by Lori Adams
He placed a hand on his heart, stunned to feel it beating so erratically. A nervous laugh reverberated up his chest. “It has been so long, cara mia, but I am finally coming for you.”
*
When the others returned, they were clean and freshly clothed but there was a problem.
“You cannot be serious,” Dante complained when he saw their solid-black attire. “You are a walking cliché. I told you, this is a small town in Connecticut. We will scare them half to death.”
“Is that so wrong?” Vaughn faked an innocence pout, causing the others to laugh.
Because Vaughn’s demon was insatiable, his wounds were numerous and continuous, constantly regenerating. They left unpleasant scars all over his body. So his wardrobe was chosen with care: black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned at the throat. And for good measure, he wore a long black duster, a favorite from the old days. Although Vaughn had never disclosed the details that landed him in Hell, his open smile revealed how good it felt to wear his ancient coat.
As for Santiago, he opted for black skinny jeans with multicolored Converse high tops and a black T-shirt that said, I DIED FOR AN IRON MAIDEN. His brown hair remained the same, short and spiked in the back, with long red bangs swept over one eye. It was good enough the first time around, when his life was cut short. That fateful night began with a dumbass bargain in the back of a skuzzy bar. Santiago had sneaked in to hear a sick band. A stranger appeared with a Ouija board. Somehow the man knew Santiago was greedy for fame and material possessions. He convinced the kid to trade his soul for unparalleled talent on the guitar. Santiago was unaware that he had bargained with a Trickster Demon, and the duplicity was astonishing; Santiago was Taken almost immediately. Ironically, he stepped in front of the Iron Maiden tour bus. What a gyp. And now he was an untested underling resurfacing for the first time. He was so excited he might wet himself.
“Not good enough,” Dante said to Wolfgang, who was still a six-foot-eight monster. “You are too tall, too wide, too everything. You cannot resurface like that.”
“I think he looks craptastic!” Santiago burst out.
Wolfgang grabbed him by the arm and hurled him into a stone wall. But he forgot to let go and was now holding the kid’s left arm in his hand.
“Damnit, Wolf!” Dante snapped. He could see where this was headed.
Santiago extricated his head from the rubble, shook off the dust, and marched over.
“Give it back!” he demanded arrogantly, thrusting out his other hand. Wolfgang smacked him in the face with his own hand. Santiago wailed and grappled for his loose arm with his good arm. “Come on, man! Knock it off!”
Dante sighed at their usual antics. He knew that nothing would teach the kid manners better than beating him with his own arm but there wasn’t time to regenerate a new one. Reluctantly, he ordered Wolfgang to give it back.
Wolfgang pointed Santiago’s finger in his face. “Watch how you speak to me, kid, or you’ll be drinking spleen juice from now on.” He tossed the arm away, causing Santiago to lunge for it.
“I was only practicing the current slang like Vaughn suggested,” the kid whined. He ducked into a corner to reattach his arm in private.
“You need another adjustment,” Dante reminded Wolfgang. “Remember the terms of your condition?”
Wolfgang scratched his head and grudgingly stomped out of the room.
“I’m thinking about my condition.” Vaughn preened in a full-length mirror, admiring his short black hair slicked into a 007 style. He winked at himself and then whipped out two semiautomatics.
“Holy hell,” Dante grumbled. Getting them on the road without extraneous complications was difficult. “That was not part of the condition. You can’t resurface armed like that. I told you, this is a rural town. Your fetish for violence must be suppressed—”
“I know, I know.” Vaughn lowered his weapons, chuckling. “You remember the last time? We only had knives and muskets. I felt positively naked.” He faked a shiver. “I thought we might need something … sophisticated … and …” Dante was shaking his head against the argument, so Vaughn surrendered without another word.
Dante wasn’t buying it. He opened Vaughn’s long black coat to an array of silver weapons, like a peddler hawking wares.
“You know my needs.” Vaughn gave him a pointed look and then tucked several daggers and throwing stars into his black boots. He tossed the rest aside as an unspoken compromise. Then he grinned and winked at Santiago. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Santiago laughed and then stifled it. Dante was glaring at him.
