Forbidden

by Lori Adams

  Why does he shut me out? Why won’t he talk to me—about anything? Why is he getting worse, not better?

  I have an overwhelming urge to help him but I don’t know how.

  *

  The courthouse bells chime reminding me it’s seven o’clock, time to get moving. Bailey said all seniors meet at the café before school. It’s called a senior privilege; no subordinates allowed.

  And so I set out on my first day of school in Haven Hurst. It takes exactly fifteen seconds to drive across the square and three seconds to park. It’s absurd to drive in such a small town and I wouldn’t if I knew where the school was.

  I never made it to the café on Saturday due to my public humiliation with Michael, the result of which is now up for debate. The miraculously missing scar changes the playing field. But what if Michael has already spread the word that I’m an abuse victim? Can I undo the humiliation by simply saying, What scar? It is a promising thought.

  The Naughty Nectar Café has a charming country motif with green-and-white-checkered tablecloths and curtains. It seems that Haven Hurst is one of those quintessential towns that attracts tourist who like to steep themselves in nostalgia for a spell. Never mind that it is also one of the richest towns in this part of the state, according to Bailey.

  So it’s no surprise that I find the sidewalk tables outside the café crowded with tourists stocking up on a hearty country breakfast before heading out on long scenic walks or rigorous bike trails or antiquing around the square. It’s impossible to see if Bailey and Rachel are inside. I rethink my decision as fear takes its familiar place in my stomach like a cat curling up on a warm windowsill. What if the seniors aren’t there? What if this is a joke for the newbie? What if it makes me late for class?

  “Hey, Sophia.” Duffy is striding up wearing baggy jeans and an oversized hockey jersey with a Burberry golf hat. I think his fashion sense runs rampant like a kid in a candy store. “You comin’?” He holds the door open and tosses his backpack onto a mountain of other bags on the floor. He laughs against my uncertainty. “Hey, you know I was just messing with you on Saturday, right? That’s just how I am.”

  Yeah, Duffy parading around and checking my ingredients had been kind of embarrassing. But I give him my best unpretentious smile and step inside. He takes off toward the back, leaving me with the barista behind the counter.

  She has hair the color of an Easter egg and looks at me like I’m the oddball. I smile politely and take in the place while she analyzes me and wipes down a plastic menu. It smells appropriately of eggs, bacon, coffee, and people. The front area is for regular customers crowded around tables while the back seems more of a dark lounge area. The walls are redbrick and rustic looking. There are tables, couches, and fat cushy chairs overflowing with my new senior class. It’s humming with chatter.

  Although it’s dim in the back room, I can see Michael’s blond hair, guiding the way like a soft light. He is reclined in a chair with his feet propped against an unlit fireplace. While hoping to avoid the scar issue, I would like to ask him about the accident.

  I hear my name and see Rachel waving. She and Bailey have a couch to themselves. I decide to say hello before ordering anything so I walk over. As I approach, the pain in my chest flares, jumpstarting the second heartbeat. I hesitate, feeling a sense of déjà vu. Am I that nervous? Is it stress or something else?

  Three girls are visually stalking me as I walk over. I glance at Michael but he isn’t looking at me. The second heartbeat speeds up and I’m tempted to rub my chest but opt for not looking like a perv on my first day.

  Rachel pulls me down between her and Bailey and we negotiate ourselves until we’re comfy. The pink-haired barista serves me a cup of coffee, and I say, “Oh, I didn’t order,” but she is gone.

  “Mollie is a coffee whisperer,” Bailey informs me. “She knows what you’ll like. Try it.”

  The cup is the size of a salad bowl and I peer inside. A dollop of cream and chocolate syrup have been artistically shaped into a bunny. It’s so beautiful I hate to ruin it.

  “Oh, Mollie is an art student. Plus, she gets bored,” Rachel explains. “Last Friday I got an octopus smoking an Indian pipe.”

  I drink, swallow, and smile. “Mmmm, better than Bizzarebucks.” I lick cream from my top lip. The three of us prop our feet onto a beater coffee table and relax. This place is reminiscent of one of those hole-in-the-wall café’s I’ve seen in California, perfect for a poetry slam or a local band.

