “I’m the one you want to talk to.”

“Have you still got what it takes to track a deceased child’s soul? Can you help me?”

I’m stunned at how much Mr. Smith knows. Do all parents know there’s more to Cania Christy than a magic show?

“I am always open to…interesting exchanges.”

“Good,” Mr. Smith says. He glances at Dia, too. “Good. I’m not here to judge. I just want to know what my boy is doing. Where he’s living. Who he was reincarnated as. Tell me that, and you’ll get your college.”

I FOLLOW DR. Zin, Hiltop, and Mr. Smith out of Dia’s office, leaving Dia staring after us with a particularly unsettling glow in his dark eyes. Only the clamor of the hallway filled with Guardians can tear my eyes from his. I snake through them until I spy Pilot.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask him.

“We heard the Moron Parade was about to begin, and—voilà— here you are,” he says. “Why should I tell you?”

Just as he finishes his question, his face crumples. And I turn to see Invidia standing behind me. She flips her thick black-and-green hair and, to my surprise, asks Pilot to answer my question properly. He looks tongue-tied at first, but, with his eyes downcast, he eventually gets it out.

“Dia’s making a change to the Big V competition,” he explains.

“And what do you have to say to Miss Merchant?” she asks him. Before he answers, she turns to me and touches my hair. “You have the loveliest hair.”

“Um, thank you.”

I catch Pilot’s stare out of the corner of my eye. He looks a little less weirded out than I am, but pretty much pushed to the edge. Around us, other faculty members—those who serve Mephisto and those who serve Dia—are turning to watch Invidia twist one of my curls around her slender finger. Standing this close to her, I spy a tattoo under her clavicle; it’s an unbalanced scale, the heavier side stacked with emeralds; the longer I stare at it, the more it seems to gleam. I think my heart skips a beat—just a slight palpitation, but noticeable.

“Pilot,” Invidia keeps her gaze on me, “you were saying?”

“I’m sorry,” he says to me.

“For…?”

“For saying you’re a moron, Anne.”

“Because, in fact, Miss Merchant is…?”

“Very”—he looks like he might choke on this—“smart.”

Invidia smiles, releases my lock of hair, and saunters to the door. Casting one last smile at me, she swings the door in and leads the Guardians into Dia’s office.

Certain everyone here is crazier than a squirrel in a nuthouse, I zip through the atrium and push open the doors of Goethe Hall, stepping into a rare sunlit morning. I catch a short glimpse of someone just on the other side of the gates. A brown-haired girl. She’s not wearing a school uniform. She’s simply standing there, looking in, with sunlight through the trees casting shadows over her face.

“Hello?” I call. “Is someone there?”

The girl steps backward and vanishes into the shadows.

“Miss Merchant!” a woman calls.

I whirl to see Garnet Descarteres stomping my way. I’ve barely had time to gulp when she halts before me, raises her hand, and moves to slap me. I just duck out of the way—to the hoot of that strange, unseen girl outside the gates—but, even still, I feel exactly what Garnet wanted me to: embarrassment, pain, intimidation.

“Take it easy,” I say and dodge around her.

That’s not gonna happen. She tugs my arm until I can’t help but face her again. Anywhere else, a teacher would be fired for touching a student like this; here, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m going to need to bite back to survive.

“What?” I snap at her.

“He’s mine.”

“I’m not going to fight over a guy. Not with anyone, least of all you.”

“What does that mean, least of all me?”

“It doesn’t mean anything! Look, I’m sorry—”

“You’re gonna be sorry.”

“Shouldn’t you be inside with the rest of the Guardians, Garnet?”

“Shouldn’t you be making out with my boyfriend somewhere? He’s not going to fight for the Big V because of you! Do you understand that, you selfish cow?”

She pushes her enviably pretty face toward mine, and waves her fist near my face, so close I see the faintest shadow of a shackle on her wrist. It throws me. I’ve barely had time to process the fact that she surrendered her soul for this time with Ben.

“If you had a heart, you’d force him to be with me, Merchant. Without me, he’s dead. You know that. But you sit quietly while he slowly kills himself.”

“No one’s stopping you from helping him! You could be inside right now getting the scoop on whatever Dia’s telling all the other Guardians.”

