Silence hh-3, page 27
part #3 of Hush, Hush Series
“If we hooked up, he could write me ballads and stuff. You gotta admit, nothing’s sexier than a guy who writes music.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said.
“Mm-hmm, yourself.”
Onstage, a crew from the Devil’s Handbag helped adjust the microphones and amps. One of the crew members was on his knees, taping down cords, when he paused to wipe sweat off his brow. My eyes fell on his arm, and I was hit by a flash of recognition so strong it seemed to rock me back. Three words were tattooed like a mantra on his forearm. COLD. PAIN. HARD.
I didn’t know the significance of the combination of words, but I knew I’d seen them before. A pair of curtains drew back, revealing my memory long enough for me to remember seeing the tattoo right after I’d been hurled from Hank’s Land Cruiser. COLD. PAIN. HARD. I hadn’t remembered it before, but now I was positive. The man onstage had been there. Directly following the crash. He’d grabbed my wrists as I’d drifted into unconsciousness, dragging my body through the dirt. He had to have been one of the fallen angels riding in the El Camino.
As I came to this startling conclusion, the fallen angel dusted his hands and jumped offstage, wandering the perimeter of the crowd. He made brief conversation with a few people, slowly progressing toward the back of the room. Abruptly, he turned down the same hall where Dabria and I had talked.
I called into Vee’s ear, “I’m going to run to the restroom. Save my spot.”
Edging through the crowd, huddled three and four deep around the bar, I followed the fallen angel into the hallway. He stood at the far end of it, bent slightly forward. He shifted, revealing his profile, holding a lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips. Exhaling a plume of spoke, he stepped outside.
I gave him a few seconds’ head start, then cracked the door and stuck my head out. A handful of smokers loitered in the alley, but other than a flick of eyes, no one paid me any attention. I stepped all the way out, searching for the fallen angel. He was halfway down the alley, walking toward the street. Maybe he wanted to smoke alone, but I had a feeling he was leaving for good.
I ran down my options. I could hurry back inside and enlist Vee’s help, but I didn’t want to risk involving her if I could help it. I could call Patch for backup, but if I waited for him to arrive, I’d risk losing the fallen angel. Or I could take Patch’s advice and immobilize the fallen angel, taking advantage of his wing scars, and then call for backup.
I decided to give Patch as much of a heads-up as I could and pray that he hurried. We’d agreed to reserve calls and texts for emergencies only, not wanting to leave any unwanted evidence lying around for Hank to find. If this didn’t constitute an emergency, I didn’t know what did.
IN ALLEY BEHIND DEVIL’S HANDBAG, I texted in a hurry. SAW FALLEN ANGEL FROM CAR CRASH. WILL AIM FOR WING SCARS.
There was a snow shovel propped against the back door of the shoe repair store, and I picked it up without thinking. I didn’t have a plan, but if I was going to immobilize the fallen angel, I’d need a weapon. Keeping an unsuspecting distance behind, I followed him to the end of the alley. He turned onto the street, flicked his cigarette into the gutter, and dialed on his cell phone.
Hidden in shadow, I picked up bits and pieces of his conversation.
“Finished the job. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him.”
He hung up and scratched his neck. He let go of a sigh that sounded conflicted. Or maybe resigned.
Taking advantage of his quiet contemplation, I crept up behind him and swung the shovel sideways in a vicious sweep. It smashed into his back with more power than I ever thought I possessed, right where his wing scars should be.
The fallen angel staggered forward, taking a knee.
I brought the shovel down a second time with more confidence. Then a third, fourth, fifth time. Knowing I couldn’t kill him, I slammed a fierce blow to his head.
He wobbled off balance, then slumped to the ground.
I nudged him with my shoe, but he was out cold.
Hurried footsteps rang out behind me and I flipped around, still clutching the shovel. Patch emerged from the darkness, breathless from running. He looked between me and the fallen angel.
“I — got him,” I said, still in shock that it had been so easy.