  “Is this the whole senior class?” I count forty-one.

  Bailey glances around while texting. “Yeah, just about. J.D. and Holden aren’t here but … yeah, that’s about it.”

  Wow. There were over 250 kids in my junior class. A tiny thrill shoots through me; my senior year should be a breeze, academically speaking. And hopes of going to college, any college, might be resuscitated.

  “Who’s the pretty blonde?” I ask, because the three girls who gave me the eye when I walked in are still staring. Two seem curious and the third looks cold and indifferent.

  “Lizzanne,” Rachel answers without needing clarification. “She’s nice.”

  Bailey scoffs, “Said no one ever.”

  “She’s head cheerleader.”

  Bailey unwraps a cherry Blow Pop and dips it in her coffee like a biscotti. She slurps and dips, slurps and dips. “Liz is a poseur à la tag hag.”

  I peruse Lizzanne like a fashion magazine. She’s a walking billboard of advertisement, name brand everything: Gucci shoes, vintage Coco Channel handbag, Dussault Apparel Thrashed Denim jeans. Sponsored like a NASCAR driver. FedEx has fewer labels. But with hair like a waterfall and blue diamonds for eyes, I have to admit she is stunning.

  “We thought she’d date Michael when the Patronus family moved here,” Rachel says. “Or at least Raph.”

  “What happened? I mean, are they dating?”

  “Those guys don’t date,” Bailey snipes. “No one here is good enough for the Patronus brothers.”

  Rachel leans over me and nearly spills my coffee. “Don’t say it like that, Bail!” she hisses out angrily. “You make ’em sound conceited or something!” She is about as quiet as a freight train.

  “Just statin’ a factoid. They don’t go clubbing or hook up.” She shrugs, disappointed. “Oh, they might visually stalk once in a while but nothing indecent, unfortunately.” Her eyes flash with an inappropriate look. “What I wouldn’t give for one night with sugar britches.” We look over at Michael.

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm, what Momma don’t know,” Rachel murmurs, and then she and Bailey fall against me laughing. They are infectious so I laugh, too.

  When we settle down, I decide to reveal my thoughts about Michael Patronus. I tell them about the accident, about seeing Michael and his mother, about the grungy guy with the scars, and how Michael beat the crap out of him for no apparent reason. Of course, I omit the part where my brain malfunctioned and I thought they disappeared.

  Even so, the girls look at me like I’m some new kind of stupid.

  “First off,” Bailey says, crunching the Blow Pop, “Michael’s mom isn’t a nurse. She’s a horticulturist and pretty famous around here. She grows some amazing food for the school—”

  “And Michael is a pacifist,” Rachel cuts in. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Besides, he was at the football game on Friday night,” Bailey finishes. “That grungy guy with the scars doesn’t go here. So it couldn’t have been Michael you saw.”

  There is a peculiar challenge in her eyes, like she’s willing me to believe her by the sheer force of her stare. I would laugh but she is being serious. Besides, I like Bailey and hope we can be real friends. I don’t want to be that new girl that other girls check out only to find she’s too weird to hang with.

  “Oh, okay. My mistake,” I lie through my teeth. It’s obvious they believe their explanations about Michael, but not me. I look at him laughing with the guys and know the truth. He was up to something that night. So
mething that he and his brothers don’t want me to know about.

  *

  After a while, everybody simultaneously empties their coffee cups and heads for the door like some invisible force is at work. Back to reality.

  At the curb, I climb into the jeep and then startle to see Bailey and Rachel dump their stuff into the backseat. Apparently, it’s customary around here to pile into any viable vehicle for the short trek to school. Michael’s black F150 is loaded with students, Duffy’s lifted red Dodge is spilling over with bodies and backpacks, and Jordan’s black Camaro holds him and another guy. Lizzanne and her two friends ride in a sporty white BMW.

  And so I follow the line of cars past the courthouse with the all-seeing eye that unnerved me the other day and into the school parking lot directly behind it. I cut the engine and hear a short bell blast.