She flinches like she hadn’t thought I’d see things so clearly. Rather than arguing the point, she pushes me hard in the chest. She might have kept pushing, and that pushing might have led to an actual fight, if we weren’t interrupted. Behind us, all at once, a stampede of Guardians tramples out the doors and down the steps. Like a herd of wildebeests, they race around us; they envelop me and Garnet. I check to see if they’re being chased and hear my name just as I spot Pilot, who’s calling for me. Sidestepping the throng, Pilot reaches for me, yanks my arm, and drags me away from Garnet and total pandemonium.

“Anne, it’s incredible!” he gasps, his perfectly straight teeth dazzling. Behind me, the last of the Guardians stream out noisily, letting the massive oak doors fall shut behind them. I turn to see them dart onto the path others have stomped into the grass and whiz away— until Pilot tugs me back to him. Garnet has fled with the crowd. “You and me, we’re gonna get serious about the Big V now, Annie.”

“Don’t call me Annie. That nickname died when you did.”

He tries to catch his breath. “K. Fine. Walk and talk?”

Reluctantly, I turn toward the quad with him. The pack of Guardians has dispersed; a few that have found their students are whispering with them in little pairs next to Valedictorian Hall, in the middle of the quad, near the dorms, by the cafeteria, outside of the Rex Paimonde building and Heorot Hall—everywhere. A conversation finishes and a duo high-fives; another finishes and a Guardian and student actually hug.

“Anne, listen, I know we’ve had our differences.”

I laugh.

“But I want you to know that I’ve always, deep down inside, been fully committed to seeing you win the Big V. I was just doing what Mephisto told me to.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, you weren’t exactly a good friend to me, either.”

“This world is doomed if you’re giving lessons on how to treat people.”

“I faked a friendship with you—and I was only partly faking, Annie. But I didn’t kill you.”

“You faked a friendship with me so you could live while I died. You would have killed me. I just killed you faster.”

“You’re in a coma! You wouldn’t have died.” He can see I’m not buying it. “Look, I’m ready to help you win the Big V now. We can do this. Together.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“‘In it for’—Anne, whatever could you mean?”

Guessing it’s something big, I pull back. “Forget it. If you’re gonna lie to me—”

“Fine!” He stops me from leaving. And sighs. “I get something, too, if you win.”

The only reward that could possibly inspire Pilot hits me. “It’s life, isn’t it?”

“See? This is why you’re going to win! You’re razor sharp.” He smiles awkwardly as I roll my eyes. “Dia wanted to up the ante for us. The winning Guardian gets one wish granted, and, yes, that could include a new life.”

“As long as there’s something in it for you, you’ll help me.”

“Totally!”

“That’s not something to be proud of, Pilot.”

“I’m helping you!” he defends, throwing his hands out and tracking me as I veer away. “How can you find fault in my motivations? So what if I get something? You’ll get something, too. And, Anne, you can win this. I happen to know you’ve got excellent untapped skills. We just have to change your PT, and you’re good to go.”

“We don’t just have to do anything. I’m alive, remember? I don’t need the Big V.”

“But we could win. Easily. Cakewalk.”

“I’m done with you, Stone! I wish I had Teddy as my Guardian again.”

He stops cold as I march on. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Go to Hell. Again.”

“Anne, there’s more to winning the Big V than a second life!”

Now I stop cold.

“It’s trivial stuff for most of us,” he continues. “But it could be big for you.”

I turn to him. “Spill it.”

“Riches.” He drags the word out. “Everything you’d need for a great new life. Valedictorians have gotta set up a new identity, move somewhere no one will recognize them, buy a house, go to school, get a car, all that stuff. Money was nothing for Mephisto, and it’s nothing for Dia. These rewards are a little extra perk for the person destined to be a great success in this world. You’d get…a lot. As in never-worry-about-money-again a lot.”

I could go to Brown.

Buy a New York brownstone.

Open an art gallery.

My dad could start new, too.

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of these ‘riches’?”

