Personal Demons (2 page)

“Would you like me to continue to chapter twenty-seven, Mr. Snyder?” Mystery Boy asks, and Mr. Snyder snaps abruptly out of his trance.

“Oh . . . no. Thank you, Mr. Cain. That will be sufficient. Beautifully done. All right, class, the chapter outline on Mr. Steinbeck’s major themes in the second half of chapter twenty-six is to be
finished before class tomorrow morning. You have the rest of the period to work.”

Mystery Boy turns toward me, closing his book, and I get caught in his eyes for a second. “So, Miss Cavanaugh, do you have a first name?”

“Frannie. You?”

“Luc.”

“It’s good to meet you. That was a nice little trick.”

“What?” His eyes flash as a beautifully wicked grin spreads across his face.

“Reading without looking at the book.”

He shifts back in his seat, and his grin falters slightly. “You’re mistaken.”

“No, actually, I’m not. You didn’t even glance at the book till you were on the second sentence, and you were behind turning the pages. Why would you memorize Steinbeck?”

“I haven’t.” He’s such a liar, but before I can call him on it, he changes the subject. “Why a
Globe
article?”

“It’s no big deal. Just a thing where we send letters to kids in Pakistan. Kind of like pen pals, I guess. Mostly, it’s a way of helping us understand each other . . . you know, our cultures and stuff.”

There’s a cynical edge to his expression. “Really.”

“You want a name?” I shuffle through my bag and come out with a folder. “I have a few more.”

“Let me think about it. I’m assuming we’re essay partners, whatever that means?”

“Guess so.” Despite the freaky reading-without-looking thing, I’m not about to complain. He’s definitely a step or twenty up
from Aaron Daly, who has taken his bad sinuses across the aisle and is now sniffling all over Jenna Davis’s composition book instead of mine. “We’re supposed to discuss the reading and come up with a chapter outline with all the major points. Mr. Snyder’s big into discussing things,” I say, rolling my eyes. That’s all for show, though, ’cause I’m seriously into discussing things with Mystery Boy. “So . . . what do you think of Tom’s conundrum?”

I write “Frannie and Luke—Chapter 26-2 outline” on the top of an empty page in my composition book.

He raises an eyebrow, slides my pen out from between my fingers, crosses out “Luke,” and writes “Luc” above it.

I watch her write “Frannie and Luke 26-2 outline” in her composition book, and for some reason it really bothers me that she spelled my name wrong. I fix it before answering her. “I think he made some choices that he’s now got to pay the consequences for.” One of which is eternity burning in the Abyss.

She looks at me, all incredulity. “Just that simple, huh? No extenuating circumstances. No second chances?”

“Nope. Don’t believe in second chances.” The Underworld’s not big on that concept.

She shifts back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest, scrutinizing me. “You’ve never made a mistake? Done something you were sorry for?”

“Nope.”

“Everybody has something they wish they could undo.”

I lean toward her and gaze into those sapphire eyes. “What do you wish
you
could undo, Frannie?”

She shudders when I say her name, and I realize I’m being unfair. I pushed a little power at her without really meaning or needing to. But I like the reaction.

When she replies there’s more than a hint of pain in her tone, and the faint scent of rose—sadness. I search deep in those eyes to find the root of it. “Lots of things,” she says without breaking her gaze.

For some reason, out of the blue, I don’t want her to hurt. I feel Hell-bent on making her happy. Just the tiniest push is all it would take . . .

Stop it.
Where the Hell did
that
come from? I don’t even recognize the sensation that passed with that thought. Demons don’t have feelings. Not like
that
, anyway. This isn’t a charity mission . . . I’m here for a clear purpose, and Miss Frannie Cavanaugh is showing promise. Lots of promise. As a matter of fact, I’m starting to hope she’s The One. And as the bell rings I realize, to my own astonishment, that it’s
her
eyes holding
me
locked here instead of the other way around. This is going to be interesting.

