No Angel (2 page)

Chapter 2

W
eekly Peer Assessment feedback sessions will now take place on Thursday evenings in your common rooms, mediated by staff.” The Headmistress swept the assembly hall with a stern glare. “Final-year girls, your Peer Assessment will be of particular concern to you this half term as it will determine whether or not you will be fortunate enough to have an escort to our traditional Masked Ball in October. As usual, pupils from Winchester Boys’ School have generously volunteered their services as your dance partners, but as there are only two dozen young men available, many of you must inevitably be disappointed. Selection of escorts will thus be done strictly by Peer Assessment results two days prior to the Ball itself. See your form head, Ms. Wormwood, for further details.” Glancing down at her lectern, the Headmistress flipped to the next index card. “The school play this year will be Shakespeare’s
Othello
, and auditions will take place—”

She might as well have been announcing the latest football scores, for all the attention the girls were paying her. I could feel the heat of their stares washing over me like a flamethrower. I stood behind the Headmistress with my arms folded and feet braced, my own eyes fixed on the massive stained-glass window at the far end of the chapel.

If my pose seemed cool, it wasn’t on purpose. It was just that every one of my muscles had locked, rigid with terror.

“And I remind you once more that the crypts below the old chapel are out-of-bounds for all girls.” The Headmistress paused as muffled giggles scurried around the cavernous room. “And boys. Boy. Which leads me to the next topic.”

Another, louder mass giggle rippled through the hall. I didn’t dare glance down. I was going to be able to draw that sodding stained-glass angel on my deathbed.

The Headmistress carried on, ignoring the interruption. “As some of you may be aware, recent changes to legislation about diversity and equal opportunity in education mean that single-sex schools are no longer eligible for a number of government grants. Happily, we have managed to find a way to avoid painful cuts to our school budget.” She gestured in my direction like a conjurer forced to produce a rather disappointing rabbit out of a hat. “I hope you will all welcome Mr. Rafael Angelos—”

My total embarrassment was unexpectedly cut short, as someone at the back of the hall very thoughtfully picked that exact moment to fall off her chair with an earsplitting shriek.

“Although not, perhaps”—the Headmistress raised her voice over the eruption of laughter—“quite as
enthusiastically
as Miss Moon.”

The girl scrambled for her overturned chair, her face bright red behind a swinging curtain of poker-straight brown hair. She wasn’t much to look at, but at that moment I could quite happily have kissed her. At least now most of the school was staring at someone other than me.

The Headmistress tapped her notes against the lectern like a judge banging a gavel, and the room quieted again, heads turning back to face the front. “And with that excitement out of the way, we move on to more important matters. Renovations to the plumbing in the central lavatories will be commencing—”

With the tension broken, I was finally able to relax my shoulders a little. I risked dropping my gaze to the crowd. For the first time, I was able to get a proper look at my new schoolmates.

They sat in age order, the front rows occupied by first-year eleven-year-olds, awkwardly sitting cross-legged on the floor in their pleated skirts. I skipped over them, and the first three-quarters of the room. Things got more interesting at the point where the chairs started.

The fifth- and sixth-year girls.

No one was going to be sitting on the floor in
those
skirts. With a heroic effort, I forced myself to focus on faces rather than legs. They knew I was looking at them; a ripple of movement ran across the hall, each girl dropping her head coyly or hiding behind her hair or clapping her hands to her mouth and bursting into giggles the instant my gaze fell on her.

Then my eye snagged on the girl sitting at the very end of the last row.

Mind. Officially. Blown.

She was hands-down the hottest girl in the school. She was the hottest girl I’d ever
seen
, and that was including on the internet. Her deeply tanned skin glowed like burnished gold. Her mass of black hair was pulled back from her perfect face in a loose ponytail, while her long, elegant hands rested casually on her crossed knees. She met my stare head-on, assessing me with cool, dark eyes.

She was, without a doubt, utterly out of my league, and I instinctively started to turn away, in case her inevitable boyfriend caught me looking. Then my brain kicked in. What boyfriend? Even if she had one . . . he wasn’t here. And I was. And she was still staring at me with that strange intensity, as if there was nobody else in the room apart from the two of us. . . .

A scraping of chairs and rustle of movement jolted me back into reality. The girls were standing up, starting to file out, while the Headmistress was glaring at me as if waiting for something. I hastily tried to replay her last few words in my head and drew a complete blank. I pasted a general expression of helpful attentiveness onto my face instead.

