Forbidden (32 page)

I have no idea how I know this for sure, or why it doesn’t affect me like it should. It doesn’t stop me from pushing.

“Tell me why. What’s so wrong with Dante or Vaughn or even Wolfgang?” I withhold my own mixed feelings about them. The situation is confusing enough.

“They are …” Michael chooses his words careful. “What … if I tell you they are … evil?” The weight of his words splits the air between us, and I feel a ripple of heat pass through me. Somewhere a line is crossed but I don’t understand how or why I would know this. I tell myself it’s stupid, my overactive imagination.

“Is … is that what you’re saying, Michael? Dante is evil?”

Michael looks like he’s been caught whispering test answers in front of the teacher. My eyes widen in shock, and I encourage him to elaborate. He doesn’t confirm or deny anything so I take the only option left. I laugh out loud. Really hard.

“Oh, come on, Michael.”

I keep laughing and he keeps staring. He doesn’t share my amusement, so I lean closer and whisper confidentially, “Evil like the Grinch or evil like broccoli?”

I slam into his chest without warning, just like at the mud pit. The pulling is so quick this time that his arms circled me
after
I hit him. Our hearts pound violently toward each other, and I gulp air, staring into his hard eyes. Michael is deadly serious, like the night of the accident. But I don’t feel threatened by him, just confused.

“Why does that keep happening?”

Michael slowly shakes his head; apparently, he has no idea either.

We stare without blinking until I say the only thing that’s left in my head. “You’re sexy when you scowl.” I smile cautiously, watching his resolve melt into a soft grin.

“I don’t understand you,” he murmurs. “We have a strange connection between us and you should freak out, but you don’t. I tell you Dante is evil and you should be afraid and you’re not—”

“I was afraid of a guy once. Never again.” I say this on impulse, and then catch my breath.
I can’t believe I just said that!
I don’t want to explain. Not about Steve. Not to Michael. I press my lips together, worried that the next breath will seep memories from under a locked door.

Michael seems to understand. I feel it more than see it. “I like that about you,” he says.

“What?”

“Your strength.”

I never thought of myself as strong. Mom was the strong one; I was the shadow under her wing.

“Having said that,” Michael continues with a sheepish grin. “I
wish
you would stay away from Dante.”

“You
wish
I would stay away?”

“It’s your choice, Sophia.” He sounds dejected.

“You know,” I say curiously, “Dante is always saying that same thing to me.” Michael’s features tighten again. Okay, so he doesn’t like any comparisons between them. “Can’t you tell me why you don’t like him?”

“I already did, Sophia. So trust your instincts, please? They’ll guide you, if you’ll just trust them.”

His plea is so urgent, so sincere, that I agree without another question.

“Besides,” he adds lightly, “the problem is solved. I am no longer trying to avoid you or make you disappear. You no longer have a reason to allow Dante anywhere near you.” He pulls me tightly against him, and I wind my arms around his neck. My body molds to his and all thoughts fall away. Well, except one.

Dante.

*  *  *

Ten minutes later, I stroll out of the courthouse alone and missing one shoe. After some crafty negotiation, sworn promises, and firm resolve, I convinced Michael not to walk me
back to the dance. I knew Dante would be waiting. In fact, I’m sure Dante will be mad, or at least worried; I’ve been gone for over thirty minutes. I want to handle him myself.

After retrieving my shoe, I survey the park. The band is on another break and faint non-descript music hums through the speakers. The adults are lingering in the gazebo but my friends have circled the troops on the grass. Lizzanne, Sarah, and Harper Rose have arrived, and everybody is engrossed in a heated discussion.

I try to slip inconspicuously between Bailey and Casey but everyone stops and stares like I’m a social terrorist come to wreck the party. Rachel asks where I’ve been, and I hold up my camera.

“Needed to take photos of the square.” I’m intentionally blasé, hoping to quell potential suspicions that I am the source of any blood-curdling screams they might’ve heard earlier. I specifically don’t want Dante to know I’ve been with Michael.

I drag a careless glance around the circle and land on pale green eyes. With an expression as still as death, his eyes slowly burn into me like sun through a magnifying glass. I send over a manufactured smile but it breaks and turns to dust against his heated stare.
Maybe I can’t handle Dante as easily as I thought
.

