Lauren Kate: Torment

“Okay, I know I’m new here, and for some reason that annoys you. I guess you had a single room before me, I don’t know.”

Shelby lowered the paper just below her eyes. She raised one giant eyebrow.

“But I’m not that bad. So what if I have a few questions? Forgive me for not coming into school knowing what the hell the Nephermans are—”

“ Nephilim. ”

“Whatever. I don’t care. I have no interest in making you my enemy—which means some of this,” Luce said, gesturing at the space between the two of them, “is coming from you. So what’s your problem, anyway?”

The side of Shelby’s mouth twitched. She folded and set down the paper and leaned back in her chair.

“You should care about the Nephilim. We’re going to be your classmates.” She flung out her hand, waving it at the terrace. “Look out at the pretty, privileged student body of the Shoreline School. Half of these dopes you’ll never see again, except as the object of our practical jokes.”

“Our?”

“Yes, you’re in the ‘honors program’ with the Nephilim. But don’t worry; in case you’re not too bright”—Luce snorted—“the gifted track here is mostly a coverup, a place to stow away the Nephs without anyone getting too suspicious. In fact, the only person who’s ever gotten suspicious is Beaker Brady.”

“Who’s Beaker Brady?” Luce asked, leaning in so she didn’t have to shout over the rough static of the waves crashing on the shore below.

“That grade-A nerdo two tables over.” Shelby nodded at a chubby kid dressed in plaid who’d just spilled yogurt all over a massive textbook. “His parents loathe the fact that he’s never been accepted into the honors classes. Every semester, they wage a campaign. He brings in Mensa scores, results from science fairs, famous Nobelists he’s impressed, the whole shebang. And every semester, Francesca has to make up some bunk unpassable test to keep him out.” She snorted. “Like, ‘Hey, Beaker, solve this Rubik’s cube in under thirty seconds.’ ” Shelby clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Except the nimrod passed that one.”

“But if it’s a cover-up,” Luce asked, feeling sort of bad for Beaker, “what’s it a cover-up for?”

“People like me. I’m a Nephilim. N-E-P-H-I-L-I-M . That means anything with angel in its DNA. Mortals, immortals, transeternals. We try not to discriminate.”

“Shouldn’t the singular be, you know, nephil , like cherub from cherubim and seraph from seraphim? ”

Shelby scowled. “Seriously? Would you want to be called a nephil? It sounds like a bag you carry your shame in. No, thanks. Nephilim it is, no matter how many of us you’re talking about.”

So Shelby was a sort of angel. Strange. She didn’t look or act the part. She wasn’t gorgeous like Daniel, Cam, or Francesca. Didn’t possess the magnetism of someone like Roland or Arriane. She just seemed kind of coarse and cranky.

“So it’s like angel prep school,” Luce said. “But for what? Do you go on to angel college after this?”

“It depends on what the world needs. A lot of kids take a year off and do Nephilim Corps. You get to travel, have a fling with a foreigner, et cetera. But that’s in times of, you know, relative peace. Right now, well …”

“Right now what?”

“Whatever.” Shelby looked like she was biting the word. “It just depends on who you are. Everyone here has, you know, varying degrees of power,” she went on, seeming to read Luce’s mind. “A sliding scale depending on your family tree. But in your case—”

This Luce knew. “I’m just here because of Daniel.”

Shelby tossed her napkin on her empty plate and stood up. “That’s a real impressive way to pitch yourself, Luce. The girl whose big-shot boyfriend pulled some strings.”

Was that what everyone thought about her here? Was that … the truth?

Shelby reached over and stole the last bite of quiche off Luce’s plate. “If you want a Lucinda Price fan club, I’m sure you can find that here. Just leave me out of it, okay?”

“What are you talking about?” Luce stood up. Maybe she and Shelby needed to rewind again. “I don’t want a fan club—”

“See, I told you,” she heard a high but pretty voice say.

Suddenly, the girl with the green scarf was standing before her, grinning and nudging another girl forward. Luce glanced past them, but Shelby was already far away—and probably not worth catching up to. Up close, the green-scarf girl looked kind of like a young Salma Hayek, with full lips and an even fuller chest. The other girl, with her pale coloring, hazel eyes, and short black hair, looked kind of like Luce.

“Wait, so you’re really Lucinda Price?” the pale girl asked. She had very small white teeth and was using them to hold a couple of sequin-tipped bobby pins while she twisted a few dark tendrils into little knots. “As in Luce-and-Daniel? As in the girl who just came from that awful school in Alabama—”

“Georgia.” Luce sort of nodded.

“Same thing. Ohmigod, what was Cam like? I saw him once at this death metal concert … of course, I was too nervous to introduce myself. Not that you’d be interested in Cam, because obviously— Daniel! ” She trilled a laugh. “I’m Dawn, b-t-dubs. This is Jasmine.”

“Hi,” Luce said slowly. This was new. “Um …”

“Don’t mind her, she just drank, like, eleven coffees.” Jasmine spoke about three times more slowly than Dawn did. “What she means is we’re excited to meet you. We always say how you and Daniel are, like, the greatest love story. Ever.”

“Seriously?” Luce cracked her knuckles.

“Are you kidding?” Dawn asked, though Luce kept expecting them to be the ones working up to some kind of joke. “All that dying again and again? Okay, does it make you want him even more? I bet it does! And ohhh, when that fire that burns you up”—she closed her eyes, put a hand over her stomach, then brushed it up her body, clasping a fist over her heart. “My mom used to tell me the story when I was a little girl.”

Luce was shocked. She glanced around the busy terrace, wondering whether anyone could overhear them. Speaking of burning up, her cheeks must be beet red right now.

An iron bell rang from the roof of the mess hall to signal the end of breakfast, and Luce was glad to see that everyone else had other things to focus on. Like getting to class.

“Your mom used to tell you what story?” Luce asked slowly. “About me and Daniel?”

“Just some of the highlights,” Dawn said, opening her eyes. “Does it feel like a hot flash? Like a menopause kind of thing, not that you would know—”

Jasmine smacked Dawn on the arm. “Did you just compare Luce’s unbridled passion to a hot flash?”

“Sorry.” Dawn giggled. “I’m just fascinated. It sounds so totally romantic and awesome. I’m envious—in a good way!”

“Envious that I die every time I try to get with the guy of my dreams?” Luce hunched up her shoulders. “It’s actually kind of a buzz kill.”

“Tell that to the girl whose only kiss to date was with Ira Frank of the Irritable Bowel Syndrome.” Jasmine gestured teasingly at Dawn.

When Luce didn’t laugh, Dawn and Jasmine filled in with a placating giggle, as if they thought she was just being modest. Luce had never been on the receiving end of one of those giggles before.

“What exactly did your mom say?” Luce asked.

“Oh, just the usual stuff: The war broke out, shit hit the fan, and when they drew a line in the clouds, Daniel was all ‘Nothing can tear us apart,’ and that pissed everyone off. ’Course it’s my favorite part of the story. So now your love has to suffer this eternal punishment where you still desperately want each other but you can’t, like, you know—”