Unforgiven

by Lauren Kate

  "Funny thing about detention," Lilith said. "I seem to learn more there staring at the wall than I ever have in class."

  "Get to first period," Tarkenton said, taking a step toward Lilith, "and if you give your mother one second of trouble in class today--"

  Lilith swallowed. "My mom's here?"

  Her mom substituted a few days a month at Trumbull, earning a tuition waiver that was the only reason she could afford to send Lilith to the school. Lilith never knew when she might find her mom waiting ahead of her in the cafeteria line or blotting her lipstick in the ladies' room. She never told Lilith when she would be gracing Trumbull's campus, and she never offered her daughter a ride to school.

  It was always a horrible surprise, but at least Lilith had never walked in on her mother substituting in one of her own classes.

  Until today, it seemed. She groaned and headed inside, wondering which of her classes her mom would turn up in.

  She was spared in homeroom, where Mrs. Richards had already finished the roll and was furiously writing on the board about ways students could help with her hopeless campaign to bring recycling to campus. When Lilith walked in, the teacher shook her head wordlessly, as if she were simply bored by Lilith's habitual lateness.

  She slid into her seat, dropped her guitar case at her feet, and took out the biology book she'd just grabbed from her locker. There were ten precious minutes left in homeroom, and Lilith needed them all to cram for her test.

  "Mrs. Richards," the girl next to Lilith said, glaring in her direction. "Something suddenly smells awful in here."

  Lilith rolled her eyes. She and Chloe King had been enemies since day one of elementary school, though she couldn't remember why. It wasn't like Lilith was any kind of threat to the rich, gorgeous senior. Chloe modeled for Crossroads Apparel and was the lead singer of a pop band called the Perceived Slights, not to mention the president of at least half of Trumbull's extracurricular clubs.

  After more than a decade of Chloe's nastiness, Lilith was used to the constant rain of attacks. On a good day, she ignored them. Today she focused on the genomes and phonemes in her bio book and tried to tune Chloe out.

  But now the other kids around Lilith were pinching their noses. The kid in front of her mimed a retching motion.

  Chloe swiveled in her seat. "Is that your cheap idea of perfume, Lilith, or did you just crap your pants?"

  Lilith remembered the mess Alastor had left by her bedside and the shower she hadn't been able to take, and felt her cheeks burn. She grabbed her things and bolted from the classroom, ignoring Mrs. Richards's ravings about a hall pass, and ducked into the closest bathroom.

  Inside, alone, she leaned against the red door and closed her eyes. She wished she could hide in here all day, but she knew once the bell rang, this place would be flooded with students. She forced herself to the sink. She turned on the hot water, kicked off her shoe, raised her offending foot into the basin, and pumped the cheap pink soap dispenser. She glanced up, expecting to see her sad reflection, and instead she found a glittery poster taped over the mirror. Vote King for Queen, it read below a professional head shot of a beaming Chloe King.

  Prom was later this month, and the anticipation seemed to consume every other kid at school. Lilith had seen a hundred of these kinds of posters in the halls. She'd walked behind girls showing each other pictures of their dream corsages on their phones on their way to class. She'd heard the boys joke about what happened after prom. All of it made Lilith gag. Even if she had money for a dress, and even if there were a guy she actually wanted to go with, there was no way she would ever set foot in her high school when she wasn't legally required to be there.

  She tore Chloe's poster from the mirror and used it to clean the inside of her shoe, then tossed it into the sink, letting the water run over it until Chloe's face was nothing but wet pulp.

  In poetry, Mr. Davidson was so engrossed in writing Shakespeare's Sonnet 20 on the board that he didn't even notice Lilith come in late.

  She sat down cautiously, watching the other kids, waiting for someone to hold their nose or gag, but luckily they only seemed to notice Lilith as a means for passing notes. Paige, the sporty blond girl to Lilith's left, would nudge her, then slide a folded note onto her desk. It wasn't labeled, but Lilith knew, of course, that it wasn't meant for her. It was for Kimi Grace, the cool half Korean, half Mexican girl sitting to her right. Lilith had passed enough notes between these two to glimpse snatches of their plans for prom--the epic after-party and the sick stretch limo they were pooling their allowances to hire. Lilith had never been given an allowance. If her mom had any cash to spare, it went straight to Bruce's medical bills.

