Forbidden (7 page)

*  *  *

After a while, everybody simultaneously empties their coffee cups and heads for the door like some invisible force is at work. Back to reality.

At the curb, I climb into the jeep and then startle to see Bailey and Rachel dump their stuff into the backseat. Apparently, it’s customary around here to pile into any viable vehicle for the short trek to school. Michael’s black F150 is loaded with students, Duffy’s lifted red Dodge is spilling over with bodies and backpacks, and Jordan’s black Camaro holds him and another guy. Lizzanne and her two friends ride in a sporty white BMW.

And so I follow the line of cars past the courthouse with the all-seeing eye that unnerved me the other day and into the school parking lot directly behind it. I cut the engine and hear a short bell blast.

“First bell, Sophia,” Rachel announces studiously. “Follow me and I’ll drop you at the office.”

I gaze through the windshield at my new school, a redbrick building stretched out like some scaly, slumbering beast. The front is lined with tall blinking windows and a sidewalk that splits a green lawn and runs up to the stoop with two glass doors. Like the rest of the town, the school favors a turn-of-the-century motif.

I try to calculate how many schools I’ve attended during my nomadic travels with Dad. How many unconventional first days? Too many. They flash in my mind like a sporadic music video; no depth, no importance, no meaning.

I see Michael strolling up the sidewalk alongside the others, laughing and joking.
He is playful and carefree. He holds open the door and lets the crowd pass through, and then he methodically turns and looks back at me. It is reminiscent of the night of the accident and my skin tingles with heightened awareness. Our eyes lock and I sense he is remembering, too. He knows I know something, and I’m struck with an unsettling feeling, a calm certainty that
this
first day will encompass all those missing elements and more. Everything is about to change.

Chapter 6

Dante

In a dank cavern in the upper catacombs of Hell, Vaughn Raider lowered the daggers he was twirling across his palms. He, Wolfgang, and the kid, Santiago, were appropriately shocked by Dante’s news. They couldn’t believe The Order approved Dante’s petition to resurface. It was unprecedented.

There was a customary chain of command for this kind of thing. The Order would assign jobs to Demon Knights or reapers. They were issued death contracts and then allowed to resurface to Take the Unforgiven soul. Never had the process been reversed—a Demon Knight requesting a particular assignment.

“They actually agreed?” Vaughn asked. His face was dark and handsome in a rugged sort of way, and it registered the proper surprise.

“Of course. I was happy to
persuade
them.” Dante offered an insidious grin that the others understood; he had used the Demon of Persuasion to get his way.

“They weren’t suspicious?” Vaughn asked, perfectly in the right to worry. Most spiritual entities could feel a compulsion being used on them. When administered by an amateur, it felt like a brain freeze. But a skilled Demon Knight, such as Dante, could effect a warm, light feeling no heavier than a thought.

Still, Vaughn was concerned. There was nothing worse than getting caught using your personal demon on a member of The Order. Well, okay, there was always something worse; it was Hell, after all.

“I had complete control of my demon,” Dante assured them. “I used a new technique I have been working on. Like fly-fishing. A little compulsion whipped back and forth, just touching the surface enough to move a thought. I call it lie-fishing.” He smiled magnanimously. His friends stared, unsure they could risk themselves on Dante’s word. “Well?” he snapped and waved a hand at them. “Let’s go. Get ready.”

Wolfgang loomed over Dante with a scowl, his face half hidden behind stringy black hair. “We have conditions upon resurfacing.” His voice was deep and resounding but marked with the ever-present edginess of the Demon of Impatience buried deep inside him.

Wolfgang’s statement was no surprise; everyone in Hell had conditions. It was a
crude bargaining system, something like, “You stab my back and I’ll stab yours.” Nothing was done for free. Even with friends, conditions had to be met before they would fully cooperate. So Dante agreed to provide certain distractions to keep them occupied while he secretly worked on Sophia’s soul.

This would also keep Wolfgang busy and out of the loop. Dante wouldn’t risk Wolfgang accidentally killing Sophia and losing her soul to Heaven or limbo, all because he couldn’t control his demon. So why take him along? Besides being friends, Wolfgang could be very intimidating and useful when necessary. It would raise suspicion if he weren’t included.

