by Lauren Kate
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—”
“But in some lives they can.” Jasmine corrected Dawn, then winked impishly at Luce, who almost couldn’t move from the shock of hearing all of this.
“No way!” Dawn flung out a hand dismissively. “The whole point is that she bursts into flames when she—” Seeing Luce’s horrified expression, Dawn winced. “Sorry. Not what you want to hear.”
Jasmine cleared her throat and leaned in. “My older sister was tellin
g me this one story from your past that I swear would—”
“Oooh!” Dawn linked her arm through Luce’s, as if this knowledge—knowledge that Luce had no access to—made her a more desirable friend. This was maddening. Luce was fiercely embarrassed. And, okay, a little excited. And absolutely unsure whether any of it was true. One thing was sure: Luce was suddenly kind of … famous. But it felt strange. Like she was one of those unnamed bimbos next to the It-boy movie star in a paparazzi photo.
“You guys!” Jasmine was pointing exaggeratedly down at the clock on her phone. “We’re so super-late! We’ve got to book it to class.”
Luce grimaced, quickly grabbing her backpack. She had no idea what class she had first, or where to find it, or how to take Jasmine and Dawn’s enthusiasm. She hadn’t seen such extended, eager smiles since—well, maybe ever.
“Do either of you know how I figure out where my first class is? I don’t think I got a schedule.”
“Duh,” Dawn said. “Follow us. We’re all together. All the time! It’s so fun.”
The two girls walked with Luce, one on either side, and took her on a winding tour between the tables of other kids finishing their breakfasts. Despite being “so super-late,” both Jasmine and Dawn practically sauntered across the freshly cut grass.
Luce thought about asking these girls what was up with Shelby, but she didn’t want to start off looking like a gossip. Besides, the girls seemed nice and everything, but it wasn’t like Luce needed to make any new best friends. She had to keep reminding herself: This was only temporary.
Temporary, but still stunningly beautiful. The three of them walked along the hydrangea path, which curved around the mess hall. Dawn was chattering about something, but Luce couldn’t take her eyes off the bluffs’ dramatic edge, how abruptly the terrain dropped hundreds of feet to the glittering ocean. The waves rolled toward the small stretch of tawny beach at the foot of the cliff almost as casually as the Shoreline student body rolled toward class.
“Here we are,” Jasmine said.
An impressive two-story A-frame cabin stood alone at the end of the path. It had been built in the middle of a shady pocket of redwoods, so its steep, triangular roof and the vast open lawn in front of it were covered with a blanket of fallen needles. There was a nice grassy patch with some picnic tables, but the main attraction was the cabin itself: More than half of it looked like it was made of glass, all wide, tinted windows and open sliding doors. Like something Frank Lloyd Wright could have designed. Several students lounged on a huge second-story deck that faced the ocean, and several more kids were mounting the twin staircases that wound up from the path.
“Welcome to the Nephi-lodge,” Jasmine said.
“This is where you guys have class?” Luce’s mouth was agape. It looked more like a vacation home than a school building.
Next to her, Dawn squealed and squeezed Luce’s wrist.
“Good morning, Steven!” Dawn called across the lawn, waving to an older man who was standing at the foot of the stairs. He had a thin face, stylish rectangular glasses, and a thick head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “I just absolutely love it when he wears the three-piece suit,” she whispered.
“Morning, girls.” The man smiled at them and waved. He looked at Luce long enough to make her veer toward nervousness, but the smile stayed on his face. “See you in a few,” he called, and started up the stairs.
“Steven Filmore,” Jasmine whispered, filling Luce in as they trailed behind him up the stairs. “Aka S.F., aka the Silver Fox. He’s one of our teachers, and yes, Dawn is truly, madly, deeply in love with him. Even though he’s spoken for. She is shameless.”
“But I love Francesca, too.” Dawn swatted Jasmine, then turned to Luce, her dark eyes smiling. “I defy you not to develop a couples crush on them.”
“Wait.” Luce paused. “The Silver Fox and Francesca are our teachers? And you call them by their first names? And they’re together? Who teaches what?”
“We call the whole morning block humanities,” Jasmine said, “though angelics would be more appropriate. Frankie and Steven teach it jointly. Part of the deal here, sort of yin and yang. You know, so none of the students get … swayed.”
Luce bit her lip. They’d reached the top of the stairs and were standing in a crowd of students on the deck. Everyone else was starting to amble through the sliding glass doors. “What do you mean, ‘swayed’?”
“They’re both fallen, of course, but have picked different sides. She’s an angel, and he’s more of a demon.” Dawn spoke nonchalantly, as if she were talking about the difference between frozen yogurt flavors. Seeing Luce’s eyes bulge, she added, “It’s not like they can get married or anything—though that would be the hottest wedding ever. They just sort of … live in sin.”
