Demon Kissed - Katie May Page 0,18

realize that dämon is German for demon? Or am I the only one who decided to take German instead of Spanish this semester?

“The new gym teacher!” She practically bounces on her feet. Pausing abruptly, she gives my chest a disapproving once-over. “And I would recommend taking that off.”

Ignoring her super-duper helpful advice, I follow the line of girls into the gymnasium. Normally, they’d be dragging their feet, coming up with any excuse possible to sit out of class. Periods. Cramps. Dead grandmas. You name it, we use it.

Today, though, not one girl is huddling in the locker room, pretending to be sick. The bleachers are completely full by the time I drag myself to my usual seat near the back.

I spot Zolroth sitting on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by fawning girls, and he lifts his hand to wave when he spots me. I stubbornly turn away, lips compressed in a thin line.

William sits a few rows in front of me. His body is twisted, almost as if he has been watching me, and I feel heat enter both of my cheeks at his attention. He’s so beautiful that it’s sometimes a physical pain to look at him. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something—maybe invite me to sit beside him?—but he quickly clamps it closed as a new voice reverberates through the gym.

“Mr. Harthorne has been called away for the foreseeable future. I’ll be your new gym teacher until he returns,” a rough, growly voice announces, and my breath catches.

Raz—the asshole leader of the crazies, who rifled through my mail—storms out of an office, face contorted into a hideously beautiful sneer. His hair is slicked back, and though he’s wearing sweat pants and a white T-shirt that are standard Lakeside Prep-issue, it doesn’t diminish his natural, raw sex appeal. The fact that his T-shirt looks two sizes too tight and the tips of his angel wing tattoos can be seen cresting the collar is driving the girls in class wild, I’m sure. He has that naughty teacher-vibe going.

His eyes trail over the gathered students before landing on me. When he smiles, it’s not nice. There’s something cruel and malicious in that upwards tilt of his lips, something that causes the tiny hairs on my arms to stand on end.

You know that saying, “stalkers deserve to be kicked in the nuts?” No? You don’t know it?

Well, I really, really wish I could kick both Raz and Zolroth in the nuts. Then I’d call the cops and move myself and Adam as far away from them as possible.

Costa Rica has never looked more promising.

7

P.E. class has always been my idea of torture, but today’s lesson takes that torture to a whole new level.

Mr. Dämon’s eyes feel like they’re burning when they land on me, and I’m torn between screaming “stalker” and trying to convince people he’s a horny bastard (the demonic horns-on-head style of horny that’s scary instead of the type of horny that’s fun). But I honestly don’t think people would believe me either. I mean…me. With stalkers? Ha. Even I have trouble believing that, and I’ve been running from them since yesterday. As for the other thing…well, that kind of declaration might get me sent to the school counselor.

Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt. Burned it.

“Listen up,” Raz, aka Mr. Dämon, calls out, not bothering to use the dorky red whistle he’s got looped on a string around his neck. But he doesn’t need it, because every girl in the place immediately freezes, and when they stop talking, so do the guys, who seem delighted by the nipples parade thing going on today. Mr. D—for douchebag demon—continues, “We’re apparently required by the state to have a dance unit.” He grimaces while titters and applause break out on the bleacher around me.

I turn to look at Stacy, about to mutter that I’m probably going to attempt fake cramps, but her face is slack-jawed with puppy-like adoration.

Oh, shit. Is that what I look like around William? Ew. How can he even stand the sight of me? I try to be a good friend and help push her mouth closed, but she just waves me off.

“Stop it!” she grumbles.

So I recline back on my elbows and wonder why God decided to torture me with two hot stalkers at my school, who seem bound and determined to make the impossible happen. Two, wait. There were five. Where are the others?

I sit up and glare daggers at