chapter nine

A piercing sound invaded my world and tore me away from the dream. Before I turned the alarm off, I hugged my arms tight to my chest, trying to hold onto the sensation of Michael’s arms securely around me. It didn’t work.

With a groan, I reached over and smacked the clock radio. I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. My stomach roiled and my mouth stung with a bitter, metallic taste—the remnants of a Remembering. But how could I have Remembered when I hadn’t entered the Door?

And instead of the cold fear I usually felt after Remembering, my body felt warm—truly warm.

I reached for the spark and found it filling my heart, shining through every part of me. I gasped, suddenly overcome with what it might mean. Throwing off my blankets, I sat on the edge of my bed facing the windows. The early morning light streamed through the panes. Another sunny day in heavenly C-A, as Lucy used to say.

Ice pierced my heart, shattering the warmth and filling me with shivering cold.

Reality brought a different kind of remembering—the memory of what I’d done.

Of what I’d Become.

As unbidden as a Remembering, my mind filled with all the things I never wanted to remember, all the truths I wished were not my own. I wanted to block it out, but I could still see Daniel’s men, wearing clear plastic gloves, place Will’s body by the edge of the woods. Could hear them joking about how there used to be mountain lions in the area and how maybe they’d made a come-back. Could feel Daniel’s digging fingers on my arm as he led me back to the house and whispered the cover story to me even while he opened the door for the paramedics.

I blinked against the brilliant brightness of the lights atop the ambulance, but it was just sunlight through my window. All the horror was last night.

Like a million years ago.

Or right this very second.

My gaze slipped to the desk where my new phone beckoned, shiny and black. I walked over to it, slow, like it was a viper that might strike without warning. I pressed the button on the front and bit back a cry—the picture on the screen was Lucy, taken at the café. She’d laughed at me, and puckered her lips for a kiss. Her eyes are scrunched closed. I wished they were open, wished I could see them.

I didn’t need to look for the spark—the ice that infiltrated my body obliterated it.

I pounded the carpet to my bathroom and slammed the door.

Fiercely brushing my teeth, I tried to scrub the feelings from the dream away. What am I doing dreaming a dream like that? When I looked at the mirror, I expected to see something, some sign of who I’d Become. What I’d Become. But the face staring back at me was the same as ever. Just a normal girl. Proof that what’s on the outside is almost never an indication of what lurks inside.

Right on cue, James showed up at my bedroom door. “Des?” he called in between persistent knocking. “Come out, come out, princess!”

I threw open the door and glared at him. “What do you want?”

“Temper, temper,” James scolded, placing his hands on my hips as he angled past me and into my room. I concentrated on keeping my face angry, even while my body hungered for his touch.

Taking the tips of my fingers in his hand, he guided me to the bed where he lay down, pulling me on top of him.

I tried to think about Lucy and Custom-Made—Will, a man who had a name, a place in this world, but who I killed last night—but I couldn’t keep my self-loathing forefront in my mind. Maybe this was proof of my depravity—I could violently kill someone, and fail to save my only friend, then lose myself to sex. I am a demon. I forced myself to think about James.

His hands.

The feel of him beneath my thin pajamas.

The taste of his lips on mine.

“Mm, minty,” he growled. He kissed my jaw, my neck, and when he nibbled my earlobe, shivers raced all over my skin. Exquisite torture. “I hear Desi’s been a naughty girl.”

And just like that, it was over.

I pushed off of him and shoved my arms over my chest. “Get out.”

“Aw, come on now, princess. You know I love this new you. This powerful you.” He stood, put his hands on my hips again and pulled me to him. I searched his eyes, finding nothing more sinister than want and lust. And I liked it.

And that scared me more than anything.

Where was my love for Lucy? Where was regret for what I had done? Had my resolve never to forget been that easily overwritten?

