The water scalded her fingers as she scrubbed. It was important to be clean. After everything, when she was finally allowed to leave the bed, she needed to feel clean. The raw skin around her fingernails bled, swirling with the steaming water as it spun round the drain. Cleanliness was next to godliness. The words of her father. Oh, but what would he think of his little Jane now?

A soiled whore. She froze. Her bleeding hands shook beneath the water, skin red, throbbing. Could she ever be clean again?

"Jane? Get your ass back in here. It's three in the morning." The voice hissed and spat at her, sinking its claws into her, tugging her back to the bed. She swallowed, glancing up at the mirror. The steam fogged it up, obscuring her features. It was a hazy shroud that hid the smudges beneath her eyes and the thumbprint bruises just about her collar bone. She turned off the water, drying her hands on the towel. Navy blue, dark enough to hide her secret shame. She stumbled as she headed back to the bed, her instincts belatedly kicking in, trying in vain to steer her from her current path. There was no turning back now, not as she laid down next to him, her hands scrubbed raw. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her against him, trapping her there. His fingers wrapped around her wrist in a bruising grip. No, she would never be clean again.

***

Jane ate lunch alone. The other students thought her odd, judging by their curious glances throughout the period, but she preferred it. Alone was the only time she could truly relax. She lifted her sandwich to her mouth, wincing at the twinge of pain in her wrist. The chill early spring weather was a mixed blessing. At least she was comfortable in the necessary long sleeves. She set down her sandwich, not hungry. Her stomach ached in protest.

"You going to eat that?"

She jumped, her skin going taunt. Her fingers curled into her sweaty palms. The boy settled across from her, a lazy smile on his angular face. His hair was too long, falling into eyes so brown they looked black beneath the fluorescent lights. The clothes on his loose frame were ratty, fifties greaser chic, the style of a by-gone era but he wore it effortlessly. It did little to disguise the beauty of his features. Jane caught her breath looking at him.

She released the air in her lungs as the moment passed. A beautiful boy begging for her lunch? She studied him, waiting for the punchline. He met her stare for stare, hunger gleaming in his dark irises. Jane sighed, sliding the untouched half of her tuna fish sandwich in front of him. He fell on it without hesitation.

She noticed his dirty fingernails as he ate in eager bites. There were smudges along his cheekbone and beneath the mop of curly dark blond hair. She caught the scent of machine grease and wood smoke when he shifted in his seat.

"I've never seen you around before," she said, picking at the remainder of her sandwich.

He smiled for her, a small, sad smirk that stretched his full upper lip. "You haven't been looking hard enough," he said, finishing the sandwich in one big bite. There was a sour truth in his words. It was a large school, in a poorer section of the city. More than one student was homeless, relying on the school system for a free meal and education. The others, with their posh houses and three square either ignored them, or simply didn't see them. Jane fished an apple from her bag, polishing it on her shirt before offering it to him.

"Perhaps you are right," she said. The smile on his face widened. There was a hint of mischief in his eyes that made her stomach flutter. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he said, plucking it from her hand. "You are very...kind."

The bell rang, scattering the students like leaves before the wind. The boy rose to leave, tucking the apple in a pocket. It was a fluke, a chance encounter. He could very well vanish into the student populace again, but she couldn't resist the question.

"What's your name?"

He turned, winking at her over his shoulder. "Perhaps if you share another lunch with me, I shall tell you."

***

Her boyfriend grabbed her as she went to gym class, pulling her into a janitorial closet where he pressed her hard into the shelves. He whispered filthy things in her ear as his hands crept under her clothes, groping, pinching, too rough but she didn't say a word. Not a word as he shoved into her so hard the metal shelves cut her back, not a word as he called her 'his secret whore'. Later he would insist these were just games, role play, that he loved her. Yet he never touched her outside of these secret places. When asked, she said she had a boyfriend, but no one knew his name. He preferred it that way, preferred she stay his and his alone.

After he finished she went to the ladies room and washed up. She sat in the last stall through the rest of the day.

***

Jane didn't expect the boy to join her the next day. Not truly, but she sat in the same secluded spot, despondently nibbling at her sandwich. The cut on her lower back throbbed. She jumped once again when he plopped down across from her in the same ill fitting outfit, a beautiful waif. He gave her that crooked grin.