  "Right, Lilith?" Mr. Davidson asked, making Lilith flinch. She shoved the note under her desk so she wouldn't get caught.

  "Could you say that again?" Lilith asked. She really did not want to piss off Mr. Davidson. Poetry was the only class she liked, mostly because she wasn't failing it, and Mr. Davidson was the only teacher she'd ever met who seemed to enjoy his job. He'd even liked some of the song lyrics Lilith had turned in as poetry assignments. She still had the loose-leaf paper on which Mr. Davidson had written simply Wow! beneath the lyrics for a song she called "Exile."

  "I said you've signed up for the open mic, I hope?" Davidson asked.

  "Yeah, sure," she mumbled, but she hadn't and hoped not to. She didn't even know when it was.

  Davidson smiled, pleased and surprised. He turned to the rest of the class. "Then we all have something to look forward to!"

  As soon as Davidson turned back to his board, Kimi Grace nudged Lilith. When Lilith met Kimi's dark, pretty eyes, she wondered for a moment if Kimi wanted to talk about the open mic, if the idea of reading in front of an audience made her nervous, too. But all Kimi wanted from Lilith was the folded note in her hand.

  Lilith sighed and passed it to her.

  She tried to skip gym to study for her bio test, but of course she got caught and ended up having to do laps in her gym uniform and her combat boots. The school didn't issue tennis shoes, and her mom never had the cash to get her any, so the sound of her feet, running circles around the other kids who were playing volleyball in the gym, was deafening.

  Everyone was looking at her. No one had to say the word freak out loud. She knew they were thinking it.

  By the time Lilith made it to biology, she was beat down and worn out. And that was where she found her mom, wearing a lime-green skirt, her hair in a tight bun, handing out the tests.

  "Just perfect," Lilith said with a groan.

  "Shhhhhh!" a dozen students replied.

  Her mom was tall and dark, with an angular beauty. Lilith was fair, her hair as red as the fire in the hills. Her nose was shorter than her mother's, her eyes and mouth less fine. Their cheekbones sat at different angles.

  Her mom smiled. "Won't you please take a seat?"

  As if she didn't even know her daughter's name.

  But her daughter knew hers. "Sure thing, Janet," Lilith said, dropping into an empty desk in the row nearest the door.

  Her mom's angry gaze flicked to Lilith's face; then she smiled and looked away.

  Kill them with kindness was one of her mom's favorite sayings, at least in public. At home, she wore a harsher manner. All that her mom loathed about her life she blamed on Lilith, because Lilith had been born when her mom was nineteen and beautiful, on her way to a remarkable future. By the time Bruce came along, her mom had recovered enough from the trauma of Lilith to become an actual mother. The fact that their dad was out of the picture--no one knew where he was--gave her mother all the more reason to live for her son.

  The first page of the biology test was a grid in which they were expected to map dominant and recessive genes. The girl to her left was rapidly filling in boxes. Suddenly Lilith could not remember a single thing she had learned all year. Her throat itched, and she could feel the back of her neck begin to sweat.

  The door to the hallway was open. It had to be coo
ler out there. Almost before she knew what she was doing, Lilith was standing in the doorway, her backpack in one hand, her guitar case in the other.

  "Leaving class without a hall pass is an automatic detention!" Janet called. "Lilith, put down that guitar and come back here!"

  Lilith's experience with authority had taught her to listen carefully to what she was told--and then do the opposite.

  She bumped down the hall and hit the door running.

  Outside, the air was white and hot. Ash twisted down from the sky, drifting onto Lilith's hair and the brittle gray-green grass. The most inconspicuous way to leave school grounds was through one of the exits beyond the cafeteria, which led out to a small area of gravel where kids ate lunch when the weather was okay. The area was "secured" with a flimsy chain-link fence that was easy enough to climb over.

  She made it over the fence, then stopped herself. What was she doing? Bailing on an exam proctored by her own mother was a horrible idea. There would be no escaping punishment. But it was too late now.

