Personal Demons (24 page)

I can’t remember once in my life ever hating that it was the weekend. But this weekend was hell. There were nightmares about alien body snatchers and convicts with hooks for hands. There were dreams about Luc and Gabe that I blush just thinking about. And twice I was sure I saw a black ’68 Shelby drive past my house.

Belias, Avaira, me, we’re all from . . .

And all day today at school I’ve felt like I was on some kind of possessed seesaw, up and down with Gabe and Luc. But after last-period government, I waste no time grabbing Luc’s arm and dragging him to the parking lot. We climb into his car, and, as soon as the doors are closed, his lips are burning into mine. It feels amazing, so it’s really hard to push him away.

“Tell me,” I say into his lips.

“What?” he says into mine.

I force myself to push back from him. “What you were going to say Friday—in my room—before my mom showed up.”

He reaches for me. “I don’t remember.”

I push back harder. “Belias, Avaira, me, we’re all from . . .” I say to jog his memory.

For a second, his face pinches in a wince. “Later.”

“Now.”

His eyes grow hard, like black obsidian. “It’s nothing.”

“It didn’t seem like nothing Friday.”

He leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and blows out a sigh. “You really don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I
really
do.”

He pulls his head off the headrest and looks at me with tortured eyes. “I’ve done some pretty awful things.”

I feel my gut knot. “So who hasn’t?”

“I mean it, Frannie.”

But all I can think is that there’s nothing he could have done that’s even close to what I have. And suddenly my throat is closing and my chest is tightening. And there’s no air in the car. I push the door open and sort of stagger out onto the pavement.

Luc is there in a heartbeat. He pulls me to him, keeping me from falling over. “Frannie, what’s wrong?”

Secrets.

I lean into him for a long time, gasping for air, then shove him away. I hate that he’s here, seeing this. And I hate more that he thinks I need his help.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

I can tell he doesn’t believe me, and I don’t care. But when he
wraps his arms back around me, I let him. He sits me back on the seat of the car as my breathing eases.

“Sorry,” I say without looking at him.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” I spin my legs into the car and grab the door handle. “Let’s go.”

He steps back and I close the door.

He’s right. I don’t really want to know his secrets. The ones I already have are enough.

Our bodies move together to the pounding rhythm of Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus.” As hard as it is, I push Luc’s burning body away from mine and sit up on his big black bed, working to catch my breath. “I don’t think Mr. Snyder is gonna accept ‘we were too busy messing around’ as an excuse for this outline not being done.”

Luc grabs my hips and pulls me back down next to him. “We could try ‘my dog ate it,’ ” he says hopefully, wrapping his arms around me again. I glower at him for a second before he groans and says, “How fast can we get this thing done?”

I slide up and prop myself against a stack of pillows on the headboard. “We only have the last few questions. It should go pretty quick.”

He gets his composition book off the floor and sits against the headboard next to me, but he’s not writing. He’s staring at me. “You’re going to have to put your shirt on, or I’m not going to be able to concentrate on this,” he says after a minute. “That
red bra is way too hot. I didn’t think the pope let good Catholic girls wear red bras.”

“I’m not a good Catholic girl, remember? I got thrown out of Catholic school.”

“I remember,” he says, and his smile makes my heart skip.

As Depeche Mode urges me to “reach out and touch faith,” I trace the coil of the black serpent tattooed around his upper arm and ogle his bare chest.

“Okay, so . . . Steinbeck . . . ,” I say to distract myself from that smile—and that body. I draw a deep breath and pull my shirt on over my head. Looking down at Mr. Snyder’s handout, I read, “What is he saying about the character of man?”

“That anyone can justify anything, no matter how wrong.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? ’Cause I didn’t get that. I’m thinking his major upshot is that circumstances dictate actions.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really. Think about it. All through the book, Tom does things . . . makes choices based on what he and his family need at that moment. It’s not like he just wakes up one day and says, ‘Gee, I think I’ll go kill somebody today.’ ”

“Okay, but then he
does
kill someone and goes on the run, where he’s not helping his family because he can’t work, and he may end up hurting them if they get caught helping him. So you can’t say he only does things for the good of his family. People do things, and they wrap those choices in all kinds of noble garb, but in the end it’s all self-serving.”

I put the handout down. “Wow . . . so people are all just lying, scheming, self-serving shitbags?”

“Yep, pretty much.”

“With no redeeming qualities whatsoever?”

“Sounds about right.”

“That’s sad,” I say, shaking my head.

“Sad, but true.”

“Okay, so what about Rose of Sharon at the end? She loses her baby but then breast-feeds a starving man. What’s self-serving about that?”

He looks at me for a minute then smiles. “Sorry, you lost me at ‘breast,’ ” he says, glancing at mine.

I elbow him. “You’re such a pig.”

He grins. “I’m not a pig, I’m a guy—which, now that I think about it, is pretty much the same thing. Point taken.”

“I bet your heart is coal. It’s no wonder you see the world through Hell’s glasses,” I say. Opening my composition book, I flip to the page headed “Steinbeck, wrap-up essay outline, Frannie and Luc” and write my last few bullet points. When I’m done I hand it to Luc and watch his face screw into a scowl.

“Well, your glasses are rose-colored, because this list is incredibly naïve.”

“Just ’cause I don’t choose to believe that everyone’s evil doesn’t make me naïve.”

“Yes it does, but that’s all the better for me. So where were we?” he says with a grin. He throws the composition book on the floor and eases my shirt over my head, staring at my red bra.

“I’ll show you naïve,” I say.

His eyes flash and I swear he stops breathing when I smile my own wicked smile and reach behind my back to unhook my bra, tossing it to the floor on top of my shirt. I roll in next to him on the bed and feel my skin melt into his. Luc kisses my
neck and my ear, his hot breath pebbling my skin with goose bumps.