“I suppose you have a condition, too? Something to keep you busy and out of my way when we resurface?”
The kid withdrew; he was smart enough to fear Dante but dumb enough to show it. He considered the question, and it didn’t take long before he gushed out, “I wanna be a rock star! I want an electric guitar and an amp and an iPod and a cell phone, and a keyboard, and Guitar Hero, and an iPad, and um, and um—”
“You are an unwanted sixteen-year-old high school student. You will be lucky if I get you a calculator. Now get that arm on tight and sit quietly until we leave.”
Wolfgang returned, looking less the soldier he once was and more a linebacker. He appeared relaxed, having fed his demon a tiny snack when he launched Santiago into the wall. He wouldn’t let the others know how humiliating it was to lose control of his demon, like dropping his sword in battle.
They didn’t seem to trust him. But they didn’t understand how difficult it was to control a demon like Impatience. Wolfgang was required to push uncontrollable urges into someone within seconds—those sudden unexplainable impulses, irrational behavior, and outbursts of rage and violence. Most often it was a monumental task to force someone to act against years of conditioning and culture, to go against their nature.
Controlling Wolfgang’s demon was impossible, like taming a lion with a wet noodle. It took patience to work a victim. All the while, Impatience was clawing its way up his nerves. Things got twisted around, and his demon would urge him to seek his own gratification first. Too often it was Wolfgang who acted out. He needed patience to control Impatience!
Therein lied the rub.
Wolfgang spread his arms and turned for Dante’s approval. He wore black jeans rolled at the cuffs, black combat boots, and a tight black T-shirt over his beefy chest. His hair had been cut shoulder length and gathered at the back of his head with a leather, noose-like strap.
“This okay, Mom?” Wolfgang snarled sarcastically. He was getting restless again. Snagging the soul from a reputed “Servant of God” was a high achievement for any demon, reaper, or soul seeker. It was second only to Taking a spiritual being Born of Light—anyone under the Sign of the Arc, including guardians and Halos of the Son. Capturing those spiritual entities was a very ambitious undertaking for anyone from Hell. Success could even elevate a Demon Knight’s status into the higher ranks of the Royal Court.
But a pastor’s Unforgiven soul was doable and might redeem their bad standing with The Order. It might allow them more time on the surface, not to mention keep them from the Death Bunker or the Nether Regions.
Wolfgang bounced on his toes, punched the air, and cracked his neck sideways. “I’m ready. Let’s bring down a pastor.”
“One more thing.” Dante stared into the mirror until his black eyes sizzled like pools of acid and returned to their former beauty of sea-foam green. Glossy black hair rested against the nape of his neck, and he ran his fingers through the top, satisfied with the cut. It was the face of his youth.
Once upon a time, Sophia’s soul had thought him handsome. He hoped she would again.
“Now we go to America!” Dante announced the command he had been waiting years to say.
But Wolfgang corrected him with harsh look. “My condition starts in the motherland.”
Dante clenched his teeth. “Fine! To Italy. And then to Connecticut without another delay.”
Chapter 7
Ordering Off the Menu
“Go right in there.” Rachel nods at a doorway and leaves me standing alone in a blue-carpeted hallway. The chaos of students scrambling to first period dies down, and the wall of gray lockers falls silent. This is the smallest high school imaginable; I am standing in the only hallway. I can see both ends of the building; at one there’s a blue door leading to the gym, at the other, double glass doors opening to picnic tables on the lawn.
In the middle of the hallway is the school office, which holds one cabinet, one desk with secretary, and one extra chair for visitors. I can’t sit because a tall pyramid of books occupies the chair. I start to introduce myself when the secretary says, “Good morning, Sophia,” and extends her hand. I shake it, unnerved by the speed of the grapevine here and briefly wonder if Verizon should be notified.
“Welcome to Haven Hurst High. I’m Willa Cooper. You may call me Willa.”
