Free Conspiracy Boy (Angel Academy) by Cecily White Page B

Lisa was gone. Katie thought I was the vampire spawn of Satan. The Anselmos were rotting in jail for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit mass murder.
    And Matt?
    Where was Matt, anyway?
    The harsh clangs of locker doors resounded in my ears like gunfire as students clamored though the outside halls. Maybe it was the noise, or possibly my boyfriend saying, “Stay here. I’ll be back soon,” as he disappeared through the conference room door with the rest of the “grown-ups” to decide my fate on an issue I knew nothing about, but for whatever reason, I felt like vomiting.
    I slumped onto the settee outside Smalley’s office, debating a trip to the infirmary. Or better yet, a prison break from the school campus. Akira hadn’t authorized my departure, but that almost made me want it more. And at least if I yarked in a bush somewhere, I wouldn’t have a million dignitaries to witness the humiliation, right?
    I’d just started slipping my feet back into Bertle’s saddle shoes when the front door released a God-awful squeal and Luc strode in looking every inch the Calvin Klein model. Black hair tucked back in elegant disarray, jaw squared like a DC Comics superhero, violet eyes sparked with determination, the usual supermodel swagger.
    Of course, he had an entourage.
    At his heels, a beautiful woman followed, trailed by a cadre of guards and people in business suits. The guards, I understood, but the woman surprised me. Not the fact that he had a woman—Luc Montaigne never had a shortage of beautiful women. This one, however, exceeded even his game show hostess standards.
    Midtwenties, chiseled features, silky black hair that almost matched his. It was a little creepy how well they went together. The only thing that differed were her eyes. Instead of Luc’s pale indigo, hers glowed a brilliant green that set off her emerald silk suit-dress perfectly. And of course, the whole ego-slamming package clung to his arm like a high-class barnacle for hire.
    Gross.
    She probably was a call girl. Obviously not the Bourbon Street variety, but still. I wouldn’t put it past him.
    As they passed through the entry hall, the woman caught my eye and smiled. Not an evil smile. It might have been an attempt at friendliness. Or maybe she was trying to figure out if I tasted like chicken, too.
    “Luc,” I called through the bustle of bodyguards. “Hey, Luc. I have a quest —ack .”
    Question was what that word was supposed to be.
    Unfortunately, it was hijacked by Luc’s bizarre decision to grab my arm and haul me into—oh, yes—the skeezy, disgusting, extremely dusty janitorial closet. He pulled the door shut and flipped on the light.
    In most buildings, that’s not a big deal. You flip a switch and voilà, you’re done. At St. Michael’s, however, it apparently involves thwapping around for a frayed string, smacking yourself in the face a few times, then cursing at the lightbulb in British-sounding swear words.
    By the time Luc finally got the thing turned on, the bare bulb was swinging in chaotic circles, a mop had lodged itself in his armpit, and he was holding a broken string in his hand.
    “Smooth.”
    “Don’t,” he said, as he began dusting off a tangle of cobwebs clumped at his shoulder. “Don’t start. Mum is fit to be tied over the botched webcast last night. Annabelle wants me to execute you—”
    “That’s not news.”
    “—my head feels like the inside of a boiled turnip, and I’m genuinely considering suicide.”
    “Now you know how I feel every day. Hold still.” I brushed a spider off his sleeve then started picking cobwebs out of his hair. “Maybe there’s a brothel nearby to recenter you.”
    “One can only hope. Have you spoken with the Council yet?”
    “Sort of,” I replied. “Akira implied I was evil and publicly urged Jack to dump my accursed ass. Then she booted me out of the meeting because I’m an infantile waste of pseudo-demonic space.”
    “I assume you’re