“A demon is teaching our humanities class?” Luce asked. “And that’s okay?”
Dawn and Jasmine looked at each other and chuckled. “Very okay,” Dawn said. “You’ll come around to Steven. Come on, we gotta go.”
Following the flow of other kids, Luce entered the classroom. It was broad and had three shallow risers, with desks on them, that led down to a couple of long tables. Most of the light came in through skylights. The natural lighting and high ceilings made the room seem even bigger than it was. An ocean breeze blew in through the open doors and kept the air comfortable and fresh. It could not have been more different from Sword & Cross. Luce thought she could almost have liked Shoreline, if it hadn’t been for the fact that her whole reason for being here—the most important person in her life—was missing. She wondered if Daniel was thinking about her. Did he miss her the way she missed him?
Luce chose a desk close to the windows, between Jasmine and a cute boy-next-door kind of guy who was wearing cutoffs, a Dodgers cap, and a navy sweatshirt. A few girls stood clustered near the door to the bathroom. One of them had curly hair and boxy purple glasses. When Luce saw the girl’s profile, she nearly bolted from her seat.
Penn.
But when the girl turned toward Luce, her face was a little squarer and her clothes were a little tighter and her laugh was a little louder and Luce almost felt like her heart was wilting. Of course it wasn’t Penn. It never would be, ever again.
Luce could feel the other kids glancing at her—some of them outright stared. The only one who didn’t was Shelby, who gave Luce an acknowledging nod.
It wasn’t a huge class, just twenty desks arranged on the risers, facing the two long mahogany tables at the front. There were two dry-erase white boards behind the tables. Two bookshelves on either side. Two trash cans. Two desk lamps. Two laptops, one on each table. And the two teachers, Steven and Francesca, huddled near the front of the room, whispering.
In a move Luce wasn’t expecting, they turned and stared at her too, then glided to the tables. Francesca sat on top of one, with one leg tucked beneath her and one of her high heels skimming the wood floor. Steven leaned against the other table, opened a heavy maroon leather portfolio, and rested his pen between his lips. For an older man, he was good-looking, sure, but Luce almost wished he weren’t. He reminded her of Cam, and of how deceptive a demon’s charm could be.
She waited for the rest of the class to take out textbooks she didn’t have, to plunge into some reading assignment she’d be behind on, so she could surrender to feeling overwhelmed and just daydream about Daniel.
But none of that happened. And most of the kids were still sneaking glances at her.
“By now you must all have noticed that we’re welcoming a new student.” Francesca’s voice was low and honey-thick, like a jazz singer’s.
Steven smiled, showing a flash of brilliant white teeth. “Tell us, Luce, how are you liking Shoreline so far?”
The color drained from Luce’s face as the other students’ desks made scraping sounds on the floor. They were actually turning in their seats to focus on her.
She could feel her heart race and her palms grow damp. She shrank in her seat, wishing she wer
e just a normal kid at a normal school back home in normal Thunderbolt, Georgia. At times over the past few days, she’d wished she’d never seen a shadow, never gotten into the kind of trouble that left her dear friends dead, or got her involved with Cam, or made it impossible for Daniel to be near her. But there was where her anxious, tumbling mind always came to a full stop: How to be normal and still have Daniel? Who was so very far from normal. It was impossible. So here she was, sucking it up.
“I guess I’m still getting used to Shoreline.” Her voice wobbled, betraying her, echoing off the sloped ceiling. “But it seems all right so far.”
Steven laughed. “Well, Francesca and I thought to help you get used to it, we’d change gears from our usual Tuesday-morning student presentations—”
From across the room, Shelby hooted, “Yes!” and Luce noticed that she had a stack of notecards on her desk and a big poster at her feet that read APPARITIONS AIN’T SO BAD. So Luce had just gotten her out of a presentation. That had to be worth something in roommate points.
“What Steven means,” Francesca chimed in, “is that we’re going to play a game, as an icebreaker.” She slid down from her table and walked around the room, heels clicking as she distributed a sheet of paper to each student.
Luce expected the chorus of groans that those words usually evoked from a classroom of teens. But these kids all seemed so agreeable and well-adjusted. They were actually just going to go with the flow.
When she laid the sheet on Luce’s desk, Francesca said, “This should give you an idea of who some of your classmates are, and what goals we work toward in this class.”
Luce looked down at the paper. Lines had been drawn on the page, dividing it into twenty boxes. Each box contained a phrase. It was a game she’d played before, once at summer camp in western Georgia as a little kid, and again a couple of times in her classes at Dover. The object was to go around the room and match a different student with each phrase. Mostly, she was relieved; there were definitely more embarrassing icebreakers out there. But when she looked more closely at the phrases—expecting normal things like “Has a pet turtle” or “Wants to go skydiving someday”—she was a little unnerved to see things like “Speaks more than eighteen languages” and “Has visited the outerworld.”