“Thank you, I—”
“Now, here is your schedule.” She is a no-nonsense drill sergeant. “Look it over. I don’t think you’ll be repeating any classes. Principal Davis received your transcript. I made your schedule. Here are papers for the pastor to sign later, and your locker number is 33 halfway down on the right.”
“Um, my books?” Even before the words clear my mouth I get a bad feeling. Willa’s eyebrows rise and she nods toward the pyramid of Giza in the chair.
“Holy crap!” I blurt out.
The paperback topping the pyramid is Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces.
Sheesh, where is Shakespeare or Steinbeck when I need them? My bad feeling is reproducing and having a lot of little bad feelings.
I load my arms with the top half of the pyramid, leave the office, and then track the locker numbers along the wall to 33. Top. “Well, thank God for small miracles,” I mumble.
“I always do,” says a seductive male voice behind me.
I spin around and there is Raph strolling by. Faded jeans ride low on his hips like an afterthought, and a light bounce in his step tosses his blond hair. “Morning, S-o-p-h-i-a,” he sings out playfully, and then winks like we have a secret.
Oh great, caught talking to myself on the first day. I offer a wooden smile, and then think, Wait, what’s the wink supposed to mean? Did Michael tell him about me flinching? About the scar? About what it means?
I’m being paranoid, as usual. Probably Raph is just friendly.
He disappears into the office, and I notice a student from every room follows suit, each holding a single blue card. A manual attendance list? Wow, small school. I’m tempted to get excited. Tempted to imagine countless test papers with giant A’s sliding across Dad’s desk that translate to: See how brilliant I am? Please don’t hate me anymore.
I’m not quite there yet because the pyramid of Giza has yanked my freak chain. I situate my books on a shelf in the locker. A moment later, Raph sidles up with my remaining books. They are thick and heavy but look insignificant in his muscular arms. His hair is shiny and straight and falls like columns of blond glass when he looks down.
“Willa thought you might need help.” He has an easy smile and pretty eyes. Not as clear or distracting as Michael’s but just as pale. And do I detect a faint foreign accent?
“Oh, thanks.” I take the books, and Raph cocks his head curiously like Sundance does when he thinks I’m doing something particularly amusing. Raph withdraws when I shut the locker.
“Know where you’re going?”
“Um …”
He takes my schedule and reads. “Mr. Wagner’s bio! With me.” He seems pleased.
“Aren’t you a junior?” I hope I’m not placed in a lower biology class.
“Don’t worry. You’re in the right class. I’m working ahead.” He grins secretively like I’m supposed to get that. “Biology is kinda my thing, ya know?” I don’t.
He opens the classroom door, and a million eyes stare. Okay, not a million but the intensity is the same. Everyone from the café is here except Rachel. And Michael is the only one not staring. He is looking out the window like he couldn’t care less about the newbie. He didn’t say hello at the café either and I wonder if he is embarrassed to know about my scar issue. Then again, shouldn’t I be the one embarrassed?
I step into the room and flinch. The sharp pain in my chest that is becoming all too familiar strikes again and for a moment all thoughts of Michael vanish. But as the second heartbeat starts and I stare at the back of his head, something I should know rises to the top of my brain. Is it my imagination or do I feel this every time—
Mr. Wagner is snapping his fingers at me and I startle. I walk to his desk and hand over my information card. He tells me to take a seat so I slide into the second row because it brings me directly across from Bailey. She smiles and wiggles her eyebrows like something’s up.
To my right is Casey James with a face full of grin. He is so open and honest that it’s hard not to smile back. Jordan the Leerer is next to some guy named Pacer, another leerer. They come in pairs. Jordan grins, and I feel the need to go home and exfoliate.
Lizzanne is flanked by her BFFs, Sarah Cooley and Harper Rose Emerson. I smile at Lizzanne but she strikes a cool demeanor. An iceberg with boobs. Okay, so we won’t be friends.
Sarah is geek chic, sitting up straight like she’s got a stylus shoved up her … back. Her hair is paper bag brown and pulled into a ponytail to accentuate her fake, black-rimmed glasses. She is engrossed in her Phablet but I can hear her mumbling disparaging remarks under the radar. Apparently, my Rolling Stones T-shirt is passé to her pocket protector.