  If she kept going this way, she'd end up back at her rusting, peeling eyesore of a house. No thanks. She gazed up at the few cars zipping across the highway, then turned and crossed the parking lot on the west side of campus, where the carob trees grew thick and tall. She entered the little forest and moved toward the shady, hidden edge of Rattlesnake Creek.

  She ducked between two heavy branches on the bank and let out her breath. Sanctuary. Sort of. This was what passed for nature, anyway, in the tiny town of Crossroads.

  Lilith rested her guitar case in its customary place in the crook of a tree trunk, kicked up her feet atop a heap of crisp orange leaves, and let the sound of the creek trickling in its cement bed relax her.

  At school she'd seen pictures of "beautiful" places in her textbooks--Niagara Falls, Mount Everest, waterfalls in Hawaii--but she liked Rattlesnake Creek better than any of those because she didn't know a soul beside herself who thought this little grove of withered trees was beautiful.

  She opened her case and took out the guitar. It was a dark orange Martin 000-45 with a crack slanted down its body. Someone on her street had thrown it away, and Lilith couldn't afford to be picky. Besides, she thought the flaw made the instrument sound richer.

  Her fingers strummed the strings, and as chords filled the air, she felt an invisible hand smoothing her rough edges. When she played, she felt surrounded by friends she didn't have.

  What would it be like to meet someone who actually shared her taste in music? she wondered. Someone who didn't think the Four Horsemen sang "like whipped dogs," as a cheerleader had once described Lilith's favorite band. It was Lilith's dream to see them play live, but it was impossible to imagine actually attending a Four Horsemen show. They were too big to play Crossroads. Even if they did come here, how could Lilith afford a ticket when her family barely had enough money for food?

  She didn't notice when she tumbled into a song. It wasn't fully formed yet--just her sorrow melding with her guitar--but a few minutes later, when she stopped singing, someone behind her started clapping.

  "Whoa." Lilith spun around to face a black-haired boy leaning against a nearby tree. He wore a leather jacket, and his black jeans disappeared into scuffed combat boots.

  "Hey," he said as if he knew her.

  Lilith didn't answer. They didn't know each other. Why was he talking to her?

  He studied her intensely, his gaze penetrating. "You're still beautiful," he said softly.

  "You're...really creepy," Lilith replied.

  "You don't recognize me?" He sounded disappointed.

  Lilith shrugged. "I don't watch America's Most Wanted."

  The boy looked down, laughed, then nodded at her guitar. "Aren't you afraid of making that worse?"

  She flinched, confused. "My song?"

  "Your song was a revelation," he said, pushing off the tree and walking toward her. "I mean that crack in your guitar."

  Lilith watched the easy way he moved--coolly, slowly, as if no one had ever made him feel insecure about anything in his life. He stopped right in front of her and slid a canvas bag from his shoulder. The strap landed on Lilith's boot and she stared at it, as if the boy had put it there, touching her, intentionally. She kicked it off.

  "I'm careful." She cradled her guitar. "Right now, the ratio of guitar to crack is just right. If it ever became more crack than guitar, then it would be worse."

  "Sounds like you have it all figured out." The boy stared at her long enough for Lilith to grow uncomfortable. His eyes were a spellbinding green. He clearly wasn't from around here. Lilith didn't know if she'd ever met anyone who wasn't from Crossroads.

  He was gorgeous and intriguing, and therefore too good to be true. She hated him immediately. "This is my spot. Find your own," she said.

  But instead of going away, he sat down. Next to her. Close. Like they were friends. Or more than friends. "Do you ever play with anyone else?" the boy asked.

  He tilted his head, and Lilith caught a glimpse of a starburst tattoo on his neck. She realized she was holding her breath.

  "What, music? Like a band?" She shook her head. "No. Not that it's any of your business." This guy was invading her turf, interrupting the only real time she had to herself. She wanted him gone.

  "What do you think of The Devil's Business?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "As a band name."

  Lilith's instinct was to get up and walk away, but nobody ever talked to her about music. "What kind of band is it?" she asked.

  He picked up a carob leaf from the ground and studied it, twirling its stem between his fingers. "You tell me. It's your band."