“I
said
, Mr. Angelos,” the Headmistress repeated with an icy bite that wilted my smile instantly, “that lessons will commence after lunch, and that you should use this morning to familiarize yourself with the school grounds.” Her lips compressed for a moment. “On further thought, I believe I shall provide you with an escort.” Her gaze swept over the back of the hall, where a tall, redheaded woman in jeans and a bright pink shirt was rounding up the sixth-year girls. My dark-eyed angel was lingering at the back of the group, looking over her shoulder at the stage.
Oh please, pick her, pick her—

“Miss Moon!” the Headmistress called out. The girl who’d fallen off her chair tripped over her own feet, crashing into a group of blonde girls who jumped back as if she might give them leprosy.

The Headmistress clearly hated me.

“Miss Moon will show you around,” the Headmistress said to me, turning away. She paused to give me one last, cold stare. “I shall be keeping my eye on you. Behave yourself, Mr. Angelos.”

“No worries,” I muttered, eyeing the girl as she sidled through the crowd, head swiveling as if she was expecting to be tripped up at any moment. Up close, she definitely wasn’t in the top three hottest girls, or even the top ten. I guessed she was half Chinese, but she was hardly about to star on the cover of
Hot Asian Babes
. As she reached the stage, she gave me a weird, conspiratorial look, as if the two of us shared some deep secret. She pulled a palm-sized pendant out from under her shirt, flashing it in my direction. The symbol engraved on the metal winked at me.

A pentagram.

It was definitely the same sort of star-in-circle design as the graffiti drawn across the chapel doors. This one didn’t make my stomach churn, but there was something weirdly compelling about it. My palms itched as if it was the latest and greatest mobile phone handset, begging to be held and fondled, rather than a dorky piece of cheap goth jewelry.

I blinked, aware that I’d been staring with my mouth open. So much for not acting like a total idiot. Stepping off the stage—a six-foot drop, but heights had never bothered me—I landed solidly on my feet next to the girl, irritated with both her and myself. “Put that away,” I snapped. My hands clenched as I fought down a sudden desire to grab the medallion from her. What
was
it with these pentagram things? “Now.”

The girl’s grin widened, but she tucked the engraved metal disc back under her shirt. Her pink-rimmed, heavily made-up eyes gave her an uncanny resemblance to a mascaraed rabbit on an anti-animal-testing poster. She was either the world’s least intimidating goth or one of those dippy pagan chicks who ate vegan crap and babbled about some moon goddess. “So you’re finally here.” She made an abortive motion with her hand, as if she’d started to offer it to me to shake, then thought better of it. “I’m Krystal.”

Riiight. Dippy pagan chick it was, then.

Krystal took a step closer, pushing her hair back behind her ears as she scrutinized me. “And I know who
you
are.” Her tone made it sound like some sort of secret knowledge, rather than something that had just been announced from a podium. “Rafael Angelos.” She giggled suddenly, which I felt was a bit rich coming from a girl named Krystal-effing-Moon. “I thought you’d use a different name.”

“Call me Raf,” I said, probably futilely. I
really
hated the nickname “Raffi,” which made me feel like I was still five, but I’d pretty much given up trying to shake it off. Maybe I just didn’t look like a Raf.

Judging from the way Krystal was eyeing me, apparently what I
did
look like was the answer to her prayers. But not in a love—or even lust—at first sight sort of way. Her expression was a weird mixture of relief and expectation, mingled with a hint of impatience, as if I was a plumber who’d finally arrived to fix the leaky taps. Her watery brown eyes stayed fixed on mine, without giving the rest of me even a cursory once-over. “You’re here for Faith, right?”

I knew gossip traveled fast, but not
that
fast. I hesitated. If I said no, I might get a bad reputation as a player, but if I said yes, I’d be linked to Faith, which could be inconvenient. “It’s true,” I said at last, deciding on a strategy. I leaned in close, giving her my best intent, serious stare. “But you mustn’t tell anyone.”

Krystal’s eyes widened. Then she beamed at me, the smile lighting up her face and making her almost pretty for a moment. “I won’t.” Her face fell a little. “It’s not like anyone would listen to me.” She fiddled with the chain around her neck. “So . . . I guess I should show you around?”

“Please,” I said, seizing on the only thing she’d said that had actually made sense. “I need to know where everything important is.”