Bailey said Harper Rose is a distant relative of Ralph Waldo Emerson, and is rich as hell. Which explains the hipster fashion and the fatalistic “fuck you” attitude she sports. You just know she’s teeming with Facebook philosophy and loads her sarcastic, culture-hating blog with enlightened, recycled gems from Jack Kerouac.
I turn away and there is Raph leaning on his elbow, watching me and grinning. In front of him is Michael, relaxed in his chair with his long legs blocking the aisle and his attention out the window. I think about him beating that grungy kid on the side of the road and wonder, again, why no one else saw them or how they disappeared. All this mystery is riling me up and I squirm in my seat.
Raph’s smile drops at the same moment that Michael swings around and looks directly at me. He is suspicious of something even though Raph and I weren’t talking. His eyes cut back and forth between us.
What the hell?
I wait for them to speak but Mr. Wagner starts lecturing like he’s speed dating and I’m forced to turn away. The whole thing felt awkward but I know I can’t let it distract me. Especially on my first day of school.
*
I make a quick deduction: This class is way over my head. Because we relocate a lot, I’m used to playing catch-up, even consider myself a decent student, but this class smacks of premed, not high school biology. I flip through the book to the appropriate chapter: Human Anatomy. Okay, I’ve been here before. But half an hour of this and I swear my notes were penned by a retarded monkey who is just as confused as I am.
When the bell rings everybody springs up, but I slump back in my seat and exhale like the ride has finally come to a stop. Bailey stands at my desk with an annoyingly cheerful smile.
“What’s up, teacup?”
I don’t want to seem whiny but I post a frowny face and shrug. She laughs in understanding and hauls me up.
“Come on, princess. Nothin’ but a little childhood trauma.”
Students pour into the hall like rats escaping a sinking ship. It’s immediately overcrowded. Two guys are wrestling against the lockers, and Bailey tells me that J.D. has Holden in a headlock.
“And now, class,” J.D. announces in an instructional voice, “I’ll be administering the Sleeper Hold.”
Holden body-slams J.D. into the lockers and then jumps in front of the line of students shuffling to their next classes.
“W
atch it, passhole!” Bailey knocks him aside and then laughs and tosses her hair. I am lost at sea and apologize to people bumping into me. After exchanging books with her locker, Bailey worms her way toward me.
“What’s up with all the medical talk in bio?” I ask.
She shrugs and pops a cube of Bubblicious into her mouth. “We’ll powwow that one later so you can catch up. Not to worry.” She swipes my schedule. “Sweet, you’re with me most of the day. Grab Joseph Campbell and math and let’s adios.”
So I follow Bailey throughout the morning classes and realize that my senior year will be anything but a breeze, academically speaking. Serves me right for stereotyping small towns. I take my medicine with the appropriate grimace. I can already imagine my evening camped out on the couch, an array of books scattered about like a litter of teething puppies.
But hey, this is what I wanted, right? Normalcy? No devilish laughter, no maternal voice in my head telling me what to do. I should be happy.
For lunch period, Bailey, Rachel, and I shuffle with the herd of students out the back of the building and along a covered walkway to the annex building. It’s warm and windy. Yesterday’s threat of rain looks inevitable today so we hurry inside.
The indoor cafeteria is a nice change from Southern California’s outdoor pavilions. I’m used to open space and more students, give or take a thousand.
We troop around the nondescript room to wait in line, and face multiple round tables, active like the inner workings of a clock. The aroma is distinctly Italian, and I inhale and relax. My chest pain is finally gone, and I’m starved.
The room hums with chitchat until a squeal pierces the sound barrier. A slim blonde rushes over and envelops Bailey and then Rachel—the famous Milvi Patronus, at last. She is a ball of blazing energy with platinum blond hair in a twenties bob that shimmers like Christmas tinsel around her pretty face. Her eyes are not pale blue like her cousins’ but violet like Elizabeth Taylor’s. A red, bow-shaped mouth lights up her face when she smiles. It’s the kind of beauty that makes other girls give up and go home.