“So listen up,” Bailey says to me because I have been missing things. “We had a legit idea while you were gone. A haunted house for Halloween!”

“Oh.” How original.

“No, seriously, you don’t get it. We’ve never had one before. They’re not allowed inside city limits. So guess the locale?” I shrug and she blurts out, “The old Hardgrave mansion!” And all eyes swing to Dante.

He inclines his head. “Sounds like a plan, no?”

“Sounds like a plan, yes!” Sarah says, smiling and flirting.

Harper Rose says, “I still think we should go for the courthouse. In the old days, the third floor was used to carry out sentencing. I’d bet my favorite toe ring there’s a ton of ghosts up there.”

“What kind of sentencing?” I ask, feeling creepy. I was just making out where other people had suffered and died?

“Mostly hangings.” She yanks on an invisible noose and sticks out her tongue.

“No way in hell we can party up there,” Duffy says. “Mayor Jones and the town
frown
-cil won’t go for it. Personally, I’m sick of livin’ in captivity, so we’re gonna party like it’s for profit at the mansion, and then perform a little Smashing Pumpkins in the square on Halloween night.” He mimics swinging a bat.

Everybody dives in with party suggestions but I’m not listening. Not only is Dante still glaring, but now Vaughn and Wolfgang have joined the fun. I am a target for
their visual daggers. Wolfgang keeps sniffing the air like I was sprayed by a skunk or something.

Rachel mumbles that she might not go to the party.

“Don’t be an eh-hole,” Jordon the Leerer snaps.

“I’m not … its just that—”

“Yeah you are. You’re always bitching about something.”

“Suck it, Jordy!” Bailey yells at him

“
You
suck it!”

“Dafuq you say to her?” Duffy demands, stepping forward.

*  *  *

Everybody goes at it: Bailey defending Rachel, Duffy defending Bailey, and Jordan pissing everybody off. Dante, Vaughn, and Wolfgang take in the verbal assault with raised eyebrows. Bailey explains—in three different languages—just where and how Jordan is to stuff his opinion, and then everyone laughs. Vaughn seems particularly amused, and I see him wink at Bailey. She grins until Duffy elbows her.

“You guuuuys!” Rachel whines, tired of their fighting.

Bailey wraps an arm around her. “Sorry, sweetie. We’re cool; no more Rachel slurs. Besides, you’re still going; everybody has to go. It’ll be lame if people don’t show up.” She looks at Dante. “So, it’s a dance party, right? I mean, it won’t be all Van Helsing scary?”

Dante doesn’t seem to get the reference so Vaughn says, “It won’t be for the faint of heart, but not too wicked to keep the innocent away.” His menacing grin comforts no one.

“Sweet,” Bailey murmurs, lacking any real confidence.

“It is settled then. A Halloween party at my house.” Dante breaks from the circle and walks to me. “As long as Sophia attends.” He drops a hand on my shoulder like a death sentence, and I know he is manipulating something.

I bristle at his sneaky ultimatum.
He can’t possibly know I just promised Michael that I would stay away from him after tonight. Right?

Bailey confirms that of course I will be at the party.

“I don’t do haunted houses,” I say.

Jordan snorts. “Aw, here we go again. What’s the matter, Sophia? You afraid of ghosts?” He laughs in my face.

“No!” I snap.

“You will be,” Wolfgang announces coldly, and everyone stops and stares but no one can read his dark humor. Bailey is torn between unleashing another psychotic episode on Jordan or demanding that Wolfgang explain himself.

“So it is confirmed.” Dante takes my silence as consent, smiling like he’s won some unseen contest. “You can all thank Sophia for the party.” I glare at him but he pretends not to notice.

When the band strikes up, Duffy takes Bailey’s hand. “C’mon, I’m fixin’ to throw down some serious tricks.” He smirks at Vaughn and pulls her away.

I snag her arm at the last minute, and whisper, “Whose idea was the party?”

I’m furious, and she pries my fingers loose. “Chill the frosting, cupcake, it was mine. Why?”

I shake my head. I could’ve sworn Dante was manipulating something, and now I’m feeling kind of lame.

Maybe I’m overreacting. It’s not like it would be the first time. But I don’t like being manipulated. Especially when I’m not sure if I
am
being manipulated. Anyway, it’s just one night. I mean, seriously, how scary can a haunted house be?

