by Lori Adams
“Something must have happened,” Gabe charged. “Has The Council indicated a new assignment? Have they released any local Death Contracts?”
Dimitri, who had been listening intently, was now the center of attention. He paced with one hand on his hip, the other tapping his pursed lips.
The Council had not posted any local Death Contracts. So Demon Knights in Haven Hurst was an unprovoked occupation. Gabe was correct. Something must have happened without The Council’s consent.
“There has been no talk of an Unforgiven soul to be Taken in Haven Hurst, and certainly not one that would require three Demon Knights to collect it, which leaves me perplexed,” Dimitri said.
“Three Demons after a single soul?” Uncle Paavo questioned doubtfully.
“Highly unlikely,” Gabe said. “Unless the soul has not been marked and they expect to battle for it.”
“Then we’ll give them what they ask for,” Raph growled. Already his energy was gathering for a fight.
“Maybe they’re passing through?” Aunt Sasha offered. Skeptical looks passed around the room and her thin shoulders sagged.
The room was quiet again but for the clock on the mantel, its ominous ticks whittling down the remaining time of Dante’s prey.
After due consideration, Dimitri made his decision. “Michael, you and the boys find out whom they’re after while I speak with The Council. Be on your guard; a skilled demon can provoke you into exposing your true identity in the presence of humans. And I don’t want anyone sent home because you’ve underestimated their abilities. Who knows what Dante’s orders are, or if he intends to follow them? He always seems to have his own agenda. So be cautious. We don’t want a repeat of Salem.”
The anxious group reluctantly agreed. The air was tight and highly charged, rippling like a blue wave as their energy gradually dissipated. Uncle Paavo, Aunt Sasha, and Milvi filed out. Dimitri was off to The Council for answers, and Uriel trailed Katarina into the kitchen, begging for details about Salem.
Michael and his brothers remained behind, pensive and concerned.
“Do they know we are here?” Gabe asked.
“They will soon enough!” Raph snapped.
“Calm down,” Michael warned. “You heard Dad. We can’t provoke them and expose our identity.”
“I know that!” Raph barked. He was trembling with a mix of dread and anticipation. “You know it took an entire legion from the Halos to stop Dante’s pack in Salem. Imagine if their power has grown over the years. If they’re looking to start the same trouble here, we’ve got to be prepared!”
“We’ll find out what Dante’s up to. Don’t worry,” Michael said with unabashed confidence.
“I think we should wait to hear what The Council says.” Gabe collected his books from the coffee table and turned in the doorway.
“Tomorrow, we confront Dante,” Raph insisted.
“No confrontations,” Michael corrected. “We’ll go about our lives as before. Just observe them. If they seem drawn toward any particular human, then we’ll have something to go on.” He gave Raph a hard look. “We can’t incite them in any way. You know they’ll take their vengeance out on the humans around us. Besides, we’re guardians, not demon hunters. We’re not allowed to attack first, so remember the code: Protect human souls, first and foremost. If the Demons try to interfere with that, then they’re fair game, as long as they attack first. Remember, Raph, we do not have first strike.”
Raph grunted and followed Gabe out. When he was left alone, Michael realized he had forgotten to mention his new evaluation of Sophia. Just as well. They would need all their focus on Dante. And Sophia would, finally, stop occupying his every waking thought.
Chapter 19
The Circle of Death
The Harvest Festival is six days away and the town is running amok. Not just a local celebration, the festival officially slams the door on summer and ushers in autumn—tourist season—when people come to satisfy their leafy love.
I’m excited to be a part of my first Harvest Festival, but the town is looking like some half-baked theater production with performers bumbling through one long dress rehearsal. My bedroom window is a box seat from where I view one act melding into the next. Goats from the petting zoo have escaped again and dart about while Mayor Jones and Sheriff White careen after them. The goats have capsized Vern Warner’s pull cart, and he is on his hands and knees gathering mail, while dogs hike on the Harry & David catalogues. The Nutmegger Convention has commandeered the tavern’s beer garden, much to the dismay of the Maple Syrup League. Apparently, they called dibs last year and everyone is arguing in the street and blocking traffic. The Words ’N Water bookstore has a broken pipe and all the words got wet. Work on the gazebo has stalled because the construction crew and the electricians are archrivals in the local hockey league. They are disputing a call from last season’s final match. All the while, dogs bark, goats bleat, and people yell like a disharmonious orchestra. A normal day in the loony bin, and I decide there is comfort in madness, like the smile of an old friend.