Patch gently pried the shovel from my hands and set it aside. A faint smile twitched his lips. “Angel, this man isn’t a fallen angel.”
I blinked. “What?”
Patch crouched beside the man, took his shirt in his hands, and ripped the fabric. I stared at the man’s back, smooth and muscular. And not a wing scar in sight.
“I was sure,” I stammered. “I thought it was him. I recognized his tattoo—”
Patch peered up at me. “He’s Nephilim.”
A Nephil? I’d just bludgeoned a Nephil unconscious?
Rolling the Nephil’s body over, Patch unbuttoned his shirt, inspecting his torso. At the same time, our eyes traveled to the brand just below his clavicle. The clenched fist was all too familiar.
“The Black Hand’s mark,” I said with astonishment. “The men who attacked us that day, and nearly drove us off the road, were Hank’s men?” What did it mean? And how could Hank have made such a grave error in judgment? He’d claimed they were fallen angels. He’d sounded so certain—
“Are you sure this was one of the men in the El Camino?” Patch asked.
Rage leaped inside me as I realized I’d been played. “Oh, I’m sure.”
CHAPTER 28
HANK ORCHESTRATED THE CAR CRASH,” I SAID, deadly quiet. “Originally I thought the crash had upended his plans, but none of it was by accident. He told his men to hit us, and he planted it in my head that they were fallen angels. And I was stupid enough to fall for it!”
Patch transported the Nephil’s body behind an overgrown hedge, concealing it from the street. “This way he won’t attract any attention before he wakes up,” he explained. “Did he get a good look at you?”
“No, I took him by surprise,” I said distractedly. “But why did Hank need to crash his car? The whole thing seems pointless. His car was totaled, he was severely beat up in the process — I don’t get it.”
“I don’t want you leaving my sight until we’ve figured this out,” Patch said. “Go inside and tell Vee you don’t need a ride home. I’ll pick you up out front in five.”
I scrubbed my hands briskly over my arms, which prickled with goose bumps. “Come with me. I don’t want to be alone. What if there are more of Hank’s men inside?”
Patch made a sound that wasn’t quite amusement. “If Vee sees us together, things will get messy. Tell her you found a ride home, and you’ll call her later. I’ll stand just inside the doors. I won’t let you out of my sight.”
“She won’t buy it. She’s a lot more cautious than she used to be.” Quickly I worked out the only plausible solution. “I’ll ride home with her, and after she leaves, I’ll meet you up the street from my house. Hank is there, so don’t drive any closer than you have to.”
Patch pulled me into a brief, hard kiss. “Be careful.”
Inside the Devil’s Handbag, a loud murmur of complaint spread through the audience. People threw wadded napkins and plastic straws on the stage. A group on the far side of the floor took up chanting, “Serpentine sucks, Serpentine sucks.” I elbowed my way over to Vee.
“What’s going on?”
“Scott bailed. Just up and ran. The band can’t play without him.”
A sick feeling settled in my stomach. “Ran? Why?”
“I might have asked him if I could have caught him. He took a running leap off the stage and sprinted for the doors. Everyone thought it was a joke at first.”
“We should get out of here,” I told Vee. “The crowd isn’t going to hold much longer.”
“Amen to that,” Vee said, hopping off her bar stool and scurrying toward the doors.
At the farmhouse, Vee bounced the Neon into the driveway. “What do you think got into Scott?” she asked me.
I was tempted to lie, but I was tired of playing this game with Vee. “I think he’s in trouble,” I told her.
“What kind of trouble?”
“I think he made some mistakes and upset the wrong people.”
Vee looked bewildered … then skeptical. “Wrong people? What kind of wrong people?”
“Very bad people, Vee.”
That was all the explanation she needed. Vee shoved the Neon into reverse. “Well, what are we doing sitting here? Scott’s out there somewhere, and he needs our help.”