"Care to share that sandwich again?"

He fell silent when she reached into her bag and pulled out a second one. She hadn't expected him to join her, but she hoped. A frown troubled his face, as if her actions both delighted and worried him.

"What's your name?" She slid a bottle of water over to him. He stared at her offering. She couldn't decipher the expression in his eyes.

"Call me Dante," he said, digging in.

"Like the poet?"

His eyebrow quirked. "You've read the Divine Comedy?"

"Please, it's one of the few texts my parents don't disprove."

"Religious types eh?" That smirk was back, as if he was privy to a joke she wasn't.

"You could say that," she said, setting her unfinished lunch down. "They are missionaries in Africa."

Dante chewed slowly as he studied her. "And you didn't join them?"

Jane placed her hands in her lap so he couldn't see them fidget. "I prefer to live with my grandmother." Away from her father's judgments and her mother's fervent prayers for her soul. If they knew what happened between Jane and her boyfriend, they would disown her. The bell rang, the repetitive signal of her repetitive days.

"Thank you for the meal, Jane," said Dante, rising to leave.

"Oh, almost forgot," she said, tossing an apple to him as he left. He laughed.

"You know the apple is the fruit of knowledge," he said.

She bit into her own apple. "I know, the reason man fell," she said, "but they are quite delicious. I feel the trade was worth it."

His laughter pulled her through the remainder of the day. She made sure to pack an extra lunch everyday that week.

***

It was Friday. Her boyfriend came over to her house after football practice. The dark fell earlier now and he emerged from it with his usual fire and wrath. It was a small miracle her grandmother was gone for the night, off to a knitting circle. Jane doubted her presence would impede him. He'd heard about her lunch time visitor. He didn't like it, her flirtations with the beautiful boy. He emphasized his words with the back of his hand and apologized profusely when her lip cracked and bled down her chin.

After he'd cleaned the blood from her face and neck, he showed her once again how much he loved her. Jane lay quiet as he dressed, withholding the tears for her fresh bruises until he finally left through the front door.

She didn't know how long she lay there, feeling broken inside her skin. It would take hours to scrub this away under the faucet.

Something clinked against her window. She didn't move until the third one, drawn by curiosity despite her aches.

Dante stood below her window, his handsome face heavily shadowed. He looked like a dusty phantom in the dark but she shoved her window open and leaned out to greet him.

"What are you doing here?"

There was that strange pantomime of emotions again. He lifted a hand up to her in a graceful arc. "Are you alright?"

She didn't want to contemplate what she looked like at this moment. "I'm fine."

There was a hesitant silence, slowly filling with the crackling energy of the unasked question.

"Do you want something?" She broke the silence, her words stilted after her held breath.

"Can I come up?"

Their stares connected and fizzed. She should say no. If her boyfriend found out, there would be hell to pay. Her grandmother might come home soon. She was bruised, unclean. There was dried blood on her lip.

"Yes." She stood straight. "Wait there, I'll be right down."

"Don't bother," he said. He took a run at the house, jumping up to grab the short roof of the wrap around porch. By the time he pulled himself up and over, clambering over the shingles with ease, she was laughing. He tumbled into her room, a street acrobat, rolling to his feet with a bow.

She clapped for him.

"You're room is very tidy," he said. It was a polite way of saying sparse. There were no posters on the walls, no small knick knacks laying about. Clutter, according to her grandmother. Jane didn't care. The only bit of clutter was her bookshelf.

"You've torn your sleeve," she said, fingering a ragged hole down the arm of his shirt. It was the same outfit she'd seen on him every day. The sight of the hole brought fresh tears to her eyes.

Dante shrugged. "Must have snagged it on a nail. It's only cloth."

"Wait here," said Jane. She danced away to the hall closet, retrieving one of the hanging shirts. She presented it with a grin to her beautiful boy. "They belonged to my grandfather."

He laughed at the sight of it but took it from her, shrugging out of his torn shirt to don her newest gift. Her breath caught at the scars down his back, twin slashes etched along his shoulder blades. Her fingers were tracing them before she thought better of it. He froze with the shirt halfway over his head. His skin seemed to heat beneath her touch.

