Personal Demons (3 page)

Suddenly I’m furious. The totally ridiculous and insanely irrational thought—
I saw him first
—shoots through my head. I picture myself pushing and shoving through the fluttering and palpitating crowd to get to him, ripping out handfuls of hair and gouging eyes on the way.

I seriously need to get my shit together.
I draw on my judo training to center myself. After a ten-second meditation and a balancing breath, I shoulder my way through the groupies to my locker, where I exchange my books and turn to make my escape . . . just as a hand darts out and burns into my shoulder.

“Hey. What do you have now?” That sticky-sweet, warm honey voice is behind me, so close I can feel its heat.

I turn and smile at Luc as the sharp edge of Angelique’s glare nearly cuts me in half.

She turns and I smell her fury—black pepper—overpowering the ginger lust of the others. Mmm . . . That’s a good start. The first step. She smirks at Angelique and says, “History, Mr.—”

“Sanghetti, room 210?” I interrupt.

“You too?”

“Yep.” I start to reach out for her arm as she turns up the hall, but I catch myself because I didn’t miss the way she flinched back from the heat of my touch when I grabbed her shoulder. I’m literally too hot to handle.

I give Frannie a sidelong glance, and she drops her gaze to the floor.

“So . . . do you have lunch after?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“Do you wanna sit with my crew?” She sounds tentative—not her usual confident fire.

“As appealing as that sounds, I have some things I need to take care of. Maybe another day.” Truth is, all human food is repulsive, but high school cafeteria food . . . just can’t do it.

“Whatever,” she says, brushing it off.

I catch a hint of ginger, and everything in me vibrates like a plucked guitar string as a crackle of hot lightning shoots through me. She’s The One. I’m sure of it. Her soul is to be tagged, but not collected—which is good, because collection isn’t in my job description. She’s been tricky, though. The last two demons we sent couldn’t find her and are now burning at the bottom of the Fiery Pit. But they were lesser demons—Third Level. So now we’ve sent in the best, which, of course, would be me. My razor-sharp instincts have gotten me to where I am: First Level, just shy of the council. They’ve never steered me wrong. And now they’ve steered me to Haden High, right into the path of one Miss Frannie Cavanaugh.

We walk into history and Frannie sits near the middle of the room. I head up the aisle to Mr. Sanghetti, who is leaning back in his chair, just at the tipping point, with his heels on his desk. I smile as I imagine bumping his chair—just by accident—and sending him over backward.

“Mr. Sanghetti?”

He looks up. “Yes.”

I hold out my schedule, and he rolls his eyes, sighs deeply, and makes a huge production of pulling his feet off the desk and dragging his husky, middle-aged frame to a stand. “I suppose you need an admit slip?”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

He rummages in his desk and finally comes out with a crumpled yellow slip of paper, then turns and pulls a textbook from the bookshelf behind his desk.

He looks at my schedule again and writes my book number next to my name on his roster. “Anywhere is fine, Lucifer,” he says, handing me the book and gesturing to the room.

“Call me Luc.”

“All right then, Luc. Just take any seat,” he says with another wave of his hand.

I turn and make my way back to Frannie, taking the desk to her right. As I sit, Mr. Sanghetti starts calling roll.

“Jose Avilla. Jennifer Barton.” Hands shoot up in turn. “Zackary Butler. Lucifer Cain.”

Her eyes dart to mine and snap wide. I just grin at her.

“Mary Francis Cavanaugh.”

I feel my grin widen as Frannie raises her hand.
Mary Francis.
Oh, this is rich.

When Mr. Sanghetti finishes taking roll, he has us turn to page 380 in our text and drones about the fall of Christian Jerusalem during the Crusades.

I just stare at Frannie—excuse me,
Mary Francis
—and chuckle to myself.

And about half the time, Mary Francis is staring right back at me.

Then the lights go down and an image of ancient Jerusalem flashes onto the smartboard.

“What was at the root of the struggle for Jerusalem?” Mr. Sanghetti asks. A few hands go up, and I listen to the answers, remembering how it really happened. Having actually been there makes every history class I’ve ever taken—all hundred or so—really amusing. It’s like that game where someone whispers something in someone’s ear to start and it gets passed down the chain until the last person says it out loud and it’s nothing like what the first person really said.

