Ange du Mal Read online

  I dodged a snowball Divya hurled at me. She laughed, ducking behind a bush in the College Woods to avoid retaliation. We were bundled in coats and scarves, waging icy war.

  Something cold hit my neck. I yelped. Rosanna chuckled.

  “Gotcha,” my roommate said.

  I chased her past a copse of pine. We came to a clearing with a sloping hill.

  Rosanna’s eyes widened. “This would be perfect for sledding.”

  Thirty minutes later, we returned with laundry baskets. They slid perfectly down the hill if we crammed ourselves into them. I sped forward, crashing into a snow bank. I spilled out of my laundry basket.

  Someone gave a slow clap. I looked up through the powdery white to see Samael, taking a drag from a cigarette.

  “Impressive.” He grinned.

  “What are you doing here?” I said. “It’s not 7:00 yet.”

  My friends landed at the base of the hill. Divya rose from her basket and wiped herself off. “Are you Sam?” she asked, suspicious.

  Samael nodded.

  A snowball landed on his trench coat. Rosanna waved her fist. “That’s for being a total creep!”

  “I probably deserve that,” Samael said.

  “Oh yes you do,” Rosanna said, hands on her hips. “Why are you bothering us? Don’t you have a graveyard to squat in?”

  Samael shrugged. “I want to see her art show tonight.”

  Divya narrowed her eyes. “Is that really all you want?”

  “Yes.” Samael blew smoke from his nose. “You’re one of Shiva’s, aren’t you? Your soul is marked by him.”

  “I – I guess. It is?” Divya said.

  Samael stubbed his cigarette out under his boot. “Yes. We’re good friends. Both destroyers. He’s great at cricket. The god can’t hold his alcohol, though.”

  My lips curled. “Neither can you.”

  Samael chewed on his cheek. “That hurts, maggot.”

  “Why do you call Shannon such disgusting things?” Rosanna said. “You have a lot of ego for a garbage disposal.”

  Samael smiled. “Garbage disposal?”

  Rosanna narrowed her eyes. “You’re Death. You get rid of things by chopping them to bits. How do you like being called gross names, huh?”

  The Reaper looked up at a V of honking geese. “I’ve been called worse.”

  Divya examined Samael. “Aren’t you supposed to be a skeleton?”

  Samael gave Divya a fleeting glance. “It’s winter. Not having skin gets cold.” His gaze returned to the birds.

  Divya looked at me in concern. “You’re not really going to invite him to the art show? Won’t he like leave a trail of ectoplasm or something?”

  “I’ve been looking forward to it,” Samael said.

  I sighed. “Fine, you can come. Just don’t make an idiot of yourself.”

  Samael fixed a loose button on his jacket. “Excellent. I’ll pick you up at six.”

  I raised my brows. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’d like to take you to dinner. As an apology for being an ass.”

  “Do you now?” I said.

  The geese flew away. Samael spoke softly: “Let me do this one thing for you.”

  “Fine, but this doesn’t mean I forgive you. That depends on how good the food is,” I said.

  Six o’clock arrived, and a white Mustang stalled in the parking lot behind Trothman Hall. Samael lounged behind the driver’s seat, a red scarf wrapped too tight around his throat. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Is this Pallor?” I asked. I slid into shotgun.

  Samael tapped the dashboard. “Yeah. Isn’t she beautiful?” Samael eyed my wrap dress. “You look - um. You look nice.”

  I looked away quickly. “We’re supposed to dress up. For the art thing.”

  “Right.” He adjusted his scarf. “Well, then. Off we go.”

  He started the engine and drove down Hortense’s winding lanes, exiting onto the highway. The last leaves clung to bare branches. We drove for nearly an hour, making idle chatter. A light snow began to fall.

  Samael flicked on the windshield wipers. He cleared his throat.

  I pressed my cheek against the window and watched cars zip by. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He was biting his lip.

  “Are you okay?”

  He fiddled with the radio. “Perfectly fine.” He turned the knob to a jazz station. Samael looked repeatedly at something in the rear view mirror.

  I glanced behind me. His beaten saxophone case was in the back seat. “Why is your sax here?”

  He adjusted his collar. “No reason.”

  We rounded a corner into downtown Richmond. Samael parallel parked next to a small building with tinted windows. A few well-dressed men lounged outside, smoking. The sidewalk was littered with cigarette butts and graffiti.

  I side-eyed the entrance’s revolving doors. “This is about as legit as that green ketchup they came out with in 2000.”

  “Just wait.” Samael pulled his saxophone case out of the back. I followed him inside.