“Yes, you have made your conditions quite clear. And I will provide what you need.” Dante hoped to sound upbeat, even nonchalant, because he had additional news that would surely irritate them. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “But there is a catch to our resurfacing. The Order has conditions, too; we are not given free rein. You
must
control your demons. At all costs. And you are
not
allowed to Take any souls while there. Understand, Wolf? Only me and only the one.”

“What the hell?” Wolfgang growled.

“The Order is still—how did they put it? ‘Less than pleased’ with our last assignment. So we have been placed on something called probation.”

“Well, that’s humiliating,” Vaughn grumbled. He rotated a silver throwing-star back and forth over his knuckles and considered things.

“And if we don’t?” Wolfgang challenged.

“The Death Bunker,” Dante said flatly. They exchanged knowing looks.

Santiago was chewing his fingernails like he was engrossed in a horror flick. His eyes widened and he whispered, “The Death Bunker,” as though the name alone had some mystical power to kill.

The Death Bunker was the lowest level of Hell’s catacombs, the gateway to the Nether Region where unlucky prisoners were tortured beyond comprehension. For the Demon Knights, their dual entities received dual punishment; a henchman provided physical torture while their inner demon expended mental torture, a process called Demonic Fading. When the demon living inside them eventually died, the body shriveled until it was unrecognizable. Crisp like bacon. If the sentencing was severe enough, they would drop down the chute to the Nether Region, that cold, desolate place of isolation where regeneration was impossible.

Nobody survived the Nether Region.

“Wolf? Are you still in?” Dante asked, growing impatient. He had been waiting too long. Delays were unacceptable.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Wolfgang grumbled. “As long as my conditions are met.” He was a three-hundred-pound spoiled baby.

“They will be,” Dante assured and then looked at Vaughn who nodded his agreement. “Oh, and one more thing … Santiago is coming with us.”

“What?” Santiago and Wolfgang yelled in unison.

“It is a condition of The Order. Lord Brutus wants Santi to watch and learn. I am not risking an argument. He is going. It’s done.”

Wolfgang growled, “Well, he’s not riding with me.”

Santiago mulled this over and then sat upright, inspired. He thrust out his chest with inflated importance. Resurfacing so soon after being Taken was rare and could translate to serious bragging rights. At best it would keep gang reapers off his back.

“You liked high school so much you wanna go back?” Vaughn teased, and then laughed at Santiago’s horrified reaction.

“What?” he shrieked. “You mean you guys are going back to high school?
On purpose?
” He was distraught but nobody cared. “Hey, wait, do
I
have a say in this?”

“No!” everybody yelled.

Santiago slumped, crestfallen. “But I don’t wanna go back to high school. It sucked then and it’s gonna suck now.”

“Aw, hell, he’s not going to whine all the way there, is he?” Wolfgang snarled.

“It’s different this time, kid,” Vaughn said sympathetically. “You’re with us.”

Dante had had enough of their bitching and complaining. “Out! Now! Go get presentable. Current. Modern. Whatever it takes. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

As the others filed out, Vaughn steered Dante away for privacy. “You are certain this girl possesses the reincarnated soul?” he whispered.

“Of course. Don’t worry. I know her soul. Sophia is the one.”

Vaughn shifted restively. “You know, every time we resurface in a new time and place, things have changed dramatically. I hear girls are easier and friendlier now than in the sixteen hundreds.” He grinned. “So all you need to do is kiss Sophia, no? Release the toxin that will numb her senses? Make her more pliable, easier to manipulate for …” Vaughn chuckled at Dante’s knowing grin. “Good, you understand. So it shouldn’t take too long? I mean, we are risking a great deal for—”

“I know.”

“Make sure you don’t forget.”

“I won’t. Now may we continue or would you like to remind me to take a piss before we leave?”

Vaughn smiled and patted Dante’s shoulder. “Take your piss while I decide which
badass look I’ll assume to impress the human babes.”

*  *  *

Dante changed clothes three times before settling on black designer jeans and a charcoal mock turtleneck. After all, this was a special occasion. He should look nice and sophisticated but not like he was trying too hard.