“We can’t help him. The people who are looking for him don’t exactly have a conscience. They wouldn’t think twice about hurting us. But there is someone who can help, and with any luck, he’ll be able to help Scott get out of town tonight, where he’ll be safe.”
“Scott has to leave town?”
“It’s not safe for him here. I’m sure the men who are looking for him expect him to try to leave, but Patch will know a way around them—”
“Hold up! Back up. You’ve got that whack job helping Scott?” Vee’s volume shot higher and she glared at me accusingly. “Does your mom know you’re mixed up with him again? Did you ever think maybe, maybe this was information you should tell me? I’ve been lying about him this whole time, pretending he never existed, and all the while you were hooking up with him behind my back?”
Hearing her blatant confession, minus any trace of remorse, ignited my temper. “So you’re finally ready to come clean about Patch?”
“Come clean? Come clean? I lied because unlike that dirtbag, I actually care what happens to you. He’s not right in the head. He showed up and your life was never the same. My life either, while we’re on the subject. I’d rather face down a gang of convicts than bump into Patch on an empty street. He’s real good at taking advantage of people, and it sounds to me like he’s up to his old tricks again.”
I opened my mouth, so upset I couldn’t untangle my thoughts. “If you saw him the way I do—”
“That ever happens, you can bet I’ll gouge my eyes out!”
I strove for composure. Angry or not, I could be rational. “You lied, Vee. You looked me in the eye and lied. I’d believe it of my mom, but not you.” I pushed the door open. “How were you going to explain yourself when I got my memory back?” I demanded suddenly.
“I hoped you wouldn’t get it back.” Vee threw her hands in the air. “There. I said it. You were better off without it, if it meant not remembering that freak show. You don’t think straight when you’re around him. It’s like you see the one percent of him that might be good and miss the other ninety-nine percent of pure psychopathic evil!”
My jaw fell open.
“Anything else?” I snapped.
“Nope. That sums up my feelings pretty adequately on the subject.”
I shot out of the car and slammed the door.
Vee rolled down her window and poked her head out. “When you come back to your senses, you have my number!” she called out.
Then she floored down the driveway and sped off into the darkness.
I stood in the shadow of the farmhouse, trying to collect my cool. I reflected on the vague answers Vee had given me when I’d first come home from the hospital without a shred of my memory intact, and my temper threatened to explode. I’d trusted her. I’d relied on her to tell me what I couldn’t figure out for myself. Worst of all, she’d collaborated with my mom. They’d used my memory loss to push the truth further out of reach. Because of them, it had taken me that much longer to find Patch.
I was so worked up, I nearly forgot I’d told Patch to meet me down the street. Reining in my anger, I stormed away from the farmhouse, keeping my eyes alert for signs of Patch. By the time his form slowly took shape in the shadows ahead, the worst of my sense of betrayal had died down, but I wasn’t ready to call Vee and extend forgiveness just yet.
Patch was parked by the roadside, straddling a black vintage Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle. I felt a shift in the air when I saw him; something dangerous and enticing resonated like a live wire. I stopped in my tracks at the sight of him. My heart stammered a beat, almost as if he held it in his grasp, commanding me in his own secret ways. I believed it. Bathed in moonlight, he looked positively criminal.
He handed me a helmet as I walked up. “Where’s the Tahoe?” I asked.
“Had to ditch it. Too many people knew I drove it, including Hank’s men. I parked it in an abandoned field. A homeless guy named Chambers is living out of it now.”
Despite my mood, I flung my head back and laughed.
Patch lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“After the night I’ve been having, I needed that.”
He kissed me, then secured the helmet strap under my chin. “Glad I could help. Hop on, Angel. I’m taking you home.”
Despite being deep underground, Patch’s studio was warm when we arrived. I took the time to wonder if the steam pipes running beneath Delphic helped heat the place. There was also a fireplace, which Patch promptly lit. He took my coat, storing it in the closet just off the foyer.
“Hungry?” he asked.
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “You bought food? For me?” He’d told me angels can’t taste and don’t require food, which made grocery shopping unnecessary.