She blinks as if startled from a dream and looks down at her empty composition book. “So . . . I guess we didn’t get too far.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” I push my book across the desk.

She reads the ten bullet points listed there in block print under the heading “Frannie Cavanaugh and Luc Cain, Steinbeck’s Themes—Chapter 26-2” and scowls.

“Oh . . . well, I guess these look okay.” Incredulous again. She’s fiery for sure. I like a little fire. Makes me feel at home.
“Have you found your locker yet in this rat maze?” she says, throwing her books into her book bag and standing.

“Haven’t looked for it.” I hold up my only possessions: my composition book and
The Grapes of Wrath.

“Well, it’ll only get worse, so unless you wanna lug all your stuff around with you, I could help you find it.”

I pull the slip of paper with the locker number and combo on it out of my back pocket as we walk together to the door. “Number . . . hmm.” I smile. The mortal world is so droll sometimes.

“What?”

“666,” I say, and she looks at me funny.

“Oh. That’s right there.” She points across the hall. “Right next to mine.”

And even though I know fate is a crock—nothing but an excuse for mortals to make choices they wouldn’t otherwise make—this
is
a sign. I look at her more closely. If she’s The One, which is starting to look more likely, I need to tag her soul for Hell before some filthy angel beats me to it. Which roughly translates into
now.
Because the fact that she’s been so difficult to locate probably means she’s being Shielded by them. If they’re Shielding her, they’re watching her. It won’t be long before they know I’ve found her. I scan the crowded hall. So many prospects, but no angels—so far.

She starts across the hall to her locker and I hang back to admire the view for a few seconds before following her. She
is
petite—maybe five-two. Nearly a foot shorter than my human form. But she’s no little girl. There are curves in all the right places.

I laugh at myself. Although lust
is
one of the seven deadly sins, it’s not the one that got me where I am and not something I’ve experienced often in the seven millennia I’ve existed—though I’ve used it to my advantage a few thousand times. This
is
going to be fun.

I stride across the hall and catch her just as she reaches her locker. I spin the lock on mine a few times, and it springs open.

“How’d you do that?” she asks, like she could possibly know I used my power.

“What?”

“I had that locker at the beginning of the year and switched ’cause the lock was broken.”

“Hmm. They must have fixed it.” I’ll need to be more careful. This mortal is extraordinarily observant. I slipped up in class by not keeping my eyes on the book—which she’d noticed because her eyes weren’t on the book either. And again with the locker, because as I try the real combination, I find she’s right: it is indeed broken.

She looks skeptical. “Yeah, I guess, except they never fix anything around here. Welcome to Hades High.”

What the Hell?
“Excuse me? Hades High?”

“Yeah, get it? Haden High—Hades High. It’s just one letter, but it
so
much more accurately describes this hellhole.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, wouldn’t you agree?” She gestures to the cracking plaster, peeling paint, burned-out lightbulbs, gouged gray linoleum, and dented gray metal lockers surrounding us.

“Well, it looks like I’ve chosen just the place, then.” A grin
stretches my face. How perfect is it that my target goes to a high school nicknamed Hell? This is too rich.

She looks away and reaches into her locker, but she can’t hide the smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “If your ‘just the place’ is this crappy, washed-up fishing town, then you’re more pathetic than I would have guessed.”

I laugh—I can’t help it—and then shudder when I catch a hint of Frannie’s ginger. Mmm . . . pathetic must be her type.

“How come you had to change schools a month before graduation?”

I smile inwardly. “Business.”

“Your father’s?” she presses.

“In a manner of speaking.”

She looks at me and her brow furrows as she tries to figure out what that means. Then she pushes her locker shut with a crash. “So . . . what’s your next class?”

I pull my schedule out of my back pocket and shake it open. “Looks like calculus, room 317.”

“Oooh, you have Mrs. Felch. Sooo sorry.”

“Why? What’s the deal with Mrs. Felch?”

