Silence (34 page)

He tasted deeper, holding himself over me, and suddenly he was everywhere; his knee trapping my leg, his lips grazing warm, rough, sensuous. He splayed his hand at the small of my back, holding me tightly, driving me to sink my fingers deeper into him, clinging to him as if letting go would mean losing part of myself.

“Nora?”

I looked to the doorway—and screamed.

Hank filled the entrance, leaning his forearm on the doorjamb. His eyes swept the room, his face contracted in quizzical contemplation.

“What are you doing!” I yelled at him.

He didn’t answer, his eyes still roving every corner of my bedroom.

I didn’t know where Patch was; it was as though he’d sensed Hank a split moment before the doorknob turned. He could be feet away, hiding. Seconds away from being discovered.

“Get out!” I sprang off the bed. “I can’t do anything about the house key my mom gave you, but this is where I draw the line. Do not
ever
come into my bedroom again.”

His eyes made a slow scan of my closet doors, which were cracked. “I thought I heard something.”

“Yeah, well, guess what? I’m a living, breathing person, and every now and then I make noise!”

With that, I flung the door shut and sagged against it. My pulse was all over the board. I heard Hank stand resolute a moment, probably trying to pinpoint, once more, whatever it was that had brought him up to search my bedroom in the first place.

At last he wandered down the hall. He’d frightened me to the point of tears. I swatted them hastily away, replaying his every word and expression in my mind, trying to find any clue that would prove whether he knew Patch was in my room.

I let five treacherously long minutes pass before I cracked my door. The hall outside was empty. I returned my attention to my bedroom. “Patch?” I whispered in the faintest voice.

But I was alone.

I didn’t see Patch again until I fell asleep. I dreamed I was wading through a field of wild grass that parted around my hips as I walked. Ahead, a barren tree appeared, twisted and misshapen. Patch leaned against it, hands pocketed. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, a stark contrast against the creamy white of the field.

I ran the rest of the way to him. He wrapped his leather jacket around us, more as an act of intimate possession than to conserve heat.

“I want to stay with you tonight,” I said. “I’m scared Hank is going to try something.”

“I’m not letting you or him out of my sight, Angel,” he said with something almost territorial in his tone.

“Do you think he knows you were in my bedroom?”

Patch’s agitated sigh was barely audible. “One thing’s for sure: He sensed something. I made a big enough impression that he came upstairs to investigate. I’m starting to wonder if he’s stronger than I’ve given him credit for. His men are impeccably organized and trained. He’s managed to hold an archangel captive. And now he can sense me from several rooms away. The only explanation I can think of is devilcraft. He’s found a way to channel it, or he made a bargain. Either way, he’s invoking the powers of hell.”

I shuddered. “You’re scaring me. That night, after Bloody Mary’s, the two Nephilim who chased me mentioned devilcraft. But they said Hank had pronounced it a myth.”

“Could be Hank doesn’t want anyone knowing what he’s up to. Devilcraft might explain why he thinks he can overthrow fallen angels as early as Cheshvan. I’m not an expert in devilcraft, but it seems plausible that it could be used to combat an oath, even an oath sworn under heaven. He might be counting on it to break thousands upon thousands of oaths Nephilim have sworn to fallen angels over the centuries.”

“In other words, you don’t think it’s a myth.”

“I used to be an archangel,” he reminded me. “It wasn’t under my jurisdiction, but I know it exists. That’s about all any of us knew. It originated in hell, and most of what we knew was speculation.
Devilcraft is forbidden outside of hell, and the archangels should be on top of this.” An edge of frustration crept into his tone.

“Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Hank found a way to hide it from them. Or maybe he’s using it in such little doses, they haven’t picked up on it.”

“Here’s a cheerful thought,” Patch said with a short, unamused laugh. “He could be using devilcraft to rearrange molecules in the air, which would explain why I’ve had a hard time tracking him. The whole time I’ve been spying for him, I’ve done my best to keep a tail on him, trying to figure out how he’s using the information I’ve fed him. Not easy, given he moves like a ghost. He doesn’t leave evidence the way he should. He could be using devilcraft to alter matter altogether. I have no idea how long he’s been using it or how good he’s gotten at harnessing it.”

We both contemplated this in chilling silence. Rearranging matter? If Hank was capable of tampering with the basic components of our world, what else could he manipulate?

