I look at Mr. and Mrs. Smith. And I look at Dr. Zin. And I stop breathing when I see his face.
Oh, God. Oh, God. What have they done to Dr. Zin’s face?
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.