Fallen Angels in the Dark

INSIDE FRANCESCA’S OFFICE





Francesca was upset, and she wasn’t sure why. It was obvious in her short breaths and in the tense space behind her knees and in the incipient headache behind her eyes. She hated it when she was upset, hated being less than perfectly in control. But she wasn’t in control, and she didn’t know why. Certainly it wasn’t because of this callow new student.

When Roland Sparks had arrived at Shoreline, Francesca had not been surprised. Nearly all the fallen angels were on the move during the truce days, so it was only a matter of time before some of them came to her and Steven for help.

He sat before her desk now, in his starched white shirt, having just convinced Steven to allow him to “audit” some of their Nephilim classes. Ridiculous. If Roland wanted to spy on Lucinda, there were less obtrusive ways.

“You’re going to have to change your clothes,” she said to the fallen angel—or, as custom dictated he be called, demon—coolly. “Real students at Shoreline have never heard of an ironing board. Let alone … what are those?” She leaned down to eye his boots.

His smile almost seemed to taunt her. “Ferragamo.”

“Ferragamo? Pick up a sweatshirt and some sneakers at the Salvation Army down the street.” She looked away and pointlessly shuffled her papers. No matter how long she’d lived with Stephen, demons always managed to unnerve her.

“Francesca.” Steven swiveled in his desk chair to lean toward her. “Don’t you want to talk about what happened today?”

“What’s there to talk about?” she said, closing her eyes to block out the image of her best students’ white faces when she and Steven had offered them a glimpse inside that dark Announcer. “It was a mistake to even try.”

“We took a chance. We were unlucky.” Steven rested a warm hand on hers. He was always warm, and she was always cold. Usually, that made her draw closer to him every chance she got. But today, his heat oppressed her, and his open affection in front of Roland Sparks embarrassed her. She flinched.

“Unlucky?” She scoffed. She could feel herself about to launch into a tirade about statistics and class safety and those Nephilim kids not being ready to play hardball—and while every word she spoke would be absolutely true, all three of them in that office knew that her rant was a foolish cover-up for their real concern that day. For the real reason she was so off her game.

Lucinda Price was ready.

And that terrified Francesca.