“Like I said, it’s small potatoes to most of us. Life is our big prize.” He can see me considering it, and I wish I could pretend I’m not intrigued. “We’d need to change your PT, though, to guarantee your victory. See, I work with Lou Knows—the janitor—and he told me something about you. About your soul. Something I don’t think you know, but you really, really should.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you. Just lemme find out—I don’t wanna piss anyone off. But, Annie, truly, if we change your PT to one that’s more like Harper’s—”

I should’ve seen that coming! Harper’s PT is to succeed by using her sexual desirability, which is possibly the most offensive PT ever committed in blood. Teddy spent his time as my Guardian trying to convince me that I was predisposed to such a PT, and now Pilot’s trying to do the same thing.

“Do you find it hard to look in the mirror?” I snarl.

His smile vanishes, and he grabs me by the arm. “Don’t make this worse than it has to be. It’s a simple win-win arrangement. You scratch my back—”

“And you’ll stab mine?” I free my arm. “Pilot, be real. This ‘magical reward’ Dia’s promised you? It’s impossible. You don’t have any blood or sources of Pilot Stone’s DNA. You’ve only got your soul, which was barely enough to qualify you as a human before.”

“He can make me human again.”

“Even powerful demons—even devils—even Lucifer—can’t make a human.”

The sunlight slips behind a cloud, and Pilot becomes a still, silent silhouette.

“Look, I’m sorry to rain on your parade.” I shove my fists into my cardigan pockets.

“You’re missing the obvious.” His voice is as cold as the wind blowing down from Canada. “Think of all the long-dead people who’ve left pieces of themselves behind. Frozen blood. Locks of hair. All perfectly usable DNA samples.”

“So you’re going to find Einstein’s hair and, like, be reborn as Einstein? Good plan.”

“I’m talking about sure things, Anne, not fantasy.”

“Right. Because you’re firmly planted in the real world.”

“Actual DNA,” he continues to explain. “The stuff you find in mummies. I’m talking about reincarnating as one of the kings who ruled thousands of years ago. Their souls have moved on, so there’s plenty of room for me under their skin. Museums are filled with the DNA of ancient royals, and when my dad gets his hands on some”—he steps into the sunlight—“I can and will be born again. My soul. In the body of King Tutankhamen.”

“You realize Tut had a super-long head and a cleft palate, right?”

“Don’t mock me.”

“To mock you, I’d have to entertain the possibility of this actually happening for you, or of me helping you. Let me clear this up for you right now: it’ll be a cold day in your neck of the woods before I fight for the Big V.” His frustrated glare follows me as I spot Ben and start away. “I don’t want your prize, Pilot. I wasn’t kidding when I threw your vial over the cliff. You deserve to be exactly where you are.”

BEN AND I are on the fourth floor of the library. He is flipping through a massive Latin dictionary, and I’m reading about the celestial rules believed to dictate the creation of human beings.

“See!” I say, smacking the page every time some ancient religious scholar proves me right. “Dia would need a physical human body to put Pilot’s dark, ugly little soul in. And to create that body, he’d need the combined DNA, masterfully united, of two humans. He ain’t got that. Those are the rules. Boom.”

“‘Invidia’ means envy,” Ben tells me.

“And,” I continue uninterrupted, “although these books are a tad outdated, it seems like every time the underworld has tried to make a human, it’s been a disaster. The closest was Jack the Ripper, so”—I meet eyes with Ben—“clearly the recipe is still in the test-kitchen phase.”

The lights and the heat on this little-visited floor of the library have been off, broken, or flaky for as long as Ben can remember, which is why we’re sitting in a circle of candles of all shapes and sizes, some of them scented. We’re reading over their dim glow, rubbing our hands every so often over their flickering flames, and starting to get a little hungry from the aroma of melting vanilla and brown sugar. Outside, it’s dark already, and sleet hits the windows with flat thuds. If Ben hadn’t spazzed about our uberbrief kissing session the other night, I might think something would happen here, in this perfectly romantic setting. But there’s room for a whole extra person to sit between us.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Something about wanting a fresh-baked cookie?” I guess and blow out the vanilla candle. “You actually said”—I put my book down—“that invidia means envy. In Latin.”

“And superbia means pride. And avaritia means greed. And…”

“And? Am I supposed to be following your train of thought?”

“The seven deadly sins. Pride, greed, envy, and so on. Invidia is one of them.”

“Maybe that’s, like, her special demon power or something: to inspire envy.”

“Or,” Ben positions a candle under his chin to cast dramatically eerie shadows over his face, “she is envy.”

