Forbidden (4 page)

“For starters,” Dante answered confidently, his handsome Italian face grinning, “the pastor has sealed his fate; his sin is unforgivable. And as for me, let’s just say I’ve got a feeling about it.”

There was a grunt of disapproval from the recesses of the cavelike room.

Wolfgang, the size of your garden-variety gladiator, had been pacing in the shadows, anxious and bored. He was cursed with the Demon of Impatience and it was like living with warring personalities—bipolar opposites constantly at each other’s throat. When he maintained control, he was bored; when he was bored, he got anxious to destroy something. In short, Wolfgang was always anxious and bored.

Long black hair fell across his rugged face, and solid black eyes stared without blinking. “That’s what you said last time, in Salem, where you persuaded all those people to think their wives and daughters were witches. How many souls did we lose? Oh, wait—all of them! And we’ve been grounded ever since because you had a
feeling
we should go there.”

Dante folded his arms and gave Wolfgang a smug look. He wouldn’t be provoked today. He had full control of his demon, Persuasion, and wouldn’t use it to manipulate Wolfgang, mainly because the accusation was true. Their last assignment had ended horribly. Dante had tracked his lover’s reincarnated soul to a sweet young woman in Salem, Massachusetts. But she was unfairly accused of being a witch and hanged to death just minutes before Dante and his pack arrived. Her soul was safely out of his reach in Heaven. Again.

It was the third time in three decades that he had located her soul only to lose it by mere moments. Salem was the tipping point, and Dante’s rage knew no boundaries. The townspeople of Salem thought his lover had been a witch, so he gave them witches, in spades. He unleashed his demon and persuaded the townspeople to turn on one another, a full-fledged witch hunt that resulted in the torture and death of countless innocent souls.

Dante had made them pay and took the consequences with no regrets. Now he
was back, with a plan.

The door to the antechamber opened and a tall skeletal frame shrouded in a black cloak beckoned Dante with a pale bone finger. Dante recognized the creature as one of The Order’s mute servants. The Demon Knights affectionately referred to them as Marrow Men. They were made entirely of brittle bones, the leftovers from heaps of skinned corpses found in the Death Bunkers. One had to be careful not to touch them or they would collapse at your feet and you would lose your escort. Since no one could appear before The Order without an escort, it was best to protect your servant.

Dante flashed a smile to his friends. “The time has come.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get pissy if they refuse,” Vaughn warned. “I’m not in the mood to play scavenger hunt for your body parts.” He grinned and then hollered at the servant. “Hey, Marrow, how about a quick arm wrestle?”

The mute servant slowly raised his long, bony middle finger, and Vaughn burst out laughing.

Dante followed the servant out and along the corridor. As usual, the walkway was covered with white powder from the numerous servants’ shuffling. They were constantly grinding down their feet to nubs and eventually had to replace them. Dante was shifting restlessly behind the slow-moving servant, eager to get going. As they rounded a corner, they collided with Santiago, a newly Taken soul who hadn’t grown accustomed to the protocol. He bumped into Marrow and broke off the servant’s hand. It clattered to the floor at Dante’s feet. Dante gasped at the near miss. Any harder and the kid would have toppled Marrow and Dante would have been forced to wait even longer for another escort.

“Oh, sorry,” Santiago muttered vaguely.

Dante grabbed him by the neck and hurled him down the corridor. “Out of my way!” he yelled and then retrieved the servant’s hand.

Santiago flailed wildly across the powdered floor. He wanted to retaliate but recognized the Demon Knight; no one retaliated against Demon Knight Dante. So Santiago scrambled to his feet and raced into the antechamber, slamming the door behind him.

“The Order finally called for him?” he asked, panting against the door. Santiago was sixteen and an underling, meaning he had no demon of his own. Lately, he had been hanging with Vaughn Raider in hopes of learning some kick-ass defensive skills. Anything to keep Lesser Reapers off his back.

“You don’t want to be here if The Order refuses him,” Vaughn said. “They don’t describe Dante’s temper as ‘a sight to behold’ for nothing.” Santiago’s presence had
roused Vaughn’s demon, urging him to inflict pain. Gathering his daggers, Vaughn gestured toward the kid as an open invitation.