  “First bell, Sophia,” Rachel announces studiously. “Follow me and I’ll drop you at the office.”

  I gaze through the windshield at my new school, a redbrick building stretched out like some scaly, slumbering beast. The front is lined with tall blinking windows and a sidewalk that splits a green lawn and runs up to the stoop with two glass doors. Like the rest of the town, the school favors a turn-of-the-century motif.

  I try to calculate how many schools I’ve attended during my nomadic travels with Dad. How many unconventional first days? Too many. They flash in my mind like a sporadic music video; no depth, no importance, no meaning.

  I see Michael strolling up the sidewalk alongside the others, laughing and joking. He is playful and carefree. He holds open the door and lets the crowd pass through, and then he methodically turns and looks back at me. It is reminiscent of the night of the accident and my skin tingles with heightened awareness. Our eyes lock and I sense he is remembering, too. He knows I know something, and I’m struck with an unsettling feeling, a calm certainty that this first day will encompass all those missing elements and more. Everything is about to change.

  Chapter 6

  Dante

  In a dank cavern in the upper catacombs of Hell, Vaughn Raider lowered the daggers he was twirling across his palms. He, Wolfgang, and the kid, Santiago, were appropriately shocked by Dante’s news. They couldn’t believe The Order approved Dante’s petition to resurface. It was unprecedented.

  There was a customary chain of command for this kind of thing. The Order would assign jobs to Demon Knights or reapers. They were issued death contracts and then allowed to resurface to Take the Unforgiven soul. Never had the process been reversed—a Demon Knight requesting a particular assignment.

  “They actually agreed?” Vaughn asked. His face was dark and handsome in a rugged sort of way, and it registered the proper surprise.

  “Of course. I was happy to persuade them.” Dante offered an insidious grin that the others understood; he had used the Demon of Persuasion to get his way.

  “They weren’t suspicious?” Vaughn asked, perfectly in the right to worry. Most spiritual entities could feel a compulsion being used on them. When administered by an amateur, it felt like a brain freeze. But a skilled Demon Knight, such as Dante, could effect a warm, light feeling no heavier than a thought.

  Still, Vaughn was concerned. There was nothing worse than getting caught using your personal demon on a member of The Order. Well, okay, there was always something worse; it was Hell, after all.

  “I had complete control of my demon,” Dante assured them. “I used a new technique I have been working on. Like fly-fishing. A little compulsion whipped back and forth, just touching the surface enough to move a thought. I call it lie-fishing.” He smiled magnanimously. His friends stared, unsure they could risk themselves on Dante’s word. “Well?” he snapped and waved a hand at them. “Let’s go. Get ready.”

  Wolfgang loomed over Dante with a scowl, his face half hidden behind stringy black hair. “We have conditions upon resurfacing.” His voice was deep and resounding but marked with the ever-present edginess of the Demon of Impatience buried deep inside him.

  Wolfgang’s statement was no surprise; everyone in Hell had conditions. It was a crude bargaining system, something like, “You stab my back and I’ll stab yours.” Nothing was done for free. Even with friends, conditions had to be met before they would fully cooperate. So Dante agreed to provide certain distractions to keep them occupied while he secretly worked on Sophia’s soul.

  This would also keep Wolfgang busy and out of the loop. Dante wouldn’t risk Wolfgang accidentally killing Sophia and losing her soul to Heaven or limbo, all because he couldn’t control his demon. So why take him along? Besides being friends, Wolfgang could be very intimidating and useful when necessary. It would raise suspicion if he weren’t included.

  “Yes, you have made your conditions quite clear. And I will provide what you need.” Dante hoped to sound upbeat, even nonchalant, because he had additional news that would surely irritate them. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “But there is a catch to our resurfacing. The Order has conditions, too; we are not given free rein. You must control your demons. At all costs. And you are not allowed to Take any souls while there. Understand, Wolf? Only me and only the one.”

  “What the hell?” Wolfgang growled.

  “The Order is still—how did they put it? ‘Less than pleased’ with our last assignment. So we have been placed on something called probation.”