I nod and whisper, “She’s totally envy. I guessed that she was one of the Seven Sinning Sisters—she left Mephisto for Dia—but I hadn’t realized they are the seven deadly sins…personified.”

“Where’d you hear all that?”

“Teddy told me.”

Oops. I’m supposed to hate Teddy, not reveal our private convos. My easy tone hasn’t escaped Ben’s attention. Leaning back on his hands, he chews his lip as he observes me.

“Why was Teddy telling you all this?”

Keeping Teddy’s secret mission for me from Ben will be about as hard as keeping your heart from knowing what your brain is doing. I don’t want to keep secrets. But until I talk to Teddy more, I’m not going to risk anything.

“You know me,” I say. “People just love spilling their souls to me.”

“I actually haven’t noticed that.”

“Maybe it’s just demons then.” Time to maneuver back to safer territory. “Mr. Zin, you are a smart dude, figuring out who Invidia is. I guess I know why my ego takes a beating every time I see her. She makes me envy her.”

After a beat, he confesses, “She makes me feel inferior.”

“Envy.”

I scoot next to him and, careful not to knock a big pillar candle over, tug his book until it’s half on his lap, half on mine. We read everything we can about the Seven Sinning Sisters.

“Pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth,” Ben reads. “Those would be some powerful demons to have on your side. They were all Mephisto’s?”

“That’s what Teddy said. But, you know. Who would trust him?” I choke.

He continues reading aloud, but, word by word and line by line, I find myself thinking more about the fact that my left knee is pressed against his right knee, part of his thigh is against mine, and our shoulders brush every time his chest rises with a deep breath. He smells delicious. His hands are very strong looking. And there’s no denying that he’s most irresistible when he’s either reading or talking about books. But he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to move too fast, not that I do, either—but I think he may have more self-control than I do. So, to keep from throwing myself at him, I slam his book closed.

“What just happened?” he asks with a smile.

I grab his hand and jump to my feet, tugging him up. “Let’s look up Dia Voletto next.”

Ben and I dart down to the first floor, where a few Guardians and their students angrily hush our excited whispers, and dash to the card catalog. In our previous lives, we both lived in the library, so we’re fine with the Dewey decimal system, which Harper’s peon Plum is groaning about near the periodical section. Hurriedly, we find four cards for books that mention or are about Dia Voletto.

“He’s the demon of ego,” Ben reads on a card as we take the stairs two at a time back to the fourth floor. Only to find the books on Dia Voletto are all gone.

“He took them,” I say.

“What more could we expect from the demon of ego?”

“Major faux pas.” We settle back to the middle of the ring of candles, which thankfully haven’t burned the place down in our absence. “Stealing books from the library.”

“Yeah. If he wasn’t already condemned to Hell.”

I begin closing the books. And Ben stacks them. But we’re moving at about half speed. I pray he’s killing time for the same reason I am: I don’t want a reason to leave. I’ll gladly pretend we need to be here as long as possible. I don’t want to go yet. I can’t imagine ever wanting to go.

When we’ve made towers of the books we read, books Ben has been reading for years, he starts unfolding dog-ears, and I pull my knees into my chest as I watch him. He’s talking absently about the world of demonology, and it’s not until he sighs and sits back that I realize I haven’t told him about his dad. He notices my face drop, and he comes to my side, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

“What is it?”

“I saw your dad today.”

“Was he sober, by chance?”

I turn to look him in the eyes. “He was burned. On his neck. And he looked…dejected. Like he’d lost all hope.”

“He probably has.”

“Ben.”

He shrugs. “‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ My dad held out longer than the average man would.”

“Hiltop said your dad wanted the burns. As a reminder of your car accident.”

“He’s doing what he has to do to cope. Y’know, with my decision to die.”

“But if you were to fight for the Big V…”

“I’m not going to fake I’m into Garnet. Please, Anne. Drop it.”

He lifts my hand and holds it up flat, and we watch as he folds his fingers between mine. The lines distinguishing my skin from his blur, like they’re glowing at the edges, like we’re melting into one person.

“More spirit than flesh,” I whisper.

He brings our hands to his lips. And, when he doesn’t let up, I shift until my lips are pressed against the other side of the fist we’ve made. Our eyes meet. We lower our hands.