I have never felt more at home.
Another reason for my happy mood? It’s Friday and the air is crisp with autumn. It’s a day for long walks and apple cider, a day to turn the tide. I’m feeling antsy for something different, like waiting an hour in line for a ride you’re not sure is safe but you’re certain will scare the bejesus out of you.
The courthouse bell chimes, and it’s like a schoolmaster reminding me not to daydream out the window. I scowl at the looming figure with the all-seeing eye and slam the window shut.
I wrestle with a pair of jeans until I win. Lordy, I’ve gotta lay off the floats and jimmies. A sweatshirt over my head, and then I begin plaiting my hair into a long herringbone braid. My mind wanders and lands on Dante, where a single perfunctory word springs to mind.
Enigma.
Dante is a walking contradiction, disturbingly handsome with an equal mix of playfulness and something … powerful, like … well, I don’t know what. I can’t put my finger on it despite all the time we spent together yesterday. He had ignored my claims of the newbie status and insisted I show him around school, which basically entailed standing in the hallway and glancing in each direction. When technology class ended, I’d found him waiting for me in the hall. We walked to every remaining class together, sat close, and shared notes.
His interest in me is … well, flattering. Better than a poke in the eye, as Miss Minnie would say. But more than that, it contradicts Michael’s insistence that I’m easily forgotten, that I am invisible.
Since I’ve been neglecting Sundance lately, my penance involves a leash, a walk, and skipping the morning café ritual. Bummer, but Sundance and I are both better for it. My only regret is failing to enlist Dad in my penitent endeavor. We were getting along better but now he is cloistering himself in his office like Scrooge with a hangover. He doesn’t even say good-bye in the mornings.
By the time I circumvent the madness of the town square and reach school, everybody is already there. An unusual cluster of students has gathered on the lawn. The sidewalk is a concrete divider between Dante and his family on the left and Michael and his family on the right. They are still like statues, and I can’t imagine what’s happening. I slip through the quiet mass and stop between Bailey and Rachel.
“What’s up?” I whisper.
“Dunno,” Bailey murmurs. “They headed toward the door at the same time and then stopped. Jordan tried to introduce Dante to Michael but then he started grimacing like he had irritable vowel syndrome. Then somebody hit the Mute button, and a glaring fest started. I’ve never seen sugar britches look so pissed.”
We look over at Michael with his arms crossed, body rigid, and jaw set. His eyes are slits, his lashes shielding their color. This is the Michael who attacked the grungy guy. This is the Michael I know.
Raph and Gabe are carbon copies of him, so tense that a wrong word could shatter the facade. Uriel’s curious eyes play h
opscotch from one person to another.
Rachel whispers, “Do you think they know each other?” and our eyes shift to the left.
Dante breaks his stare with Michael and wears a mask of cool indifference. His hands slide into his pockets and then he turns and speaks quietly to Wolfgang. His cousin doesn’t like what he hears and begins pacing like a cornered animal. His eyes never leave the Patronus brothers. Vaughn is harder to read but his jaw is grinding feverishly. The sun glints off his face and highlights something dark trickling from his mouth. Like he’s chewing black licorice or something. Santiago is fiddling with his iPod and wearing a sarcastic smirk like a favorite old shirt; nothing but music seems to interest him.
The bell blasts and a cluster of confused underclassmen scurry inside. The rest of us hang back.
“This smacks of West Side Story,” Bailey murmurs.
“Only, who’s Maria?” Rachel asks, and our attention swings right and left again.