She snatched her hand away, ashamed, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He was quiet about it, ignoring it. "Not sure flannel is my style," he said, breaking the awkwardness between them.

"It suits you fine," she said, "Red is definitely your color." She smiled, the scab on her lip straining in protest. She tugged at the snug shoulders of the shirt. "You look like a hot lumberjack."

That made him laugh once more. The sound was like hot chocolate for her soul, warming her, chasing away the awful chill her boyfriend left behind. Dante reached between them, sadness creeping back into his face as he brushed his thumb parallel to the cut on her mouth. "You are too kind."

She refused to acknowledge such a statement. People like her weren't kind. They merely sought to feel better about themselves, to nourish their souls. He really did look handsome in her grandfather's shirt, smudged cheeks and all.

"Why don't you hop in the shower," she said, glancing at the clock. "I can make you dinner." She turned to go when he caught her wrist, his grip firm but without the bruising force of her boyfriend's.

"Join me."

It wasn't a question, or an invitation, not exactly, not when she heard the yearning in his voice. It didn't require words to follow him. He didn't touch her, not until they stood beneath the warm spray, two naked children in a porcelain Eden. When his lips finally met her skin, it was in feathered caresses across the bruises and scars that marred her. He worshiped her imperfections. There were only two scars on him, but she paid homage to the wretched scars on his shoulders, brushing her lips across them. She swore he tasted like fresh apples.

When the front door opened, they streaked to her bedroom, locking themselves in and grinning at each other beneath her damp sheets as her grandmother stomped around the house. The house was quiet once again; they lay together. Dante continued to stroke her skin, tracing the finger marks on her forearm.

"Why do you stay with him?"

She flinched at the question. They were having such a nice time. "He loves me."

"This isn't love. It's possession. I would know the difference."

Jane couldn't help the smile at that line. It didn't hurt so much now. "Why did you come here tonight?"

"Perhaps I was possessed," said Dante. She took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

"I don't own you, Dante," she said.

"Then why such kindness?" The question was sharp. She wondered if anyone ever gave him anything without expecting something in return. She laid her head on his bare chest, listening to the harsh thump of his heart.

"Because you needed it," she said. A tear slid across her nose, onto his skin. It confused her, why she cried for him, but deep down, she felt he needed that too. She cried herself to sleep.

When she woke he was gone. So were all the bruises and cuts on her skin.

***

She didn't know what happened between them. It began as a shift in her internal scales. Dante's words tumbled through her mind at odd hours, intertwined with the memory of his touch. The weekend was one long blur of thought and revelation. If her boyfriend had come to her in that moment, she would have ended it. It was over between them, whether she ever saw Dante again or not, but he did not show his face to her. Neither did her beautiful boy.

When had she begun to think of him as hers?

***

Her boyfriend wasn't in school Monday. Something about it felt off. She began to worry. It wasn't like him to miss school, not someone in his position. Dante was also absent. His lunch sat untouched in his place at their table.

Jane didn't realize what had happened until she left school, when her boyfriend pulled her into his car. She'd never seen him so freaked out. He kept running a hand through his hair, revealing the thinning spots he worked so hard to hide. A healing cut decorated the corner of his mouth. The sight of it spooked her.

"Are you alright? Did you get into a fight?"

His hand came out of nowhere, slapping her hard enough to snap her head to the left. "Shut up!" He screamed into her face. Spittle hit her cheek. "You did this to me!"

"What are you talking about?" She yelled back, reaching for the door. The air tasted like copper and ozone. Danger sang through her nerves. He was unhinged, his eyes wild. He cradled his face with both hands, rocking in his seat. The action cause his sleeve to ride up, revealing the finger shaped bruises on his forearm.

He looked up at her breath. It was such a small give away. His mad eyes lit with triumph. "I knew it," he hissed.

She scrambled for the handle then, a scream building in her throat until he knocked her head against the glass.

***

Jane woke tied upright to a chair. Her head ached. There was a rag stuffed in her mouth, leaving the foul taste of grease and dirt on her tongue. It was cold, the only light source a single naked bulb swaying in uneven circles above her. She struggled, tied fast.