“Ben, you’re going to have to choose Garnet.”

“I hope you mean garnet the gemstone.”

“You need to win the Big V.”

“Shh.” He puts his finger to my lips, and I pretend to bite at it. “I’m with you. Not her. Any plan that keeps me from you is no plan for me.”

“But Ben—”

“If I have to choose between death and life without you, I choose death.”

“That’s very”—I pause—“cheesy.”

Because we can’t actually stay in the library forever, we make our way outside and, holding hands, meander down the dark island, past the red line that used to mean so much, past the old Zin mansion in which Dia and Invidia now live, past Gigi’s old cottage, toward the village. Most of the villagers’ homes, which were enormous, are being demoed to make way for the college.

“Why do you think Mr. Watso’s here?” I ask Ben. “Everyone else is gone.”

“He made a deal with the devil. I assume he’s here because he has to be. Maybe if he signs the island over to them, they’ll let him go.”

“Sign it over?”

“My dad has this idea that Villicus wanted you and Molly to break the rules and be friends. He put you at Gigi’s so you’d be more likely to run across the only village girl. That way, he’d have some leverage—he could dangle Molly’s life in front of Mr. Watso in exchange for the island.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Mr. Watso is a shaman. He’s the spiritual owner of this island. Or so the story goes.”

“So he can just give the island to the devil if he wants to?”

“If he had to. It’d be a clear gateway in for the underworld. But I doubt he’d do that.”

“He’s got no reason to now that she’s gone.” I meet Ben’s gaze. “Do you think Mr. Watso will hate me forever because of what happened to Molly?”

“Molly’s gone because you guys were friends. She was a part of that friendship.”

“She’s dead because of that friendship.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says.

“I just can’t believe how dumb I was.”

“Hold on there.” We stop walking and he turns me to face him. His hands are on my shoulders, and he’s looking quite serious when he says, “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking smack about.”

With that word—girlfriend—running through my head and the warmth of his hand on mine, we return to campus and cross the quad. I watch Ben walk to the boys’ dorm. He smiles back at me when he opens the door, and we wave again, smile again, say good night, and eventually, with me suppressing dumb giggles that I sort of love, retire indoors.

Harper isn’t in my room when I curl up with thoughts of the beautiful Ben Zin, the boy who is, at last, mine. I see bright lights like fireworks behind my eyes. Ben’s my boyfriend. We’ll figure the Big V stuff out. He’ll find a way to win. I’ll help Teddy—maybe I can find a way to wrestle the Seven Sinning Sisters away from Mephisto and Dia—and then get Teddy to wake me up. And, after that, Ben and I will be together in California. It won’t be easy, but we can do it.

It is that gloriously satisfying thought that sends me swiftly into dreams, dreams I’m quite certain will feature a tall, lovely, mint-eyed sculptor.

Except it’s not Ben in my dreams.

It’s Dia.

At first he and I are arguing, but we swiftly find ourselves in a far more compromising position than I’ve ever been in. I feel the soft ring of his open mouth moving down my neck to my shoulder, leaving a glowing tattoo that looks just like Invidia’s. When he leans away from me, his mouth is open—and he’s screaming.

My eyelids burst wide to find Harper standing over my bed in the glow of a lamp. She’s screaming at me. She reels back as I stagger out of bed, holding my arms out defensively.

“What is it?” I cry, looking for an intruder. “Where? Who?”

“Y-y-you!”

I catch a glimpse of myself in Harper’s full-length mirror as she staggers backward.

And I do a double take.

Everything about my reflection is exaggerated: my lips and cheekbones are fuller; my eyes are huge and a strange violet color; my curves are inflated like helium balloons; my legs are sinfully long. It’s only my big, everywhere hair that looks like me.

“I’m dreaming,” I utter. “This must be a dream.”

I shift, watching the movement in the mirror to be sure I’m looking at my own reflection. As I do, I see what Harper was screaming about and what she is now, from the furthest corner of her bed, pointing at in dumbfounded silence.

“What on Earth?” I breathe as a shimmering silver tail wraps over my shoulder.

I look at it, and it wags once. Then it disintegrates into a million sparkling fragments that glow, dance, and vanish, taking my larger-than-life exterior with them.