  “Well, that’s humiliating,” Vaughn grumbled. He rotated a silver throwing-star back and forth over his knuckles and considered things.

  “And if we don’t?” Wolfgang challenged.

  “The Death Bunker,” Dante said flatly. They exchanged knowing looks.

  Santiago was chewing his fingernails like he was engrossed in a horror flick. His eyes widened and he whispered, “The Death Bunker,” as though the name alone had some mystical power to kill.

  The Death Bunker was the lowest level of Hell’s catacombs, the gateway to the Nether Region where unlucky prisoners were tortured beyond comprehension. For the Demon Knights, their dual entities received dual punishment; a henchman provided physical torture while their inner demon expended mental torture, a process called Demonic Fading. When the demon living inside them eventually died, the body shriveled until it was unrecognizable. Crisp like bacon. If the sentencing was severe enough, they would drop down the chute to the Nether Region, that cold, desolate place of isolation where regeneration was impossible.

  Nobody survived the Nether Region.

  “Wolf? Are you still in?” Dante asked, growing impatient. He had been waiting too long. Delays were unacceptable.

  “Yeah, I’m in,” Wolfgang grumbled. “As long as my conditions are met.” He was a three-hundred-pound spoiled baby.

  “They will be,” Dante assured and then looked at Vaughn who nodded his agreement. “Oh, and one more thing … Santiago is coming with us.”

  “What?” Santiago and Wolfgang yelled in unison.

  “It is a condition of The Order. Lord Brutus wants Santi to watch and learn. I am not risking an argument. He is going. It’s done.”

  Wolfgang growled, “Well, he’s not riding with me.”

  Santiago mulled this over and then sat upright, inspired. He thrust out his chest with inflated importance. Resurfacing so soon after being Taken was rare and could translate to serious bragging rights. At best it would keep gang reapers off his back.

  “You liked high school so much you wanna go back?” Vaughn teased, and then laughed at Santiago’s horrified reaction.

  “What?” he shrieked. “You mean you guys are going back to high school? On purpose?” He was distraught but nobody cared. “Hey, wait, do I have a say in this?”

  “No!” everybody yelled.

  Santiago slumped, crestfallen. “But I don’t wanna go back to high school. It sucked then and it’s gonna suck now.”

  “Aw, hell, he’s not going to whine all the way there, is he?” Wolfgang snarled.

  “It’s different this time, kid,” Vaughn said sympathetically.
“You’re with us.”

  Dante had had enough of their bitching and complaining. “Out! Now! Go get presentable. Current. Modern. Whatever it takes. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

  As the others filed out, Vaughn steered Dante away for privacy. “You are certain this girl possesses the reincarnated soul?” he whispered.

  “Of course. Don’t worry. I know her soul. Sophia is the one.”

  Vaughn shifted restively. “You know, every time we resurface in a new time and place, things have changed dramatically. I hear girls are easier and friendlier now than in the sixteen hundreds.” He grinned. “So all you need to do is kiss Sophia, no? Release the toxin that will numb her senses? Make her more pliable, easier to manipulate for …” Vaughn chuckled at Dante’s knowing grin. “Good, you understand. So it shouldn’t take too long? I mean, we are risking a great deal for—”

  “I know.”

  “Make sure you don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. Now may we continue or would you like to remind me to take a piss before we leave?”

  Vaughn smiled and patted Dante’s shoulder. “Take your piss while I decide which badass look I’ll assume to impress the human babes.”

  *

  Dante changed clothes three times before settling on black designer jeans and a charcoal mock turtleneck. After all, this was a special occasion. He should look nice and sophisticated but not like he was trying too hard.

  He was nervous and wanted everything to be perfect, to run as smoothly as possible. Best-case scenario? Sophia’s soul would flood her with memories the moment she saw him. She would recognize him and remember who she was and what they meant to each other.

  Yes, well, that was a long shot. More likely he would have to coax out some old memories first. That was fine; Dante had learned to be patient. Sophia’s soul was more than worth the wait.