"Ah, you're awake." Her boyfriend tripped into the pool of light, his face hallowed, a death mask staring back at her. "Time for your lesson."

The words sent her into a fresh struggle. It wasn't the first time he'd used them. They always foreshadowed pain. A knife flashed in his hand.

She screamed into her gag. What had happened to him? Why was he doing this? Was this where the path led with him all along? She looked up into his eyes. A demon stared back.

Jane braced herself for the next part, wondering how long she would last under his ministrations. Beyond the stillness of their circle she thought she heard the whoosh of wings.

A hand reached out from the darkness behind him, long fingers wrapping around her boyfriend's throat. Her eyes widened as he was yanked backwards into darkness.

The knife fell to the floor with a clang.

There was no sound of scuffle. Nothing to indicate what happened beyond the light. Jane struggled against her bonds, desperate to escape them. A figure in red plaid crouched down, retrieving the knife from the floor. She froze at the sight of him.

Rage twisted his features into something fierce and inhuman. He cut her bonds without a word, melting back into the dark. Jane rose to her feet, ripping the gag out of her mouth as she followed.

It took her a moment, for her eyes to adjust. Dante held her boyfriend pinned to the wall with one hand. His anger was a tangible force, scorching her skin. Dante turned slightly at her presence. His dark eyes seemed to glow. After a moment he looked away, angling the man's face in his grip.

"An educator, in a position of power, taking advantage of a sweet young thing like her?" Dante sneered, tightening his grip on the man's neck. "Twisting her all up inside until she doesn't know love from pain. What a despicable beast you are."

Her boyfriend fought Dante's grip, straining to speak through the squeeze on his throat. "What---what are you?"

Dante didn't answer right away, that burning gaze sliding over her. Jane hugged herself, feeling the tremble in her knees. She knew it then, without a doubt in her stained, twisted up soul; her beautiful boy was no angel.

Dante leaned in, until the two men where cheek to cheek. His voice was low, but Jane could hear every word.

"The Devil is real. He's not some little man in a red suit, with pointy horns and a tail. He is seductive, enchanting, and beautiful. He was an angel, an angel who longed to be human, and that's what made him crash and burn, the taint of humanity, the stink of it. That's what made him fall."

The man shuddered in Dante's grip. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," he muttered. The scent of urine tainted the air. Dante drew back with a smile, one of playful cruelty that made her heart ache.

"God doesn't listen to beasts, Jim Harvershaw, but I do," said Dante, stroking the man's face in an almost tender caress. "I listen to all the wretched words you say, to all the soft cries of the broken girls you leave behind, and the sound of their breaking bones." He lifted Jim's hand up, taking his forefinger. "Perhaps we should break a bone for every one of theirs?" The finger snapped. Jim shrieked. The only thing keeping him aloft was the hand on his neck.

Jane shuffled forward and wrapped her hands around Dante's bicep, laying her cheek against her grandfather's soft flannel. Both men stopped, still as stone at her interference.

The Devil in Plaid, it was almost silly enough to make her giggle, to blank out of the moment, but he needed her now too.

"Why did you come?" She stared into his eyes as she spoke. The twin wells of rage threatened to pull her in, drown her. Silence squatted between them, breathing heavily, sucking all the oxygen out of the air.

"Possessed I suppose," he said, releasing Jim to crumple to the floor. He was still seething as she pressed into him, wrapping her arms around him until her palms rested lightly on the twin scars of his back.

"Leave him," she said, burying her face in his neck. He'd told her what he was, she believed it, but she didn't care. "Take me away from here."

It didn't matter where. She'd follow her beautiful boy, like a woman possessed.

Dante sighed, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You really are too kind." He stepped away, sinking down to his knees to look the quivering Jim in the eye. "See you soon."

Jim's eyes rolled up in his head as he passed out. He didn't witness the Devil scoop up Jane in his arms, or her bubbling laughter as she was carried off into the night. He woke alone, covered in bruises, with a broken finger. The police found him in the same position nearly two days later, babbling about broken girls and the Devil.