“Right.” Krystal turned away—then hesitated. Before I could fend her off, she whirled around and planted a quick, clumsy kiss on my jaw. “Thank you,” she whispered. She jumped away again, her hair swinging forward to hide her red face. “Uh-um, come on then,” she stammered. She hurried off without a backward glance.

Girls were so weird.

Chapter 3

K
rystal, as it turned out, had an odd sense of priorities. Her tour of the school neglected to show me any classrooms, but did feature a demonstration of how to break into the crypts beneath the chapel, followed by a tour of a half-ruined building tucked deep in the woods, which, she assured me, had once been a shrine. “I found it myself, on a map of the original convent,” she said, gazing at the ivy-covered structure with apparent satisfaction. “I think only me and Faith know about it. Anyway, no one else ever comes here.”

“Uh, great.” I edged away, wishing we weren’t
quite
so far from the rest of the school. “Why are you showing it to me?”

“I just thought you might find it useful.” Krystal shrugged. “As far as I can tell from the library archives, it’s still sacred ground, like the crypts. The actual chapel was deconsecrated ages ago. So, is there anything else you need to see?”

My stomach growled. “The dining hall?”

Krystal blinked. “Oh. You need to eat?”

“It
has
been a long time since breakfast.”
And some crazy goth girl has been dragging me miles back and forth across the school grounds,
I didn’t say. I didn’t want Krystal to abandon me out here. I kept having an uncomfortable feeling that something was watching me from the thorny undergrowth.

“No, I meant—well, I guess you do. Come on.” To my relief, Krystal led the way back without further digressions.

Other students were converging on the cafeteria as well. I wistfully eyed a passing group of leggy blondes, who eyed me right back with equal interest. Unfortunately, Krystal showed no signs of ungluing herself from my side. “Don’t let me keep you from your friends,” I hinted as we both joined the queue for food.

“Don’t worry,” Krystal said with a slight note of bitterness. “You aren’t.” Picking up a plastic tray from a rack, she jerked her head in the direction of the serving counter. “There’s only Faith, and she works every lunchtime.”

I peered over the line of heads in front of us. Faith stood behind a large vat of mashed potatoes, wearing a white apron and a determinedly cheerful expression. “The Headmistress’s daughter serves lunch?”

“The Headmistress’s daughter thinks that volunteering to do other girls’ chores will make them like her again,” Krystal said sourly, as Faith beamed at a group of girls who stared back at her as if she was ladling out maggots. “Can’t say it’s working.”

“No kidding.” As I watched, the girl Faith was serving jerked her plate back at the last moment. The ladleful of mashed potato hit the floor with a
splat
. “Watch it, you spaz!” the girl said, vicious glee showing in her face despite her angry tone. “You got glop all over my feet!”

“I’m sorry!” Faith was already on her knees, reaching out with a cloth. “Here, let me—”

The girl screeched. “Get that greasy rag away! You’re making it worse! Ms. Oleander!” She waved her hand in the air, attracting the attention of the supervising teacher. “Faith’s ruined my shoes!”

“Problem, my sweets?” the teacher asked, waddling over. She clucked her tongue at the sight of the splatter of mashed potatoes. “I do hate to see good food wasted. Who’s responsible for this?”

“I am, Ms. Oleander.” Apparently, Faith wasn’t even going to
try
to defend herself. And it looked like no one else would either. The girls watching had the air of hyenas gathered around a wounded gazelle, bright-eyed and attentive for any chance to snatch their own mouthful of fun.

“Don’t.” Krystal grabbed my arm as if she thought I was about to charge to the rescue like a knight in shining school uniform. That sort of thing really wasn’t my usual style, but to my surprise, I found that I’d already taken a step forward. There was just something about Faith, so alone and pathetic on her knees under all those unfriendly eyes. . . .

Krystal dragged me back into line. “Don’t draw attention to yourself,” she hissed. “We can’t risk you getting into trouble.”

Faith was still trying to apologize, without much success. “If the stain doesn’t come out, I’ll buy you replacements,” she offered. “Exactly the same.”

“Jimmy Choo’s limited edition fall collection,” the girl said promptly. She smiled, smug and cruel, as Faith went white. “Don’t worry. We’ll work out a payment plan.”

I hadn’t thought it was possible for anyone to know less about shoes than I did, but apparently, Ms. Oleander managed to fall into that category. “Very good, that’s all settled then,” she said cheerfully. “Come on, my sweets, let’s get this line moving again. We’re holding up hungry mouths!”

