Demon Kissed - Katie May Page 0,34

He flips through the notecards he’s made of questions, trying to ferret out something to exploit my weaknesses.

“What nineteenth century realist artist outraged conventional audiences by portraying the working class?”

Fuck. Art is my weakness, and Wade knows it. We have to study these pictures of famous paintings and try to remember who did what. But visual things have never been my forte. I chew my lip. “Options?” I finally, grudgingly, have to ask for multiple choice.

Wade lists off four artists, and I immediately rule out two. It’s a fifty-fifty shot after that. I glance at Tim to see if my study buddy will give me any hints, but he’s too busy checking out Molly—one of our new “members”—to be of any help.

“Gustave Courbet?” I guess.

Wade stomps on my foot.

Dammit.

“Correct!” he says.

“What the hell!” I kick him. “I got it right.”

He kicks me back, his foot sliding up my inner calf. “But you guessed.”

“So?” I knock his foot away with my hand and then flick my leg so I kick his instep.

“So, we aren’t going to win with guesses.” Wade leans over his desk, making me shrink back. He uses the opportunity to trap my foot between both of his.

What the hell is his problem? I try to get my foot away, but he won’t let go.

“Um, guys?” Tim tries to warn us to stop.

But it’s a full-on fucking foot battle now. Wade’s pissed at me. I’m pissed at him. Our feet start trading blows.

Of course, Molly notices. “What the hell, Kat! I thought you were with Roth! Why are you playing footsie with Wade?”

Every eye in the room turns to stare.

This is kind of becoming a thing—people staring at me.

A book flies through the air, narrowly missing my head, cutting off the footsie feud. But as my eyes meet Kastros’s furious gaze, I’m pretty sure I’m in way more trouble than anyone else in the room even realizes.

Because the vengeance demon already gave me one pass. What are the odds he’ll give me another?

12

I’m pretty sure my street-cred nosedives down the toilet like a massive shit when Mother Dearest arrives to pick me up in her sleek convertible, the top down as if she’s attempting to be “hip” and “cool” and “one with the kids.”

Her brown hair blows around her face as she narrows her pinprick blue eyes at me. As always, she’s outfitted in an immaculate black pantsuit that makes her appear even colder and icier than I thought possible.

She doesn’t bother to ask me how school was as I slide into the leather passenger seat, cheeks burning with shame at the curious stares from the other students. Thank fuck William’s still at rowing practice. I think my soul would physically be wrenched from my body like some sort of fucked up wedgie if he was witness to this.

Don’t get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having your parents pick you up from school. The majority of my classmates, especially the younger ones, do this all the time.

But my mom? She’s a well-known figure in our community. And a hated one, at that. She defended a serial rapist who targeted high school girls (several in my class). She told me that the money was too good to pass up. He was acquitted of all charges, and she officially became known in the social circles as a ruthless and vicious bitch. A real-life shark that circles the water, hunting for blood.

I could hardly eat for a week when I found out she was on that case—from the news, not her. Because she doesn’t tell me anything, of course. But every time I looked at my plate, all I could think about was, a bad man paid for this.

We’re silent the entire ride back to the house, and she still doesn’t acknowledge me when I grab my backpack from where I threw it in the backseat and stalk inside.

“Katty!” Adam’s tiny voice precedes the munchkin himself barreling me over, and his arms wrap around my waist in an iron vise.

“Hey, kiddo.” I ruffle his dark hair as he begins to incessantly babble about his day at preschool.

“Your father and I are heading out tonight,” Mom interrupts in her nasally voice. Her chin is tilted upwards as if there’s a particularly pungent smell perfuming the kitchen. “I trust that you’ll be able to handle things, Katrina.”

I barely, just fucking barely, tamp down on the irritation that threatens to bubble over like water hissing in a kettle. My hands clench into