  The glass door was cold to the touch. Inside was dim, with red lighting, frayed furniture, and a bar. A stage rose at the back wall, complete with a piano in the corner. A curtain hung behind it, swishing with movement backstage. Patrons lounged around, draped over couches, and nursed drinks.

  Samael smiled. “What do you think?”

  I waved cigarette smoke from my face. “This looks like something from a film noir movie.”

  Belial poked his head out from behind the curtain. “Sam! Our set’s about to start. Get your bony ass up here.”

  “One sec,” the Reaper called. “Shannon, I wanted to surprise you. My friends and I have a band. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

  I coughed on the second-hand smoke. “You’re in a supernatural jazz band, and you’re going to play for me?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  I found myself listening to jazz that had been shot in the legs, stuffed in a barrel, and sent over Niagara Falls. Asmodeus’ piano playing whined, Samael’s saxophone sounded like a dying whale, and Belial’s drumming was off-beat. Only Beelzebub’s double bass was decent. The demons were absorbed in their music, seemingly tone-deaf, and blissfully unaware of the cringing audience. I sipped sparkling water half-heartedly. They received no encore and little applause.

  After packing up their set, Samael and his cohorts came to my table. Drinks in hand, they made small talk

  “You were off tempo, Bill,” Samael said.

  “Off tempo?” Belial said, running a hand through his blond mop. “Your saxophone sounded like Raphael after he eats too much gumbo – flatulent and slow.”

  Asmodeus laughed low. “I miss Raphael’s cooking.”

  Beelzebub raised his vodka. “Cheers to that.”

  They clinked their glasses together.

  I polished off my sparkling water. “So, um, why do you guys have a band?” I said.

  “I thought you were mute, kid. You’ve been so quiet,” said Belial. “We play to relax. Things get tense, running Hell.”

  “It’s nice to have an outlet,” said Asmodeus. “Making music is the best way to unwind after a long day.”

  “Make music?” Beelzebub said. “You three couldn’t play to save your lives.”

  “I take offense at that,” Samael said. He nudged me. “Shannon says I sing like Nick Cave. Isn’t that right?”

  I looked at the floor. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

  “Sam, you sing like you’ve been run over by a truck,” Belial said.

  Asmodeus snorted. “Yeah, that or swallowed knives.”

  Beelzebub looked at me with hard eyes. “Are you deaf?”

  “What – no,” I said.

  Samael smiled crookedly. “She just has eclectic taste in music. Tell them what you listen to, Shannon.”

  I blushed. “Nothing.”

  Belial�
�s eyes lit. “Nirvana? Soundgarden? Mudhoney?”

  I shook my head. “Nah. I’m not really into grunge.”

  Belial nodded. “I’m not into jazz, either. I just play with these guys because Samael was desperate for a drummer.”

  “He forced us into this band,” Asmodeus said. “Now classical. That I enjoy.”

  Beelzebub buzzed with disapproval. “Opera. Opera is the only music worth listening to.”

  “What do you listen to, kid?” Belial asked.

  I focused on the table. “Um, hair metal. Glam rock. I like Davie Bowie a lot, and Guns ‘n Roses. Stuff like that.”

  Samael sipped his absinthe. “Have you heard Guns ‘n Roses’ cover of ‘Sympathy for the Devil?’”

  “Yeah. I like the original version better,” I said. “Is it like your theme song? Or is that ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper?’”

  Samael sloshed the ice cubes in his glass. “You know, I can never decide.”

  I glanced at Samael’s saxophone. “Aren’t you supposed to play the fiddle, anyways?’”

  Samael shrugged. “I used to, before the saxophone was invented.”

  Beelzebub set his vodka down. “He was even worse at that.”

  “Something to do with proper fiddles not being made of gold,” Asmodeus said. “That thing whined like a cat in heat.”

  Samael looked wistful.

  A waitress served us dinner. The demons debated the finer points of how much Samael’s music sucked.

  “So do you guys play gigs often?” I asked between bites of shrimp scampi.

  “No, we just thought we’d haze you,” Belial said. “Welcome to the demonic brotherhood.”

  I curled my lips. “Thanks, I guess.”

  Samael and I made it back to Hortense for the art show at nine. We parked near the art building and entered the lobby, where faculty and pupils fraternized, taking in the students’ works as they sipped wine. My pieces were in a corner by a window, framed and glossy. I grabbed a plate of crackers and brie from the refreshment stand and wandered over to my paintings. Samael studied them intently.

  “Is that Lilith?” he asked, indicating a charcoal owl on a moonlit branch.