Santiago eyed the weapons and shuddered noticeably. His thumb absently traced his wrist where the last scar had barely finished regenerating. He wanted to help Vaughn again but the pain had been excruciating. Santiago lowered his eyes and shook his head.

Vaughn chuckled. It was no surprise that his friends rarely volunteered. But they might be astonished to know he hated to ask, hated his curse, and hated his demon. Mostly, he hated hurting others. Every time his demon resurfaced, it went wild, well beyond tormenting troubled souls as all demons do. His demon loved to inflict physical pain; Vaughn hated it. To alleviate his guilt and his demon, he opted for self-mutilation.

He handed the daggers to Wolfgang, marched across the room, and flung open his shirt. “Go for it.”

Wolfgang hauled back and threw one blade after the other in rapid succession. Each slammed violently into Vaughn’s chest.

“Ahhh.” Vaughn’s head flew back as pain coursed through him in bittersweet ecstasy. Black blood oozed from the wounds, satisfying his demon. For the moment.

Although he was a seasoned warrior accustomed to the sight of blood, Wolfgang snarled with disgust. “Can’t you get your fix another way? There’s plenty of Lesser Reapers roaming around. Or make Santi submit. I’ll hold him down while you gut him like a fish.”

“What’s the matter, Wolf? Lose your taste for blood?”

Wolfgang grunted at the lame joke; his lust for blood was legendary, even before he was Taken all those centuries ago when he wore Roman armor. And he wasn’t the reigning champ of the Demonic Games for nothing. No one matched his strength and bloodlust.

Vaughn started to remove the daggers but Wolfgang stopped him.

“Leave them. I’ll twist them later. You know, for
dessert
or something,” he mocked. “And if you have to know, Raider, the stench of
your
demon’s blood is starting to make me sick. Otherwise, I’d chop you to pieces myself.”

“Now, now, don’t tease me like that.” Vaughn gave him a sappy grin and removed the blades to let his skin regenerate new scars over the piles of old ones. He returned to his stool and whetting stone, and began reworking the blades. And they waited.

And waited.

After another hour, Dante threw open the door and held up a scroll encased in a long black cylinder—the death contract for Pastor St. James.

“The time has come for—how do they say it on the surface now—a little road trip?”

Chapter 4

The Heart of Haven Hurst

You gotta be kidding
.

I crack open my eyes and realize the muffled thumping and awkward clanging isn’t a soundtrack to my nightmare. It’s real. It’s live. It’s outside the window.

I push to my elbows and listen. Lovely birdsongs are butchered by a thunderous clang. “A band?” My mattresses are on the floor and I reach over and grab my cell phone, squinting at the digital readout. Seven-thirty on a Saturday morning. I calculate to West Coast time and groan, “Four-freakin’-thirty.”

As usual, Sundance commandeers the double bed and army-crawls over and licks my cheek. “Hey, ya mind?” I laugh and burrow in the bedding.

There is more obnoxious drumming and then somebody gets happy with the cymbals. I grimace and feel a tug on my scar. My fingers find the rise where ten stitches stopped the bleeding. Bruises fade, but a black cloud wearing cement shoes sinks deep inside me. I sigh and pray for a reprieve.
Please, no memories today
.

My eyes fill and burn, just like every morning since the incident when I wake up to find Self-pity in bed with me. I have to fight him off just to start my day. When I’m feeling strong enough. Some days I win; some days he pins me to the mattress and I have to tap out.

The space between my eyes starts to throb and tears spill down—a sucker punch. I cry, covering my face with my hands.
Okay, Sophia, just let it out and be done with it
.

It doesn’t last long this time because Sundance tunnels under the covers and we’re able to double-team Self-pity until he relents and fades.

Sundance wants me to come out and play, and I sniffle and smile weakly. Even he knows it’s time to move on. So I haul myself up and trudge to the window. My butt screams
PINK
in Victoria’s Secret plaid boxers. White knee socks make good sliders along the hardwood floor. Last night I cracked open the window for fresh air and now this insane timbre is seeping through unobstructed.

I push the window all the way up and lean out. No screen! I gape down from the second story.
Jeez, somebody could fall out
.