Chapter 28

Dante

A few miles outside of town the formidable Hardgrave mansion loomed under a gray moon, already emitting a haunted house aura without effort. Shadows ran cold and deep, less from the season and more from the houseguests. It was a landscape of death; all living creatures, from squirrels to deer, had scattered when the demons arrived. A scarce number of turkey vultures circled the bitter air above, stalking anything that didn’t make it out alive.

Inside, the great room adhered to a turn-of-the-century theme: dark mahogany walls, hardwood floors, and dim yellow sconces sputtering like venomous snakes along hallways and alcoves. They created more shadows and secrets than light. The ceiling was lofty and open, the vast space punctuated by an enormous chandelier hanging from timber crossbeams. An overstated fireplace took up the far wall and blazed day and night, keeping the cavernous room in a blistering heat—a comfortable temperature the demons had grown accustomed to while “living” below.

Wolfgang was reclined in a tall wingback chair before the fireplace, his long legs stretching over an ottoman and black biker boots twitching with agitation. In his hand was a deck of cards that he was systematically flicking into the mantel. He snapped his wrist and a card spun across the room with unnatural speed, slamming violently into the wood paneling.

“Go! Your turn! Beat my jack!” he demanded irritably.

Vaughn was sitting across from him, distracted from the game. Unable to resist his urges any longer, he wrapped his hand around a dagger blade and squeezed. He relished the deep cut burning into his flesh, while black blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto his jeans.

“You know that won’t come out,” Wolfgang griped. “You’ve already gone through—how many pairs—since we’ve been here?”

Vaughn’s head lolled back and his eyes closed.
“Essa non può essere aiutato. Essa non può essere aiutato”
It cannot be helped. Hardly aware of Wolfgang’s warning, Vaughn referred to his undeniable need to inflict pain. Better him than a Forgiven.

“That’s enough!” Wolfgang snarled. It had become more challenging to control
his own demonic urges lately, let alone having to watch Vaughn satisfy his. And the scent of demon blood was wrecking havoc on his nerves. “I mean it!” he yelled.

In a quick fluid motion, Vaughn ripped the blade from its bloody sheath and flung it through the air. It whirled in angry circles before impaling the jack of spades. Black blood splattered across Wolfgang’s jeans.

“You owe me a new pair!” he yelled, grimacing at his jeans. The odiferous damage was worse and he cringed at the stench. It drove him to crave human blood, making it harder to control his demon.

In a fit, Wolfgang hurled his deck of cards, riddling them across the mantel like machine-gun fire. He lunged for Vaughn just as the front door opened and slammed, and Dante strode in.

“Finally!” Wolfgang’s booming voice echoed across the vast room. He tossed Vaughn, who was laughing and eager for the beating, back in the chair. “We’ve been waiting for hours!”

Dante smiled triumphantly. On the ride home from the dance, he had come to a decision. He conceded that the evening hadn’t gone as planned, but it hadn’t been a complete waste. After all, nothing concerning Sophia had gone as planned. She had developed a distinctively independent streak since he knew her last. Any other occasion he would’ve found it amusing. Now—well, it was annoying.

Dante scanned the room with its pseudo-gothic woodwork and arched doorways, its grossly elaborate staircase and the dark, heavy balustrade that lined the upper walkway. Like always, he wondered what Sophia would think of his temporary housing. It was a ridiculous curiosity that should not occur to him. He shouldn’t care to impress her with disposable earthly possessions. If her resistance to his powers of persuasion had faded as he’d hoped, he wouldn’t need to impress her.

But still, he got a rush thinking about her being here. His impromptu idea to host a haunted house party had been brilliant; using compulsion on Bailey to suggest the idea was genius. Sophia would come, of that Dante was sure. And for a brief time, before he took her soul in this early-American eyesore, it would almost be like old times.

Actually, he was feeling rather lucky to have this … what had Bailey called it? This
McMansion
of a house? How unfortunate the Hardgrave family couldn’t stay after the wife’s death. Her pitiful apparition still haunted the halls but she was wise enough to fear Dante and stay quiet.

His lips twisted into a sardonic smile because he knew that the dead Mrs. Hardgrave, and others like her, would soon fear Sophia as well. Until then, he needed to up the ante.