The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant (34 page)

She crosses her arms. “I don’t want to serve a chick who can’t even get creative when the time comes.”

“Well, what would you do if you were me?”

“I’d use detangler, for starters.”

Pilot chuckles. Some servant.

“Do you want a life or don’t you, Otto?”

“Try—try drawing someone,” Pilot suggests. “That’s your thing, right? Drawing?”

“Well, she
thinks
that’s her thing,” Harper says.

“This is exactly the sort of BS talk you’ll have to give up.”

“Only if you summon someone. Now.”

“Draw someone,” Pilot says. “Try it. And say your incantation.”

If I screw this up, Harper’s gone and my hope for an instant human fanbase is gone with her. But if I get it right, she’ll buy into the plan
and
I’ll have a new uber-useful skill under my belt.

So I unscrew the lid from the salt shaker and empty it onto the table. I push the salt around until I can see an outline of the face of my soft-hearted follower Star Wetpier. When Harper and Pilot both guess who it is, I decide it’s time to try. I mutter my incantation under my breath. Harper clears her throat, and even Pilot can’t sit quite still.

A wisp of white smoke snakes between the tables. We notice it just as it nears ours.

“Either the deep-fryer’s overheated,” Harper says.

“Or this is working,” Pilot finishes.

The smoke weaves our way and stops in front of me. It slowly takes the form of a human. In moments Star is kneeling before me, her head bowed. She asks how she may serve me.

Harper’s mouth drops open.

“I’m in,” Harper says. She pushes the barrette under her hair and arranges it so you can’t see any of my blonde under her ginger. “Let’s begin,
Master
.”

twenty-one

‘T AIN’T NO SIN

IN THE WEEKS AFTER HARPER AGREES TO HELP ME, I FEEL
stronger and more like Gia, like the opposite of the timid girl raised in a funeral home. My heart is racing almost constantly now, my mind is more focused, and I feel like I could run thirty-minute marathons from dawn to dusk.

When I’m in Dia’s office for our Saturday session, I feel more in control of our interactions than I ever have.

Last night, I just lay in bed the whole night, plotting what I’d do today, watching Molly snooze across the room, and feeling like I might never need to sleep again. I’m getting my energy from all the students who’ve committed themselves to Harper and all the underworlders that Pilot, who’s remotivated by each new addition to our team, has brought on board. Still no Seven Sinning Sisters, but that’s for the best anyway. At lease I’ve got a solid collection of the more common demon-types around here.

The only thing is that I haven’t actually done what I know I need to do.

I’ve been putting off the acts that I don’t think I’ve got the stomach to do. The cruel stuff. Like walking into a room and torturing a demon. Star Wetpier was easy—no cruelty required. I’ve got a sinking feeling the others won’t go quite so smoothly. I’m actually going to have to hurt some people to get them to use their powers for me.

The torture starts now.

Like, right now.

I can’t put it off another day.

It’s April already—Ben’s only got so much time before he’s on the chopping block. Time for me to twist a few arms, and then some. To work up the courage, I down a half-dozen espressos. Pilot pats my back like he’s the coach to my boxer. We’re sitting in the cafeteria, with sunlight flooding the room through the enormous windows overlooking the shoreline, where the seniors are enduring the first of Dia’s feats of strength: very simply, balancing on one foot on a pole in the water. Last man standing gets the gold star.

“Think of it as a feat of strength,” Pilot says. “You need to win more followers. Bend them to your will.”

Pilot doesn’t know that I’m currently stalking Miss Vale Tuefurre—a Dia follower—because I need her to help me with Ben. He can’t know that. I sit next to him. Watch Vale chop vegetables in the cafeteria. Chew my nails. Shake away my nerves. Glance out at the water, at Ben balancing uncertainly on a post. And stand.

Pilot locks the door to the cafeteria.

I march toward her.

There’s no turning back now.

I’m here to torture her to get her to do what I need her to.
Vale Tuefurre: reveal future
.

Vale doesn’t even see us coming. One second, she’s chopping carrots into coins; the next, Pilot is muzzling her, and I’m on her back, wrestling her. I do it all without apology. The Scrutiny challenge taught me not to apologize.

Vale is no small lady, so the struggle is ugly and anything but dignified. She’s slippery. She almost darts away, but Pilot catches her arm and tugs her back. She reminds him that he’s crossing a line because he’s lower-ranking than she is. But I’m not. So I take her from Pilot. I scramble to tug her arms behind her and shove her against the counter, and I command Pilot to help me lift her onto it. He pins her long enough to let me crawl up and over her.

“Commit to it, Anne,” he demands when he sees me blanch.

“I am.”

But I’m not. It’s just so twisted. I can feel all her bones shifting under me as she writhes around. And she keeps snapping her sharp little teeth at me. It hits me that I might not be built to pin demons and force them to work for me.

“This is how things get done in the underworld,” Pilot reminds me. “She
likes
pain.”

Windows wrap the kitchen and sit flush with the countertop. The window behind Vale’s head is open. So I tell Pilot to help me shift her, and soon she’s crying out with her head dangling out the window. Her neck sits on the windowsill.

She stops cursing me and instead stares in terror as I grasp the window sash high above her throat. I don’t apologize, but I do close my eyes when I bring the window down on her throat. Her cries garble. Oh, God, I can’t bear the sound. I have to force myself to stay on her, to keep the window down, and not run off freaking out. I dare to open my eyes again.

Her eyes are bulging.

I can’t look.

“Yes, Anne, exactly,” Pilot encourages. “But really put some muscle into it next time.”