So, I keep looking over at Luc—shoot me, I can’t help it—and all through history, he’s got this smug little smirk on his face. No idea what that’s about, but, now that I think of it, maybe it’s good that he blew off lunch. I’m not sure I’m ready to share him with Taylor. She and Riley are always on me about being a charity dater, meaning they think I always choose the needy semi-losers. Riley thinks it’s a control thing, and she may be right. I don’t do anything I don’t want to, and I’m not gonna end up in some relationship where I feel pressured. But there’s also the Taylor factor. Since we met in fourth grade our relationship has been a friendly rivalry. Unfortunately for her, I always get the grades. Unfortunately for me, she always gets the guys. All things considered, the needy semi-losers are just a safer choice, mostly ’cause they’re not Taylor’s type.

But, watching Luc smirk at Mr. Sanghetti, I know two
things for sure: Luc is no needy semi-loser, and Taylor’s gonna go after him. So, whatever all of this insanity going on inside of me is, I better get over it.

I’m still staring at him. And, of course, he catches me and locks my gaze with his. When I see that he’s not breathing, I realize that I’m not either. I take a deep breath. He seems to notice and breathes deep too. And smiles. And twists my insides into a knot. Ugh!

“Luc, any thoughts?” Mr. Sanghetti is standing right in front of us. How the hell did he get there?

Luc leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head and straightening his legs out from under his desk, crossing them at the ankles. He stares up at Mr. Sanghetti. “Well, it’s really impossible to ferret out a single issue. I suppose it boils down to theology—though the First Crusade didn’t even start out as a religious war. I think that Pope Urban was stressing because of the Constantinople crew bailing on him, so he was looking to score some points and bring them back into the fold.”

Mr. Sanghetti stands there staring, wide-eyed, for a second, then turns and walks to the front of the room. “Well, I suppose that’s one perspective.” He turns back to face us. “Not necessarily the
right
perspective . . . but a perspective nonetheless.”

Luc leans forward, elbows on his desk, and his eyes flare. Then a calm smile settles over his face. “Well, if you don’t want to believe it was just a big power grab, there’s also the opinion that a bunch of French nobility were bored stiff and looking for something to do.”

And the old “saved by the bell” cliché becomes a reality,
except I’m not sure exactly who was just saved, Luc or Mr. Sanghetti.

I turn to look at Luc.
“Lucifer?”

“Yes, Mary Francis.”

I glower at him. “Your name is
Lucifer?
As in
the devil?”

And there’s that wicked grin again. “In the flesh. It’s a common name where I come from.”

I pull myself out of my seat. “Where is that?”

His eyes flash, hungry and eager. “Nowhere you’ve ever been.”

I shudder and shake my head. “What some parents do to their kids.”

There’s an amused gleam in his obsidian eyes as he walks with me to the door. “So let me guess. Mary Francis . . . a good Catholic family with—wait, don’t tell me . . . eight kids?”

“Five.” I don’t like his tone. “Later,” I say over my shoulder as I turn toward the cafeteria.

“Later,” he says, but I can feel his eyes burn through my back as I walk up the hall.

I’m washed through the door of the cafeteria by the human tide and find Taylor and Riley at our usual table, just inside the door for an easy getaway. The walls, floor, and tabletops in the cafeteria are all puke green so the real puke won’t leave stains. Just looking at it always leaves me feeling a little queasy.

Riley’s leaning over a book and picking through her salad with a bent fork. Taylor is bouncing in her seat, her spiky yellow-and-pink hair vibrating wildly. Between the bouncing and the lascivious gleam in her eye, I know there’s no keeping Luc to myself. She knows.

Despite everything, Taylor has always been exactly what I
needed in a friend. ’Cause, really, we’re just alike in all the ways that matter. Neither of us is warm and fuzzy. We both have our boundaries to keep anyone from getting too close. And we’ve both respected those boundaries from the beginning. I don’t know what hers are about, and she’s never asked about mine. I’ve never had to be afraid of Taylor pushing me, trying to get through my defenses. And neither has she.

Riley and all her
feelings
, on the other hand, are dangerous. The first time I ever saw Riley’s face, Angelique Preston was grinding a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone into it. It was the summer after seventh grade, and Taylor and I had walked to the ice cream shop, where Angelique had Riley pressed up against the outside of the building. I could tell from the words coming out of Angelique’s mouth—something along the lines of “lard ass”—and the wounded and humiliated look in Riley’s eyes that this was no harmless prank amongst friends. Without even stopping to think, I yanked Angelique’s arm off of Riley and twisted her into a headlock. And, in that instant, all in one fell swoop, I made an accidental friend and a mortal enemy.