After a moment, Patch reached under his shirt collar, unclasping a plain men’s chain. It was made of interlocking links of sterling silver and was slightly tarnished. “Last summer I gave you my archangel’s necklace. You gave it back to me, but I want you to have it again. It doesn’t work for me anymore. But it might come in useful.”

“Hank would do
anything
to get your necklace,” I protested, pushing Patch’s hands away. “Keep it. You need to hide it. We can’t let Hank find it.”

“If Hank puts my necklace on the archangel, she’ll have no choice but to tell him the truth. She’ll give him pure, unadulterated knowledge, and freely. You’re right about that. But the necklace will also record the encounter, imprinting it forever. Sooner or later, Hank’s going to get his hands on a necklace. Better he takes mine than finds another.”

“Imprint?”

“I want you to find a way to give this to Marcie,” he instructed, clasping the chain at the nape of my neck. “It can’t be obvious. She has to think she’s stolen it from you. Hank will grill her, and she has to believe that she outsmarted you. Can you do that?”

I pulled back, giving him an admonitory look. “What are you planning?”

His smile was faint. “I wouldn’t call this planning. I’d call this throwing a Hail Mary with seconds left on the clock.”

With great care, I thought through what he was asking of me. “I can invite Marcie over,” I said at last. “I’ll tell her I need help picking out jewelry to go with my homecoming dress. If she’s really helping Hank hunt down an archangel’s necklace, and if she thinks I have it, she’ll take advantage of having access to my bedroom. I’m not thrilled about having her poking around, but I’ll do it.” I paused meaningfully. “But first I want to know
exactly
why I’m doing it.”

“Hank needs the archangel to talk. So do we. We need a way to let the archangels in heaven know Hank is practicing devilcraft. I’m a fallen angel, and they aren’t going to listen to me. But if Hank
touches my necklace, it will imprint on the necklace. If he’s using devilcraft, the necklace will record that, too. My word means nothing to the archangels, but that kind of evidence would. All we’d need to do is get the necklace into their hands.”

I still felt a tug of doubt. “What if it doesn’t work? What if Hank gets the information he needs, and we get nothing?”

He agreed with a slight nod. “What would you like me to do instead?”

I thought about it, and came up empty. Patch was right. We were out of time, out of options. It wasn’t the best position to be in, but something told me Patch had been making the best of risky decisions his entire existence. If I had to get dragged into a gamble as big as this, I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather be with.

I
T WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, A WEEK LATER, AND MY MOM
and Hank were in the living room, cuddled on the couch and sharing a bowl of popcorn. I’d retreated to my room, having promised Patch I could keep my cool around Hank.

Hank had been infuriatingly charming the past few days, driving my mom home from the hospital, stopping by with takeout every night promptly at dinnertime, even cleaning our roof gutters earlier this morning. I wasn’t foolish enough to lower my guard, but I was
driving myself mad trying to pull apart his motives. He was planning something, but when it came down to
what
, I was at a loss.

My mom’s laugh carried up the stairs, and it pushed me over the edge. I punched in a text to Vee.

YO
, she answered a moment later.

I HAVE TICKETS 2 SERPENTINE. WANNA?

SERPEN-WHA???

FRIEND OF THE FAMILY’S NEW BAND
, I explained.
OPENING GIG IS TONIGHT.

PICK U UP IN 20.

Promptly twenty minutes later, Vee screeched into the driveway. I thundered down the stairs, hoping to make it out the door before I had to endure the torture of hearing my mom make out with Hank, who, I’d learned, was a very wet kisser.

“Nora?” Mom called down the hall. “Where are you going?”

“Out with Vee. I’ll be back by eleven!” Before she could veto, I raced outside and threw myself inside Vee’s 1995 purple Dodge Neon. “Go, go, go!” I ordered her.

Vee, who’d have a bright future as a getaway driver if college didn’t pan out, took my escape into her own hands, peeling out of the drive loud enough to frighten a flock of birds out of the nearest tree.

“Whose Avalon was in the driveway?” Vee asked as she sped across town, oblivious to road signs. She’d dramatically bawled her way
out of three speeding tickets since getting her license, and was firmly convinced that when it came to the law, she was invincible.

“Hank’s rental.”