Just then the bell rings. She cringes. “First, you get detention if you’re not in your seat at the bell—so, sorry—and, second, she bites.”

“Mmm. We’ll see about that.” I kick my locker shut and turn to head to building 3—and don’t try to hide the smile that pulls at my lips as her eyes burn a hole through my back the whole way down the hall. A good start.

It turns out that I’m a little preoccupied and basically useless in physics lab. Luckily, my lab partner, Carter, is an obsessive science geek who usually wants to do the whole lab himself anyway. So today I put my elbows away and let him have his way with the circuit board. Carter pushes up his glasses and hunches over it like a protective mother while I sit contemplating how it is that Luc shows up out of nowhere and turns me into mush. Which I never am. For any guy.

I follow along with what Carter’s doing, ’cause he’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is, and occasionally risk life and limb by sticking my hand in to fix his screwups. But at the end of lab, I look at my write-up and realize I’ve written “Luc” instead of “ohms” all over it. In pen. This is bad.

Despite my best effort, I catch myself nearly running back to
my locker after my double-lab period. But, just as I turn the corner, there’s a hand on my shoulder. I spin and find Ryan Keefe, or Reefer to all his friends. He steps up, too close, and stares down at me. Then his lips curl into a lopsided smile and I know what’s coming.

“Hey, you,” he says, pushing his brown shoulder-length dreads off his face with the heel of his hand.

I slither out from where he’s trying to maneuver me against the wall. “Hey, Reef. What’s up?”

He props his short, stocky frame against the wall and glances down the hall at his crew, hanging near the cafeteria door. “We want you back,” he says with a jut of his chin.

I turn and start walking away, pretending he doesn’t still send my pulse racing. “Not gonna happen.”

He heads me off with an arm against the wall. “
I
want you back,” he says, his voice low.

I hesitate long enough to pull a deep breath before turning back to him. When I do, I try to keep my expression hard, but I feel my heart melt when I look into his big, muddy-brown eyes. “Listen, Ryan. I’m . . . It’s not you, really.” I cringe at how lame that sounds, but it’s true.

He slumps against the wall and looks sick. “Great. The ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech. Just what every guy wants to hear.”

“Sorry, but it is. Me, I mean—not you.”

He can’t contain his frustration. “Why? Why is it you?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just not looking for a real relationship.”

His smile is dubious. “I’d be okay with that. No strings,” he says, like he thinks I’m going to forget he said he loved me.

I smile and shove him, ’cause there’s no point in calling him on it. “I’m sure you would.”

“Seriously, Frannie. The guys want you back. We can’t find anyone nearly as good as you.”

“
You
can sing. You don’t need me.”

“I’m strictly backup caliber. We need a real singer. Female, preferably. You know, for the hotness factor.”

I roll my eyes. “Sorry. You should post something. You know, like have an audition. There’s gotta be a thousand people right here in this school who can sing better than me.”

“We did. Only got Jenna Davis, who sounded like an opera singer, and Cassidy O’Connor, who’s hot, but . . .” He cringes.

“I know someone who’d be perfect. She’s a friend of my sister’s. I’ll give her your number.”

I start walking again, but his hand against the wall stops my progress. I groan internally and resist the sudden urge to twist him into an arm lock and throw him against the wall.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, and I catch the scent of boy musk. He runs his guitar-calloused fingers down my arm, making me shudder. “But I want
you
. I miss you, Frannie.”

My heart flutters as I remember how good those lips felt on mine, but I breathe it off.
You don’t love me.

I shrug, duck under his arm, and head down the hall at a jog, only to find my locker surrounded by girls. It’s a freakin’ who’s who of Haden High with Luc right in the middle. There’s Stacy Ravenshaw and her cheer-bitches; Cassidy O’Connor, chaste Irish beauty; Valerie Blake, tall, dark, and gorgeous captain of the volleyball team; and Angelique Preston, senior-class
goddess—blond, beautiful, and stacked, with the intellectual depth of a mud puddle—front and center.