Our house is second from the corner and diagonal from a town square and park
that seems to be the heart of Haven Hurst. We are situated among a block of sturdy efficient houses: Craftsmans, Victorians, and Colonials. Homes made of love and perseverance. Despite their ages, they’ve been perfectly restored in sharp vibrant colors, something you’d see in
This Old House
magazine. I resent their charm because Mom would’ve adored them the way you fawn over puppies in a pet store window. It hurts to think she would’ve been happy here so I push it down, like always.

Another crash of percussion and cymbals makes me twitch so I search for the source of the morning’s melodic debauchery. A small stage in the park holds a bedraggled eight-piece band that is brutalizing an otherwise pleasant September morning.

Sundance starts the happy dance on the hardwood floor. “Time to take care of business, huh, boy?”

I open the door, and he charges down the stairs. I make for a bathroom at the end of the hall. The reflection in the mirror startles me.
That can’t be accurate
. My long brown hair is doing an encore of last night’s strand-up comedy and my eyes are a lovely shade of zombie red. The scar in my eyebrow? A sleeping caterpillar. I’ve checked it continuously for two weeks hoping one day it will turn butterfly and flit away.

Will I ever feel the same again?
No, because I’m not the same. Part of me will always remember what happened. Memories are cave paintings tattooed on the walls of my mind; they are there for all time.

I inhale and glare into blue-green eyes and tell that girl who feels sorry for herself to just suck it! It happened! Get over it! Move on! This is a new town with new possibilities. I need a fresh start. I need a clear focus.

I need to talk to Dad.

Mom used to say I sink my teeth into something like a pit bull and don’t let go until I’m satisfied. I want to try one more time to get some answers about her mysterious death before Dad pretends he’s too busy unpacking to answer me.

So I pad down the stairs, troop into the living room, and stop cold. There is Dad with three old ladies in red hats and purple dresses and an older man and two young guys. All eyes shift to me.

My first thought—
no bra!
I cross my arms over the skimpy blue tank and pray no one notices. Embarrassment colors me lobster red.

“Oh, here she is!”

The speaker is a tall lady with dark hair and a red triangle mouth. She wears an ornate red hat like a crown and introduces herself as Abigail Monroe. Her name is a title; I feel I should pay homage. She announces the other ladies as Gracie and Norah McCarthy, aka, the twins. Peasants, no titles.

The twins are short and plump, wearing identical red pillbox hats and stuffed in tight purple dresses like sausages. They’re as cute as two peas in a pod, each offering up a loaf of baked bread in their pudgy hands. The aroma is familiar. Banana bread? Mmm, my favorite. I smile and one of the twins inclines her head.

“That’s right, banana bread,” she says, and I stare without blinking.

What the
—

“And this is George James,” Dad says, pulling my thoughts away from me. “And his son Casey James, and um—”

“Jordan Blackwell,” Jordan says. He notices my arms dead-bolted across my chest and offers a hand and a leering grin. My eyes narrow against his obvious attempt. When I don’t shake his hand, he laughs under his breath.

“The boys are here to help you move in,” Abigail says, her eagle eyes noting that none of our substantial furniture made it inside last night.

Casey James is about my height, with sandy-blond hair and brown eyes. He is cute in a ruffled-little-boy sort of way. He flips hair from his eyes and shrugs carelessly. “My dad loans me out.”

My eyes slide to Jordan. He is slightly taller and brunette, with dark eyes that suggest an Asian influence. “I’m getting paid.” His voice is an ax thudding into wood. We stare for an awkward moment until I can’t take his leering anymore. I thank the twins for the bread, smile hesitantly at the guys, and then race back upstairs to change.

*  *  *

I am standing in the checkout line of Hadley’s Market talking to Bailey Caraway. I know she is Bailey Caraway because she and a friend cruised inside and made a beeline for me like I was the last item in a scavenger hunt and she said, “Hey, I’m Bailey Caraway.”

She is tall and pretty with loads of thick dark hair. She pulls the brown grocery bag from my arms, and says, “This is Rachel Martin.” She nods toward her partner in crime.

My defenses go up. I’ve been the New Chick more times than I care to remember. I say “Hey,” cautiously and hope they’ll reserve the verbal assault for school, so I can disappear into the back row where all the newbies go to die a slow and painful death.

The bagger hands me another bag but Rachel takes it. “You don’t mind us helping?” she asks sweetly. She has dark auburn hair that spirals like a slinky and frames her bright apple cheeks.