He was nervous and wanted everything to be perfect, to run as smoothly as possible. Best-case scenario? Sophia’s soul would flood her with memories the moment she saw him. She would recognize him and remember who she was and what they meant to each other.

Yes, well, that was a long shot. More likely he would have to coax out some old memories first. That was fine; Dante had learned to be patient. Sophia’s soul was more than worth the wait.

He placed a hand on his heart, stunned to feel it beating so erratically. A nervous laugh reverberated up his chest. “It has been so long,
cara mia
, but I am finally coming for you.”

*  *  *

When the others returned, they were clean and freshly clothed but there was a problem.

“You cannot be serious,” Dante complained when he saw their solid-black attire. “You are a walking cliché. I told you, this is a small town in Connecticut. We will scare them half to death.”

“Is that so wrong?” Vaughn faked an innocence pout, causing the others to laugh.

Because Vaughn’s demon was insatiable, his wounds were numerous and continuous, constantly regenerating. They left unpleasant scars all over his body. So his wardrobe was chosen with care: black jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned at the throat. And for good measure, he wore a long black duster, a favorite from the old days. Although Vaughn had never disclosed the details that landed him in Hell, his open smile revealed how good it felt to wear his ancient coat.

As for Santiago, he opted for black skinny jeans with multicolored Converse high tops and a black T-shirt that said,
I DIED FOR AN IRON MAIDEN
. His brown hair remained the same, short and spiked in the back, with long red bangs swept over one eye. It was good enough the first time around, when his life was cut short. That fateful night began
with a dumbass bargain in the back of a skuzzy bar. Santiago had sneaked in to hear a sick band. A stranger appeared with a Ouija board. Somehow the man knew Santiago was greedy for fame and material possessions. He convinced the kid to trade his soul for unparalleled talent on the guitar. Santiago was unaware that he had bargained with a Trickster Demon, and the duplicity was astonishing; Santiago was Taken almost immediately. Ironically, he stepped in front of the Iron Maiden tour bus. What a gyp. And now he was an untested underling resurfacing for the first time. He was so excited he might wet himself.

“Not good enough,” Dante said to Wolfgang, who was still a six-foot-eight monster. “You are too tall, too wide, too everything. You cannot resurface like that.”

“I think he looks craptastic!” Santiago burst out.

Wolfgang grabbed him by the arm and hurled him into a stone wall. But he forgot to let go and was now holding the kid’s left arm in his hand.

“Damnit, Wolf!” Dante snapped. He could see where this was headed.

Santiago extricated his head from the rubble, shook off the dust, and marched over.

“Give it back!” he demanded arrogantly, thrusting out his other hand. Wolfgang smacked him in the face with his own hand. Santiago wailed and grappled for his loose arm with his good arm. “Come on, man! Knock it off!”

Dante sighed at their usual antics. He knew that nothing would teach the kid manners better than beating him with his own arm but there wasn’t time to regenerate a new one. Reluctantly, he ordered Wolfgang to give it back.

Wolfgang pointed Santiago’s finger in his face. “Watch how you speak to me, kid, or you’ll be drinking spleen juice from now on.” He tossed the arm away, causing Santiago to lunge for it.

“I was only practicing the current slang like Vaughn suggested,” the kid whined. He ducked into a corner to reattach his arm in private.

“You need another adjustment,” Dante reminded Wolfgang. “Remember the terms of your condition?”

Wolfgang scratched his head and grudgingly stomped out of the room.

“I’m thinking about my condition.” Vaughn preened in a full-length mirror, admiring his short black hair slicked into a 007 style. He winked at himself and then whipped out two semiautomatics.

“Holy hell,” Dante grumbled. Getting them on the road without extraneous complications was difficult. “That was not part of the condition. You can’t resurface armed like that. I told you, this is a rural town. Your fetish for violence must be
suppressed—”

“I know, I know.” Vaughn lowered his weapons, chuckling. “You remember the last time? We only had knives and muskets. I felt positively naked.” He faked a shiver. “I thought we might need something … sophisticated … and …” Dante was shaking his head against the argument, so Vaughn surrendered without another word.