“I don’t think I can, Pi.”

“You can. Even if you have to think about something else the whole time. Even if you have to think about, like, art or something.”

Vale’s fleshy throat is constricting beneath the window sash. I lift it just enough that she can scream, but that draws the eyes of a dozen Cania seniors, including Ben, balancing on ever-shrinking perches in the ocean not far from us. They see me straddle the screeching chef, and they watch me tug down the sash until it pushes divots into her neck. Her scream is cut short. Her throat can’t move. Everyone who was watching looks away one by one. Even Ben, out on the water, looks away. Because looking closer is a fool’s errand.

I remind myself that this is all for Ben. And, suddenly, I can manage the task. Putting a demon through hell is practically easy when I think of it that way.

“Pilot,” I say, “go watch the front door.”

“It’s locked. Don’t worry about it.”

I swivel to glare at him. Saligia must be starting to come through because I don’t even need to say another word. He leaves us to do as I commanded. And I turn back to Vale, who’s shaking like the bacon she fries every morning.

Think about art, Pilot said. So I do. But I think aloud.

“
The Scream
is so overrated, isn’t it?” I’m not even sure Vale can hear me from that side of the window. “It’s too literal.
The man is screaming
.”

She sputters. I shove a tad harder on the window. Her body jerks under my thighs. A boy walking by claps his hands to his mouth. I drag my annoyed gaze to him and the new crop of gape-faced onlookers. They do what everyone here has been so beautifully trained to do: pretend it’s not happening.

Vale punches and flails her arms. I tuck each one under my knees, rendering her all but motionless. Her head wiggles as much as it can, which is not much, and her feet kick.

I lift the window.

She gasps for air and shoots a fiery glare at me.

“I prefer something more like
The Fountain
, by Mark Ryden,” I say. “Do you know it? No? It’s this picture of a doll-like child holding her own head as blood spurts from her neck.” I begin lowering the window again. “How do you think she lost her head?”

“No, please.” Her eyes are wide as she watches the window frame lower.

“
Va-a-ale
,” I half sing. “Tell me, which seniors are going to be at the top of Dia’s short list for the Big V this year?”

I ease the sash up just enough for her to gasp, “How could I know?”

I inch the window down again. Her eyes bulge.

“Don’t play dumb. You think I stumbled in here and did this on a whim? I’ve been planning this for weeks.” When she shakes her head in confusion, I bring the sash down again, cutting off her air. I hear her windpipe crunch. “Your power is to reveal the future. So reveal it.”

She curses me voicelessly.

“Do it. Or things are going to get much worse incredibly fast.” When I dig my knees into her arms, she gasps her concession. I lift the window.

She sputters, “Jack Wesson. Joie Wannabe. Ebenezer Zin.”

“Perfect.” Effortlessly, I hop down and give her leg a slap for good measure. “I invite you to follow me.”

She frees herself and, to my surprise, tearfully accepts my invitation. As I leave the cafeteria, I instruct Pilot to get her a locket. He bows.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. The art thing helped.

Now that I know who Ben’s primary competition is, I can move easily along to destroying their chances of beating Ben. I figure that if I can get the other top students out of the running, Ben will be the absolute best of the remaining students. To destroy Jack and Joie’s chances of taking the Big V from Ben, I need to know what their PTs are. It’s only by proving they’re not living and breathing their PTs that I can remove them both from the top spots.

A crowd has gathered around the seniors, balancing on their poles in the water. I slip behind them and see that those still standing are none other than Jack, Joie, and Ben. If only I knew of a demon whose power was to shove people from posts, I’d take Jack and Joie out now. Instead, I head to the gymnasium, where Stealth Vergner, whose power is to
reveal strength
, seems to be expecting me. That’s not good. If he knows about me, it won’t be long before Dia or Mephisto calls me on what I’m up to.

Stealth lets me shove him down and pin him under a stack of dumbbells. He lets me stomp my foot into his throat. He winces in pain, but I think I catch him looking up my skirt as he does. I drop a stinky gym towel over his face.

“Their PTs,” I demand. “Tell me. Jack Wesson and Joie Wannabe.”

“Jack’s PT,” he coughs behind the towel, “is to be dependably levelheaded.”

“And Joie’s?” I ask Stealth.

“It’s a shitty one.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” I grind my foot in deeper, then release it so he can speak.

“She’s supposed to…it’s like…it goes,
love thy neighbor
. That’s hers.”

This is the part where I know I ought to have a crisis of conscience. Jack’s been nothing but kind to me from the first day I met him. And Joie—how am I supposed to take out someone with such a positive PT?

I should have a crisis of conscience.

But I don’t.

Jack’s gotta go, and so does Joie. Because Ben needs to win. The ends justify the means.

D
R
. N
AYSI, WHOSE
power is to drain sanity, surrenders eagerly to me. After I’ve nearly broken her arm, she asks for a lock of my hair, pledges her undying love for Miss Saligia, and gives me assurance that Jack will no longer be a contender for the Big V.

“He’ll be about as mentally unstable as a kid can be,” she says.

Sure enough, later that day, I hear freshmen girls whispering in the dorm common area about “the Goth dude who tried to set fire to the Rex Paimonde building and got suspended.” When Pilot sits in stunned silence at our next meeting, torn over the pain his friend and former roommate might now be enduring on “suspension”—which probably isn’t good in a world where expulsion is death—I marvel that he has no idea I was behind it. It’s so clean, so elegant. I mean, sad for Jack, but that’s not the point.