Dante’s eyes sift through the crowd and find me, and I can’t help but catch my breath. His black hair is spiked away from his face and affords a view of eyes as pale as the Caribbean surf and lips as red as blood. The morning chill gathers in his features, blushing his cheeks. Dante grins and tilts his head, enticingly, a look I came to understand yesterday to mean, Help a guy out?
I am flooded with empathy. I know what it’s like to be new in this town. Everyone is scary friendly, but when they’re not, it’s scary agony.
I return his smile and thrill at his reaction. His chest swells and he steps onto the sidewalk, hoping I’ll join him. In the back of my mind, well, the front, too, I know exactly what to do. I’ll walk over and ease Dante’s embarrassment while irritating Michael. I don’t know why this would bother Michael but if it does, I’ll take it as bonus points. Now Michael will see I’m not invisible, to everyone.
I lift my chin and walk over.
“Buongiorno, cara mia.” Dante takes my hand, brushes his lips across it, and then eases the heavy backpack from my shoulder.
Bailey mutters, “H-e-l-l-o, Maria!”
It’s embarrassing when Dante kisses my hand, but he said it was just an old habit. I glance around, all nonchalant-like, and see Michael’s scowl turn into mortified shock. Bonus points. But why do I feel ashamed of myself?
Dante and I have broken the spell and everyone shuffles inside. When we stop at my locker, he says, “Did you sleep well, cara? You look as though you did.” He is cheery and intimately close. I have to lean back to look at him. When I don’t answer, his hot hand finds the small of my back. “Is something wrong?”
“What was going on out there?” I grab my bio book and shut the locker. He braces a hand above my head and leans closer.
“I guess some people are not as friendly as you are.” Warm cinnamon breath tickles my nose, and his eyelids drift down as he moves in to kiss me.
“Not that friendly.” I duck under his arm and stroll away.
“Not yet, perhaps,” he says, laughing.
We take our seats in bio and the room is full of chatter. Michael and Raph walk in slow and menacingly. They are met by a reproachful look from Dante and a nasty grin from Wolfgang. His knee vibrates under the desk, and he starts killing off a fresh batch of pencils again.
Michael and Raph take their usual seats against the far wall. I try to catch their eyes but they don’t look at me; I am invisible again.
But not blind. I can see what’s going on, everyone can. I wonder if this is one of those territorial things. Do they really have to be so male?
The morning progresses with each class a copy of the preceding one: the guys engaging in visual warfare, Wolfgang nearly bouncing out of his seat in anticipation of something, the teacher’s annoying lecture that disrupts my analysis of their odd behavior, Dante’s eyes on me, and Michael’s never. I know I don’t exist to Michael but somehow I feel I’ve disappointed him. It makes me a deflating balloon, with all hope leaking out. I am spinning further away from something important. All day long I feel floppy and sad.
I get like this sometimes. Mom used to call it melancholy fever and said I should keep busy, so I do.
*
Later in the day, I am in the park taking candid shots of the town council’s confabulation by the gazebo. Abigail Monroe inclines her head in approval, and I reciprocate. The requested photos have been taken, and I’m free to roam. I survey the bustling activity that has escalated since school let out and now includes wayward kids mucking up progress. I dodge said kids and snap a shot of the creepy courthouse dressed in fall plumage. A flock of tiny black birds is foraging hidden treats in the lawn. I consider them for a photo, but they startle and flit away in collective fear.
“Lord, what fools these mortals be,” says a deep voice behind me. I turn around to find Dante sitting on top of a picnic table. He wasn’t there a moment ago, and I stare in open surprise. He grins surreptitiously, nodding toward the mayhem in the park. I look with his eyes, seeing what I’ve seen for the past few weeks: organized chaos. I shrug unaffected. He pats the seat next to him so I climb up.
“I believe Shakespeare was fond of festivals,” I say lightly.
He scoffs. “All this time and they still do not understand.”
I frown. “Who don’t understand what?”