  "I don't have a band," she said.

  He raised a dark eyebrow. "Maybe it's time you got one."

  Lilith had never dared allow herself to dream of what it might be like to play in an actual band. She shifted her weight to put more space between them.

  "My name's Cam."

  "I'm Lilith." She wasn't sure why telling this boy her name felt so monumental, but it did. She wished he weren't here, that he hadn't heard her play. She didn't share her music with anyone.

  "I love that name," Cam said. "It suits you."

  Now it really was time to leave. She didn't know what this guy wanted, but it definitely wasn't anything good. She picked up her guitar and got to her feet.

  Cam went to stop her. "Where are you going?"

  "Why are you talking to me?" she asked. Something about him made her blood boil. Why was he horning in on her private space? Who did he think he was? "You don't know me. Leave me alone."

  Lilith's bluntness usually made people uncomfortable. But not this guy. He laughed a little under his breath.

  "I'm talking to you because you and your song are the most interesting things I've stumbled upon in ages."

  "Your life must be really boring," Lilith said.

  She started to walk away. She had to stop herself from looking back. Cam didn't ask where she was going or seem surprised that she was leaving in the middle of their conversation.

  "Hey," he called.

  "Hey what?" Lilith didn't even turn around. Cam was the kind of boy who hurt girls foolish enough to let him. And she didn't need any more hurt in her life.

  "I play guitar, too," he said as she started back through the forest. "All we'd need is a drummer."

  Cam watched Lilith disappear into the woods of Rattlesnake Creek, suppressing an overwhelming urge to race after her. She was as magnificent as she had been in Canaan, with the same bright, expressive soul shining through her outer beauty. He was amazed, and massively relieved, because when he'd discovered the shocking news that Lilith's soul was not in Heaven, as he'd expected, but in Hell with Lucifer, Cam had imagined the worst.

  It was Annabelle who'd finally told him. He'd gone to her thinking she could slip him some details about Lilith's state in Heaven. The pink-haired angel had shaken her head and looked so sad when she pointed down, way down, and said to him, "You did
n't know?"

  Cam burned with questions about how Lilith--pure, kind Lilith--had ended up in Hell, but the most important one was this: Was she still the girl he loved, or had Lucifer broken her?

  Five minutes with her had brought him right back to Canaan, to the breathtaking love they'd once known. Being next to her had filled him with hope. Except--

  There was something different about Lilith. She wore a razor-sharp bitterness like a coat of armor.

  "Enjoying yourself?" The voice came from somewhere above him.

  Lucifer.

  "Thanks for the glimpse," Cam said. "Now get her out of here."

  Warm laughter shook the trees. "You came to me begging to know the state of her soul," Lucifer said. "I offered to let you visit her--but only because you're one of my favorites. Now why don't we talk business?"

  Before Cam could respond, the ground dropped out from underneath him. His stomach hurtled upward, a sensation only the devil could trigger, and as Cam plunged down, he pondered the limits of angelic strength. He rarely questioned his instincts, but this instinct, to love Lilith and be loved by her again--powerful as it was--would either require the devil's clemency or would pit Cam directly against Lucifer. He unpinned his wings and looked down as a blue spot grew and sharpened beneath his feet. He landed on a linoleum floor.

  The forest and Rattlesnake Creek were gone, and Cam found himself standing in the center of a food court in a deserted mall. He folded his wings against his sides and took a seat on a stool at an orange laminate table.

  The food court atrium was huge, filled with a hundred ugly tables identical to his. It was impossible to tell where it began and where it ended. A long skylight spanned the ceiling, but it was so dirty, Cam could see nothing beyond the gray grime coating its glass. The floor was strewn with trash--empty plates, greasy napkins, crushed to-go cups and their chewed-on plastic straws. A stale odor hung in the air.

  Around him were typical vendors--Chinese food, pizza, wings--but the stores were all run-down: the burger place was shuttered, the lights of the sandwich shop were burned out, and the glass case at the yogurt stop was smashed. Only one vendor's lights were on. Its awning was black with the word Aevum spelled out in bold gold letters.