When he placed gentle, delicious kisses on my cheeks, I didn’t fight him. “You were such a push-over last time—”

I shoved him away again, anger rising like a tide. I opened my mouth to argue, to accuse him of using me and breaking Aaron’s heart. But the blame wasn’t his—it was mine. It’s always been mine. So when he yanked me to him and crushed my lips with his, I let the past go—at least so far as James was concerned.

“You’ve grown up,” he said, lifting his mouth from mine to frame the breathy words. When he leaned back to look at me, I could barely focus on his eyes. I just wanted to lose myself in his kisses. He chuckled, soft and low, when I pulled his head down to meet his lips with mine.

Moving my body forward, I held onto him as he fell back on the bed. Hungrily, I moved my hands over his body, pressed kisses onto his lips, his face, his neck. When he groaned with pleasure, my body sang with want.

“Desolation, get your ass down here,” Daniel shouted through the intercom in my room.

“Crap!” I jumped off of James and dashed into the bathroom. I tore off my pj’s and pulled on the ridiculous blue plaid skirt, blouse and tie that made up my school uniform. I glanced at James who leaned against the doorframe, watching me dress. Staring at the mirror, I concentrated on sticking my unruly hair into a ponytail with shaky hands.

Not good, not good, not good. This was so not the way I foresaw my first day of school.

Late, no makeup, stupid hair, and with the smell of James all over me.

With one last glance at the full-length mirror, I saw all I needed to see—I wasn’t just a normal girl, after all. Everything I’d Become radiated as if I had a blinking neon sign above my head.

Murderer.

Harlot.

Depraved.

Remorseless.

Evil.

I dashed from my room, leaving James behind, who’d traded doorframes to lean on, and watched me run down the stairs. I could feel his gaze on me the whole way.

Just as I flew into the kitchen, James called, “Have a good one, princess.” Daniel held the garage door open and ushered me in.

“Tomorrow you can take the Audi, but today you need to make an entrance.” He gave me the once-over as he put his stunning sports car into reverse. “Late, and looking like . . . ” he let his eyes travel over me, disdain making the skin around his eyes tighten. “That is not the way to make an entrance.”

I didn’t answer, just turned my face to the window.

“Your father wouldn’t approve.”

No, Father wouldn’t approve. But then, I was pretty sure he didn’t approve of me in general.

Except that was before. Before I Became.

Now I had no idea what he might think—and the not knowing was more terrifying than thinking I’d disappointed him. What would happen now that I’d done something he would approve of?

So I didn’t say anything—the one lesson I’d managed to learn: Keep your mouth shut as much as possible, lest you alert the enemy to your weaknesses.

Daniel seemed to take it as contrition, though, because he gave this curt little nod and didn’t say anything else.

His cell rang, and I felt Daniel’s mental shift as he turned his Bluetooth on and forgot about me. I pulled out my iPod and tried to tune out the sound of his voice.

My stomach twisted into a mess of nausea and unease. I had no idea what I was getting into. Other than the message from Father about Miriam Carr, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing here. I felt wholly unprepared to meet a bunch of teenage humans. And to walk into a Catholic school? After what I’d done last night?

A lifetime—and all my resolve failed me in one moment. I wondered how many other ways the human world would break me.

Daniel barely stopped at the curb long enough for me to jump out. His tires squealed as he peeled away—my tardiness having robbed him of his grand entrance. What few students remained were like me—head down, running up the stairs, anxious to get to class before the doors locked. Of course, once I’d made it in and through security, I had to stand in the hallway like a complete idiot while I tried to divine which direction I’d find administration.

One of the security guards, a tubby middle-aged man, his face etched with weariness, approached me. “Miss?” he said, his hand on his Billy club. “The head office is that way, first door on your left.” He stepped back and I nodded, surprised by even the smallest of kindnesses. I felt as wary as I did walking the corridors of Hell—like danger lurked in every shadowed recess.

Except, there really weren’t that many shadows in this place. Despite its austere castle-like exterior (complete with gargoyles), and the security (because, seriously, who doesn’t get all warm and fuzzy getting the once over from middle-aged men dressed in once-was-black gray?), the place felt alive with light.