The girl and her friends swaggered away to find seats at a nearby table, stifling giggles. I stared, wondering how they managed to get away with being such obvious bitches—and then I forgot all about them. And every other girl in the room. Because there, seated at the head of the table, sat my dark-eyed angel.

She turned to favor the newcomers with a regal, approving nod, treating me to a view of her profile. Forget a thousand ships, that face could launch a damn Mars mission. “Her,” I said to Krystal urgently, unable to tear my eyes away. “That girl there. Who is she?”

Krystal followed my gaze. “Oh,” she said, the single, flat syllable conveying volumes of past history. “Michaela Dante.” Her voice sharpened. “Why? Is she important?”

“You have no idea,” I breathed. “Know anything about her?”

Krystal shrugged. “More than most, actually. Faith’s kind of obsessed with Michaela. She’s told me all about her.” She sighed. “At length.”

I grabbed her elbow, nodding toward a deserted table in a shadowy corner. “Let’s sit over there.”

By the end of lunch, I was ready to worship to the Headmistress for bestowing Krystal on me. The girl might have truly terrible taste in jewelry, but she also turned out to have a piece of information about Michaela that was pure, solid gold. It was so unbelievably good I had to get her to repeat it three times.

“For God’s sake, you’re worse than Faith,” Krystal finally said in exasperation. “Why’s it so interesting that Michaela’s from an orphanage? Don’t tell me you’re overcome with the romance of the story too.”

“Of course not. It’s the specific orphanage. You’re
sure
it was the Circle of Trust?”

“Positive.” Krystal cocked her head to one side. “Why? You know the place?”

I nodded and changed the subject before she could dig any deeper. I wasn’t about to explain that my mother had died there when I was just a kid.

She’d been working undercover at the orphanage, investigating rumors of people-trafficking, when the whole place had gone up in smoke. Officially, it was an accident, but my dad and I had always been convinced it was arson, an attempt to destroy the evidence before my mum could uncover it.

Eyewitness accounts said my mum had run back into the burning building several times to rescue trapped children. The last time, she hadn’t come out.

I didn’t believe in fate, but it was one hell of a coincidence that Michaela might be one of the children my mother had died to save. Talk about your conversational icebreaker. What girl could resist a connection like
that
?

According to Krystal, Michaela was in my first class after lunch, English Literature. Even better, Krystal wasn’t. Having pumped her for all the information she could supply, I finally managed to peel her from my side with the excuse that I knew where to find my class and didn’t want her to be late for her own. With a parting thumbs-up sign, she departed for Unicorn History or Rainbow Weaving or whatever the hell it was dippy pagan chicks studied, while I set off confidently for my own date with destiny.

Which was why the bell for the start of first lesson found me wandering a maze of twisty little passages, all alike, in search of a classroom I was beginning to suspect only existed in warp space. Being late to my very first class wasn’t a great start to my career here, but as the alternative was to ask a passing girl for directions, I didn’t have much choice. I didn’t speak Giggle.

“Rafael Angelos?” called a syrup-sweet voice. The red-haired teacher I’d seen earlier with the sixth-year girls was now hurrying down the corridor toward me. “I think you’re looking for my class, pet. I’m Ms. Wormwood, the English teacher.”

“Yes, miss,” I said, heart rising. Ms. Wormwood’s too-bright red hair and trendy jewelry clearly stated that she thought she was still young and cool. That sort of teacher—one who desperately wanted to be liked by her students—was my favorite type. You could get away with sheer
murder
. “Sorry I’m late.” I offered her a cheeky, we’re-all-friends-here grin as I fell into step with her. “You know how it is.”

“Of course, pet.” Ms. Wormwood patted my arm. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of this place. I hope I’ll be able to help you soon feel right at home—I’m your form tutor as well. I deal with any problems in the sixth-year group. My door is always open to my students, pet.” Her fingers lingered on my bicep. “Day
and
night.”

“Uh,” I said, rather unnerved. Ms. Wormwood had to be in her forties. And there was only so far I was willing to go for a good grade. “Right.”

To my relief, Ms. Wormwood led the way into a classroom rather than a secluded storeroom cupboard. She clapped her hands as she entered, in what was probably meant to be a commanding fashion but which came across more as if she was about to encourage everyone to join in a rousing sing-along. “Good morning, girls! Suzanne, what are you doing, pet?”