Looking at Riley now, she’s a mere shadow of her former self. Still curvy, but in a way that turns guy’s heads. I would bet money it was in that moment, shoved up against the brick wall of the ice cream shop, dripping mint chocolate chip, that she’d resolved to lose weight.

“Dish!” they both say as I drop my book bag on the floor.

“What?”

Taylor glares at me, which she’s very good at. “No holding out, Fee! We know about New Gorgeous Hunk Guy, so dish! Now!”

Great. News travels fast. I go all innocent. “Is he gorgeous? Who said that?”

Taylor’s still glaring. “You’re such a bitch.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Spill it!”
Riley screeches, slamming her book down on the table, and everyone in a three-table radius is suddenly staring at us.

“All right. Chill. Let me get lunch,” I say looking at the unrecognizable glop on other people’s trays as they pass by. “What the hell is that?”

Riley’s faces scrunches. “Probably some tofu thing. The district ran out of money again this week.”

“Great. Let me get up there before all the salad’s gone.” I glance to the door, hoping Luc might change his mind, and make my escape as Taylor simmers. I take my time in the line picking all the best pieces out of the wilty scraps of lettuce, spend at least five minutes choosing the biggest brownie, and sip and refill my Coke twice before making my way slowly back to the table. When I get there, I swear there’s steam coming out of Taylor’s ears.

“Dish, dammit!” she says as I slide into my chair.

“He’s just a new guy. Luc.” My eyes gravitate to the door, hoping he’ll appear there.

“Where’d he come from?”

“No clue.”

Taylor’s eyes press me. “How’d you meet him?”

“Essay partners, Mr. Snyder.”

“Did he ask you out yet?” Riley asks.

I glance at the door again then roll my eyes. “I couldn’t even get him to eat lunch with us.”

“Hmm . . .” I can see Taylor’s gears grinding. “He doesn’t really sound like your type.”

I just shrug.

Her eyes are eager. “So, maybe you can hook me up with him?”

And there’s the knot in the pit of my stomach. “Whatever.”

“What about that party Friday? The one at Gallaghers’. You think he’d go if I asked him?”

“You haven’t even met him.” The acid in my voice startles me. I knew this was coming. Why am I surprised?

Her expression shifts to planning mode. She taps her finger on her chin. “The party’s day after tomorrow. If you’re not going to ask him, he’s mine.” She grins at me.

I smile back, as fake and sweet as saccharin. “You know what, Tay? Go to Hell.”

I’m working on those things I need to take care of during lunch, which mostly entail slinking around the parking lots, locker rooms, and loading docks on the prowl for anyone useful. But I’ve got to say I’m having a harder time focusing than I’d hoped. I’m imagining how a five-two, sandy-blonde would fit just perfectly against my body as I . . .

Okay . . . this is getting ridiculous.
Focus.

But, for some reason, I find myself meandering past the cafeteria door—not once, or twice, but five times, until I finally give up and go inside. I walk up right behind Frannie, where she’s sitting near the door, in time to hear her say, “You know
what, Tay? Go to Hell,” and I smile, because I think it’s cute that she’s inviting her friends along.

“Hey,” I say. “This seat taken?” My smile pulls into a grin when she nearly jumps out of her skin. Mmm . . . what’s that? Grapefruit? Feeling a little afraid, are we? Smart girl. But then I catch a hint of ginger and my grin widens. She wants me. Excellent.

Her friends—a slender blonde with pink highlights, a gleam in her charcoal eyes, and a labret and a shyer-looking brown-haired beauty with intense brown eyes—are both staring at me. I’ll work on them later.

“No, I guess.” Frannie turns in her seat and her eyes flit to mine. “I thought you had things to do,” she says, the disappointment in her voice at odds with the ginger she’s giving off.

I scrutinize her as I answer. “Done.”

With a flash of her eyes, the blonde stands and presses her hands into the tabletop, enhancing her cleavage as she leans across the table toward me. “Ahemmmm . . . Fee, don’t you want to introduce us?” A suggestive half-smile quirks her glossy pink lips, and her eyes never leave mine.