  “Maybe.”

  He peered at the oil of a croaking raven. “And this one?”

  I munched on brie. “Guess.”

  “Me?”

  “Bingo.”

  My art professor came over. “Shannon! I’m glad I caught you. Your works are a hit – I love their execution, especially the peacock.”

  “Thanks, professor,” I said.

  “President Lovelace especially likes the raven,” my professor said, nodding at Hortense’s president. “He was wondering if he could add it to the school’s collection?”

  I saw stars. “Really?”

  My professor smiled. “Of course. You’re one of my most promising students.”

  “I – thank you,” I stuttered.

  My professor looked at Samael. “And this is…?”

  “Um, Sam! This is Sam.”

  Samael shook my professor’s hand. My teacher shivered.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Samael said.

  “You too. Is there a cold spot here?” my professor asked.

  I looked at Samael. “Um, yep, I think there is.”

  My professor adjusted his glasses. “Right. Well, you look too old to be a student, Sam. Are you one of Shannon’s professors in the biology department?”

  Samael looked amused. “The study of life? Something like that.”

  My professor nursed his wine. “That must be interesting. So much of science stems from art, and artists are continually inspired by science. I find their intersection fascinating. Many artists, like Leonardo da Vinci, were scientists as well.”

  “Ah, Leonardo. He was quite fond of corpses,” Samael said.

  My professor gave Samael an odd look. I glared daggers at the Reaper.

  “Leonardo dissected cadavers.” Samael said. “Surely you’re familiar with da Vinci’s anatomical drawings?”

  My professor gave a stiff smile. “Yes, of course. It was a common practice at the time. Well, erm, Sam. It was nice meeting you. I should get back to my colleagues. Shannon, once again, excellent work.”

  I ribbed Samael as my professor walked away. “You did that on purpose.”

  Samael smirked.

  “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  Samael dusted off his shoulder. “You’re cute when your buttons are pushed.”

  My cheeks flushed. “Stop trying to irritate me.”

  “I also like it when you blush.”

  “I don’t care what you like!”

  Samael’s eyes softened. “I care what you like.”

  “We are so not doing this.” I wove through the crowd and exited, not caring if he followed. Snow piled above my ankles. I waded through it to my dorm.

  “Shannon, wait!” Samael said. We were on the wooded path back to Trothman Hall. It was empty, save us.

  “Ugh.” I turned. “What?”

  He loomed over me. “Your night shouldn’t end this way. This was supposed to be an apology. I wanted to make you laugh.”

  I wiped snowflakes from my hair. “You embarrassed me in front of my professor.”

  “I’m sorry. I have an odd sense of humor.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  He fiddled with the top button of his trench coat. “Um, I have something I want to give you.”

  “What could you possibly give me?”

  “Think of them as a peace offering.”

  “’Them?’”

  He reached into his coat. Squawking came from inside the fabric.

  “What the actual heck?”

  He produced two hooded crows. They pecked at his knuckles, resting on either wrist. “These are Gog and Magog. They’re my pets. I – I know you like birds, and I was worried about your safety, so I trained them to whistle if they see Watchers or angels.”

  “You’re giving me crows…”

  “I – well, yes.”

  He removed their hoods. Beady black eyes peered at me.

  I reached out to tentatively pet one. It leaned into the curve of my hand and squawked. “That’s very, um, thoughtful of you.”

  Samael smiled. “That’s Magog. He’s the more affectionate one. Gog’s the princess. She likes to be spoiled.”

  “Crows have personalities?”

  “They’re highly intelligent birds.”

  I pet Gog. She ruffled her feathers, pleased. “They’re kinda cute,” I said.

  Samael lifted his arms, and the crows took off. They spiraled above us, then disappeared into the trees. “You look cold.”

  “I forgot my jacket again. I tend to do that.”

  He draped his coat over me. “Keep it. I have too many.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  His hands lingered on my shoulders. “Shannon…” His scarf was like blood at his throat.

  “What?”

  “Now I’m cold.” He trailed pianist fingers down my back.

  I shivered at his touch. “You can have your coat back.”

  “I don’t want it.” His hands settled at the small of my back.

  My heartbeat was in my throat. “Why not?”

  “Because,” he said, voice rough. “You’re warmer.” He pulled me to him.

  His lips met mine. There was no thought, only reaction. I snaked my arms behind his neck and leaned against him.

  He sighed, reaching under his coat to trace my spine. I inhaled as his lips danced down my jaw, to the hollow under my ear. His fangs skimmed my skin.