A blonde girl was standing on a desk, the rest of the class gathered around her feet. Now she jumped down, plastering an innocent expression over her evil grin. “I found a phone, miss,” she said, waving the evidence. “And I was just trying to work out whose it was.”

“It’s mine.” Faith’s soft voice trembled with either fury or suppressed tears. “I
told
you it was mine.”

“But I have to make sure,” Suzanne said to her. She turned her wide-eyed expression of totally fake sincerity on the teacher. “Loads of girls have this model, and they’re hard to tell apart. So I thought of a way Faith could prove it’s hers. All she has to do is tell me the most recent message on it. Go on, Faith.”

Faith flushed bright red. Hiding her face behind her hair, she took a deep breath. “Our souls will merge into one when I clasp you in my arms at—”

The rest of her sentence was lost in a roar of laughter. “All right, settle down!” Ms. Wormwood said over the noise. Taking the phone from Suzanne, she passed it to Faith. “No need to be ashamed of such a sweet message, Faith.” She patted her on the shoulder. “Whoever sent it must love you very much.”

“Definitely,” a girl stage-whispered to her friend. “Since she sent it to herself. Honestly, no
real
boys send texts like that.”

“Of course they do,” Ms. Wormwood said as Faith fled to the back of the room. “A young man can be sensitive and literate.” She beckoned me in from where I was still lurking in the doorway. “Can’t he, Raffi?” Faith was instantly forgotten as the class caught sight of me. “You’ll show us what a real man is like. Oh, you’ll need somewhere to sit. Is there anyone who doesn’t already have a desk partner . . . ?”

Furniture screeched as every girl scrambled to be sitting alone at a table. Given that there were twenty students and eleven desks, the overall effect was of a really
vicious
game of musical chairs. I was pretty sure one brunette actually stabbed a blonde with her fountain pen.

“There you are, pet, you can sit with Suzanne,” Ms. Wormwood said as the dust cleared. The only other empty chair in the room was next to Faith, whose unpopularity must indeed be epic to keep her sitting alone even under these circumstances. Maybe that was why Ms. Wormwood hadn’t pointed her out to me—joining Faith would be social suicide for any new student.

So . . . why was I already heading her way?

The possessive smirk slid right off Suzanne’s face as I went past. Faith’s head snapped up, eyes wide with astonishment. Oh, this was a
terrible
idea. But I was powerless to stop myself. It was as if her body was a magnet, irresistibly sucking me toward her even as my brain screamed that I did
not
want to get involved with this jellyfish of a girl, no matter how beautiful she was—

The door creaked open.

“Late again, Michaela,” Ms. Wormwood said, her jolly voice for once betraying distinct dislike. “Hurry up and take your seat.”

Michaela ignored the teacher completely. Her black eyes met mine—just for an instant, but I felt the jolt of it go clear through me as if I’d been hit by lightning. Then her gaze flicked sideways, from Faith to Suzanne and back again. Face set in a sour expression, Suzanne immediately got up and went to join Faith, who eyed her unhappily but didn’t protest. Michaela sashayed to the now-empty desk and sat down, crossing her long legs before her. Without so much as another glance at me, she opened her book.

Ms. Wormwood glared at Michaela’s demurely bowed head, a frown making her look much older for a moment. “Very well. With Michaela then please, Raffi pet.” Her voice smoothed back into bright, professional tones. “Now girls—that is, class—let’s talk about the summer reading.”

My feet feeling about three sizes too big, I stumbled through the ranks of desks to the back row, sliding in next to Michaela. I occupied myself for a second getting my stuff out of my bag, my mouth dry. All my plans had completely flown out of my head. I took a deep breath, surreptitiously rubbing my sweaty palms on my trouser legs. She’d wanted me to sit next to her, I reminded myself. “Hi,” I managed at last. “I’m Raffi. I mean Raf. Rafael. Rafael Angelos.”

I nearly jammed my pencil case into my mouth to shut myself up. Michaela treated me to the very briefest of glances before turning back to her book.

“And you’re Michaela,” I continued, grasping wildly for something,
anything
, to say. Michaela shifted position, flashing me a glimpse of bronzed skin past the undone top button of her blouse. My brain lost all connection with my mouth. “Michaela Dante. Romanian, from Rome. I mean, not that being from Rome makes you Romanian, but you are. Romanian, I mean, but you live in Rome.”
Someone, please,
please
shoot me now.
“Which is in Italy, not Romania. Where you’re from. Originally. Um.”