“I heard from Michelle Van Tassel, who heard from Lexi Hawkins, who heard from our good friend Marcie that Hank is offering up a big ol’ reward for any police tips that lead to the arrest of the freak shows who tried to run you off the road.”

Good luck with that.

But I smirked appropriately, not wanting to tip Vee off that anything was wrong. Ideally, I knew I should tell her everything, starting with having my memory erased by Hank. But …
how?
How did I explain things I could hardly comprehend myself? How did I make her believe in a world teeming with the stuff of nightmares, when I had nothing but my own word to offer up as proof?

“How much is Hank offering?” I asked. “Maybe I can be coaxed into remembering something important.”

“Why bother? Lift his bank card instead. I doubt he’d notice if a few hundred walked off. And hey, if you get caught, it’s not like he can have you arrested. It would screw up any chance he has with your mom.”

If only it were that simple, I thought, a gritty smile frozen on my face. If only Hank could be taken at face value.

There was a tiny parking lot near the Devil’s Handbag, and Vee cruised through it five times, but a spot didn’t open up. She widened her search block by block. At last she parallel parked
along a stretch of curb that left half the Neon hanging out in the street.

Vee got out and surveyed her parking job. She shrugged. “Five points for creativity.”

We walked the rest of the way on foot.

“So who’s this friend of the family?” Vee inquired. “Is he male? Is he hot? Is he single?”

“Yes on the first count, probably on second, I think so on the last. You want me to introduce you?”

“No siree. Just wanted to know if I should keep my evil eye trained on him. I don’t trust boys anymore, but my scary-radar goes off the charts when it comes to pretty boys.”

I gave a short laugh trying to imagine a squeaky-clean, dolledup version of Scott. “Scott Parnell is anything but pretty.”

“Whoa. Hold on. What’s this? You didn’t tell me the old family friend was Scottie the Hottie.”

I wanted to tell Vee that was because I was doing my best to keep Scott’s public appearance tonight quiet, not wanting any word of it to reach Hank’s ears, but I brushed it off with an innocent, “Sorry, I must have forgotten.”

“Our boy Scottie has a
body
you can’t forget. You’ve got to give him that.”

She was right. Scott wasn’t bulky, but he was very muscular and had the well-proportioned physique of a top-notch athlete. If it weren’t for the tough, almost scowl-like expression he carried
everywhere, he’d probably attract throngs of girls. Possibly even Vee, who was a self-proclaimed man hater.

We rounded the final corner, and the Devil’s Handbag came into view. It was a charmless four-story brick structure with creeping ivy and blacked-out windows. On one side it neighbored a pawn shop. On the other sat a shoe repair store that I secretly suspected was the front for a thriving fake ID business. Seriously, who replaced their soles anymore?

“Are we going to get tagged?” Vee asked.

“Not tonight. They aren’t serving alcohol at the bar, since half the band is underage. Scott told me we’d only need tickets.”

We stepped into line, and five minutes later cleared the doors. The spacious layout inside consisted of a stage on one side of the room, and a bar on the other. Booth seating close to the bar, cafe tables near the stage. There was a decent crowd, with more coming in by the minute, and I experienced a squeeze of nervous anticipation for Scott. I tried to pick out Nephilim faces in the audience, but I wasn’t experienced enough to trust myself to do a thorough job. Not that I had a reason to believe the Devil’s Handbag made a likely hangout for nonhumans, particularly those with allegiance to Hank. I was simply going on the belief that it didn’t hurt to be cautious.

Vee and I went right to the bar.

“Something to drink?” the bartender, a redhead who hadn’t skimped on eyeliner or nose rings, asked us.

“Suicide,” Vee told her. “You know, when you put a little shot of everything into the glass?”

I leaned sideways. “How old are we?”

“Childhood only comes once. Live it up.”

“Cherry Coke,” I told the bartender.

As Vee and I sipped our drinks, sitting back and taking in the preshow excitement, a slender blonde with her hair stuffed into a messy—and sexy—bun sashayed over. She leaned her elbows back on the bar, giving me a cursory glance. She wore a long bohemian dress, pulling off hippie-chic flawlessly. Other than a swipe of siren-red lipstick, she was sans makeup, which drew my attention to her full, pouty mouth. Fixing her gaze on the stage, she said, “Haven’t seen you girls around before. First time?”