“Inconsequential, all of it.” He waves a hand at the volunteers constructing the booths, the workers hammering the gazebo, the town council plotting activities. “Self-serving, time-wasting, materialistic—”
I laugh, and Dante looks at me.
“This coming from the guy driving a Lamborghini.”
He chuckles. “Yes, well, Wolfgang wanted that, not me.”
“And what do you want, Dante?” I ask playfully.
I receive his full, unadulterated attention that sends a shiver through me. His eyes lock with mine and his warm cinnamon breath melts the cool air between us. I feel dizzy all of a sudden and brace my feet to stop swaying.
“I want what’s mine, Sophia,” Dante answers in a low, even tone. “Is that not why we are here? To get what we want most?”
What we want most? The question strikes a chord. Maybe I’m not so far on the fringe if Michael and Dante ponder the same question I do.
“What do you want most, Dante?” I ask with a catch in my voice. Distractions fade and the only visual is liquid green eyes, the only sound is a smooth, spellbinding voice.
“I want the same thing you want. We both know there is no value in false trappings.” He nods toward the townspeople, seemingly offended by their very existence. “It is more than flesh and bone we want but something altogether less tangible. We crave light in darkness the way silence craves music. Don’t we, Sophia? In the deepest part of you, don’t you sense you are missing something important? You are meant for something more? Something is waiting for you?”
Somehow the simplicity of his questions joins our desires like a braided rope. We are entwined by his words that echo my thoughts; one and the same.
Yes! my mind screams. Yes! I understand! I want to know the reason for me. I crave to see Mom’s face again! I am waiting to hear confection in the air!
Somehow this complete stranger has touched the very center of me. Maybe it’s because I was on my way into a deep self-loathing funk, but I feel closer to him than I could possibly imagine. My secret desires became airborne on his warm breath, as if my thoughts gave rise to his voice. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, and as I stare at him, I’m consumed with the need to taste his air, to kiss him, to touch the place from where my dreams have come. The feeling is urgent, growing and persuading me to disregard prudent judgment.
I want to crush my mouth on his.
My vision becomes prickly like dry air igniting visual static. The edges around my mind spark and twitch. Intruding thoughts snap for my attention. Look away, Sophia! Resist! It’s Mom’s voice, urgent and angry.
With tremendous effort, I drag my eyes from Dante’s and exhale, embarrassed. My face burns, and
I look at my hands; I have a death grip on the camera, and I’m trembling.
“You are very strong,” Dante murmurs, but I can’t tell if he is pleased or disappointed, or what he even means by that. He lays a hot hand on mine, and my trembling abates. “You are a flower blooming in isolation, Sophia. Wasted here.”
“What does that mean?” My chest shakes, making my voice quiver. I can’t understand what’s happening.
“You know what it means. You do not belong here.”
“Here in Haven Hurst?”
“You do not belong here,” he emphasizes. “Nor did your mother.” The power of his tender words is enough to knock me back and I catch my breath.
“What do you know about my mom?” I whisper. Suspicion dances along my psyche as if something mystical is happening. I feel that Dante could reveal secrets I’ve been begging to know.
But he denies me and shrugs indifferently. “Just what I have heard. She died young, unexpectedly. Obviously, she did not belong here.”
I stare at his hand resting on mine and think about Mom. Then I ask him something I’ve never asked anyone. “Dante, do you believe in Heaven?”
His eyes close like a curtain, and the muscle in his jaw snaps back and forth. I don’t think he’s going to answer, and then his eyes open and drift skyward.
“I know more of Heaven and Hell than anyone should. I know what it feels like to love someone beyond imagination and then have them ripped away like an appendage. To become a sickness in my veins that refuses to heal. That is Heaven … stolen by Hell.” His eyes are full of the deepest kind of sorrow, and I am overwhelmed with pity. I want to cup his face, to stroke his cheeks and soothe away his suffering. “It will not heal until I … until she comes back to me.”
The statement is cold and calculating and catches me off guard. Like freezing water dumped on my head, all thoughts stall. “Oh, I … don’t understand. I thought you meant you loved someone and she died … so …”