And I hated it. It felt like the most dangerous place in all the worlds.

Even though I should have been running to get to class, I found my feet slowing, my eyes wandering to take everything in. Unlike Desert Peak’s public school, with its puke-green and piglet-pink lockers, St. Mary’s students stashed their books in lockers made of shiny steel. I lingered in front of an oversized portrait of the Mother Mary and the angel Gabriel directly across from administration.

I wanted to turn away, avert my gaze, but there was something about the painting, something strangely familiar and . . . tempting. Which was a weird thing to feel. But I wished I could step right into that peaceful scene.

Instead, my Shadow stretched and I retreated until my back smacked against the glass window of the administration office. I was still standing there, staring at the painting, when a mid-fifties woman dressed in a nun’s habit stepped out of the room.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I fought to control my breathing, to suppress the reaching of my shadow-self, and when I dragged my eyes around to meet hers, the darkness in me made her gasp and step back. Like a rubber band snapping into place, I was suddenly myself, suddenly there—even though I had no idea where I’d just gone.

“I’m sorry,” I hurried to say, because I didn’t know what had startled the woman, or what she might have seen in my eyes. I struggled to school my features, to fill my eyes with teenager-ness—to pretty much be everything I wasn’t.

The woman took a steadying breath and released her death grip on the rosary hanging around her neck. “Oh. You must be . . . Desolation.” She said my name like it was the last thing she ever wanted to say, like it was a curse word or something. So I smiled, glad I could at least fix this one thing.

“Desi,” I said. “You can call me Desi.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Oh, good. Desi.” The corners of her eyes crinkled—and judging by the deep grooves there, this happy expression was more natural for her. “Come on in, Desi, let’s get you taken care of.”

I followed dutifully behind her while I categorized her for future reference.

Sister Francis Margarite.

Fifty nine.

Unmarried. Though, interestingly, she bore a son when she was seventeen—gave him up for adoption.

Then joined the cloister. I could use that.

If I had to.

The sister stepped behind the counter and turned a gracious, smiling face toward me, so unlike the frightened one I’d seen in the hall. “I have your schedule right here, Desi. You’ll have the same class rotation as Miriam Carr, one of our student ambassadors. She’ll help you get to all of your classes. Your first class is here,” she drew a red X on a map of the school. “Just go down this hall and it’s the third room on your right.”

I took the pages from her, and smiled, channeling charm—definitely a gift from my father. “Thank you Sister Franny,” I said, using the nickname I knew she’d used. Her smile faltered for half a second, and I realized my mistake—that name was connected to her youth, to the life she’d had before the Sisterhood.

“Oh, no one calls me that here,” she said, followed by one of those shallow twitters people do when they’re nervous. Or afraid. Her fingers crawled to her rosary again, even while she kept a smile clamped on her face. “Here, they call me Sister Margarite.”

“Uh, oh yeah. I’m sorry. I must have, I just . . .” Lies tumbled around my head and in my anxiety, I couldn’t grasp just one. “Uh, sorry.”

Sister Margarite hurried from behind the counter and placed a cool hand on my back. “That’s all right dear. I hear Mr. Knowles is a friend of your father’s—likely he’s told you all kinds of stories about me.” She laughed again, but her eyes held a glint of fear.

Not fear of Knowles, though.

Oh, crap, she doesn’t know, does she? No one can know! Sister Margarite fingered her rosary, her expression a reflection of her thoughts.

No, her feelings about Knowles seemed to be friendship. And, amazingly, the hint of something else—affection.

She walked me to the door and gestured in the direction I should go.

Decorum likely dictated that I offer my thanks again, that I at least turn back and smile. But I didn’t trust myself to do any of those things—I’d already screwed up and I couldn’t risk a repeat. I walked through the empty corridor, concentrating on taming my thoughts and facial expression, preparing myself for my toughest audience yet—teenagers.