“Mmm, you’re beautiful,” he whispers in my ear. I shudder as a massive rush rolls through me. So is he.

My whole body is a live wire. I’m absolutely buzzing, every nerve ending on overload. With all the others, there was never any question that I was going to stop. I’ve never been ready. But none of them have ever made me feel like Luc does. Everything about him is wrong, but nothing has ever felt so right. The way I can’t get him out of my head and my heart only feels full when we’re together, how he makes everything feel new and exciting, the way I can picture myself with him—telling him everything.

He kisses me deeper as a tear slips from the corner of my eye. I feel like I’m suffocating, but I can’t push him away. I want him closer.

All I can feel is her body next to mine. All there
is
is her body next to mine. The rest of the universe, Heaven and Hell included, has disintegrated into nothingness. By all that is unholy, I’m going to have her for all eternity. I won’t stop until she’s mine . . . in the Abyss . . . where she doesn’t belong . . .

I push the thought away and focus on Frannie. Her eyes are closed and she’s pressing into me, kissing me. I feel her hands on me—all over me. “Don’t stop,” she whispers hot in my ear, but she has no idea what she’s asking. Because, despite what
she thinks, she
is
naïve. I know what lurks in the hearts of man and in my own brimstone heart.

All I have to do is take her. This is the first step on her path to the Abyss. She wants it; I want it . . . oh, how I want it.

I breathe in her chocolate and ginger—taste the currant and clove of her soul. I feel her hands on me, pulling at my jeans. Her kisses become deeper and more urgent. I can’t wait any longer. I need her. Now.

I’m just on the edge of magicking the rest of our clothes away, imagining how her skin will feel against mine, picturing us together, when she pulls back and her eyes pierce mine to my black core. She lifts her hand, tracing my lips with the tip of her trembling finger, and I’m overwhelmed with the scent of warm chocolate.

Chocolate?

Could it be . . .
love
? Does she love me?

As her eyes lock on mine again, it all becomes clear. I’m going to stop, because somewhere along the way I’ve developed a human conscience, and that conscience is telling me that, no matter how much I want her with me forever, this is wrong. She needs to know what I am, to have a choice. I kiss her again, one last time, as if my life depended on it—which it pretty much does since, if I take this route, my next stop is the bottom of the Fiery Pit.

“We can’t do this, Frannie.” She looks away as I prop myself on an elbow above her. “Look at me,” I say more firmly, “I’m not who you think I am.”

And then I do it.

I feel myself cringe against her inevitable reaction as, with
my mind, I push aside my human shell and let her see me in all my Hellish glory: dappled copper skin, shaggy black hair dangling in my slanted, bloodred cat’s eyes; a straight, red gash of a mouth in my flat face; and the requisite black horns, of course. I can feel the fire under my skin as I start to steam, and I pull away, sure I’ll burn her in this form.

I don’t know why, but I thought I might not feel as much for her when I shed my human shell. I was wrong. It turns out I feel more—for her and for me, because my love for her triggers disgust and loathing for myself. And the smell of brimstone, usually so pleasing, is making me sick.
I’m
making me sick.

I expect a scream and maybe the rustling of sheets as she backpedals away from me on the bed. I don’t hear any of that, but I can smell her fear, sweet orange hanging thick in the air. I’m afraid to even look at her, sure I’ll see my own disgust mirrored in her eyes.

But when I
do
look, I can tell she’s not seeing me. Not really. Because what I see under a thin veil of shock is curiosity. Her eyes are wide and her breathing fast as she struggles to put words together. “So . . . what . . . I mean . . .”

“I’m a demon, Frannie,” I interrupt, the anger in my voice directed inward. “From Hell.”

She just stares at me, taking everything in, and myriad thoughts swim in her blue eyes. “From Hell,” she repeats, her voice shaking.

“From Hell,” I say softer, realizing that I’ve made a terrible mistake. What was I thinking? That she’d love me anyway?
You’re a fool, Luc.

The bedsprings creak as she hugs a pillow in front of her and
sits up. Doubt clouds her eyes and a tear slips over her lashes, coursing a crooked path down her cheek, as she processes what she’s seeing. “A demon . . .”

In answer, I groan and drop my face into the pillow. Because I know any minute she’ll run. When the horror of the whole thing sinks in—when she figures out why I’m here—she’ll run screaming from my apartment, and I can’t bear to watch.

But the weight of her silence is crushing me. I roll off the bed and move to the window, staring blindly at the parking lot. She sniffles and I turn to face her. She just stares at me with big, frightened eyes, and I hate that it’s me that’s scared her. I feel myself being drawn back to the bed to comfort her.

But I can’t go back.

I can never go back now that she knows what I am. I’ve lost her.

Self-loathing overwhelms me, and I start to hope that the invisible fist clenching my heart will snuff out its rhythm and kill me. But instead of directing my fury where it belongs, I hear my voice, low and strangled, lash out at her. “
What the Hell is wrong with you?
You should be terrified! Run!”

For a moment, she looks like she might. And I really want her to. I want her to run hard and fast and never look back.

But, Satan save me, I want her to stay more.

It’s a good thing that I don’t have to breathe, because I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be able to. I lean back against the wall, slouching down it and staring at the ceiling with my fingers laced over my horns, and wait an eternity for her to do something. Anything.

Finally, unable to help myself, I drop my gaze back to her.

Her face is brooding, her brow creased. Her voice is heavy, pensive. She hugs the pillow tighter. “This can’t be real.” She rubs her eyes and looks back at me.

I would give anything for it not to be. I hang my head. “It’s real.”

For a minute she’s quiet and I can almost hear her thinking. “I’ve always known there was something . . . dark . . . and sort of dangerous about you,” she says, finally.