“There’s an organic grocery store just off the highway exit. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping for food.” A smile glittered in his eyes. “I might have gone overboard.”
I walked into the kitchen, with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, black granite countertops, and walnut cabinetry. Very masculine, very sleek. I went for the fridge first. Water bottles, spinach and arugula, mushrooms, gingerroot, Gorgonzola and feta cheeses, natural peanut butter, and milk on one side. Hot dogs, cold cuts, Coke, chocolate pudding cups, and canned whipped cream on the other. I tried to picture Patch pushing a shopping cart down the aisle, tossing in food as it pleased him. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.
I grabbed a pudding cup and offered Patch one as well, but he shook his head no. He perched himself on one of the bar stools, leaning his elbow on the counter contemplatively. “Do you remember anything else from the crash before you blacked out?”
I found a spoon in the drawer and took a bite of pudding. “No.” I frowned. “This might be something, though. The car crash happened right before lunch. I originally thought I couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few minutes, but when I woke up in the hospital, it was evening. That means my time line is missing about six hours … so how do we account for those missing six hours? Was I with Hank? Lying unconscious in the hospital?”
Something worrisome flicked across Patch’s eyes. “I know you’re not going to like this, but if we could get Dabria close to Hank, she might be able to read something off him. She can’t see inside his past, but if she still has some of her powers and can see his future, it might clue us in on what he’s been up to. Whatever his future holds, it’s dependent on his past. But getting Dabria close to him isn’t going to be easy. He’s being careful. When he goes out, he has at least two dozen of his men forming an impenetrable barrier around him. Even when he’s at your house, his men are outside, guarding the doors, pacing the fields, and patrolling the street.”
This was news to me, and only made me feel more violated.
“Speaking of Dabria, she was at the Devil’s Handbag tonight,” I said, aiming for a nonchalant air. “She was kind enough to introduce herself.”
I watched Patch closely. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. It was one of those things where I’d know it when I saw it. To his credit, and my frustration, he showed no outward emotion or interest.
“She said there’s a reward on Hank’s head,” I continued. “Ten million dollars to the first fallen angel who successfully drags him in. She said there are people who’d rather not see Hank lead a Nephilim rebellion, and while she didn’t give me specifics, I think I can figure out the details on my own. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few Nephilim out there who don’t want Hank in power. Nephilim who would much rather see him locked away.” I paused for emphasis. “Nephilim who are planning a coup d’état.”
“Ten million sounds about right.” Again, said with no hint of his real feelings.
“Are you going to sell me out, Patch?”
He said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke, his words vibrated with quiet derision. “You realize this is what Dabria wants, don’t you? She followed you to the Devil’s Handbag tonight with one intent: to plant it in your head that I want to betray you. Did she tell you I’ve gambled away my fortune and the ten million will pose too great a temptation? No, I can tell by your face it’s not that. Maybe she told you I have women tucked away in every corner of the world, and I plan on using the money to keep them flocking to me. Jealousy would be more in her taste, which is why I’m betting if I haven’t hit the nail on the head yet, I’m getting warmer.”
I tipped my chin higher, using defiance to mask my insecurity. “She said you’ve amassed a long list of enemies and you’re planning to pay them off.”
Patch barked a laugh. “I have a long list of enemies, I won’t deny that. Could I pay them all off for ten million? Maybe, maybe not. That’s not the point. I’ve stayed one step ahead of my enemies for centuries, and I intend to keep it that way. Hank’s head on a platter means more to me than a paycheck, and when I learned you share my desire, it only strengthened my resolve to find a way to kill him, Nephilim or not.”
I wasn’t sure what to say in response. Patch was right — Hank didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his life quarantined in a remote prison. He had destroyed my life and my family, and anything less than death was too kind a punishment.
Patch raised his finger to his lips, silencing me on the spot. A moment later there was a brusque knock at the outer door.
We shared a look, and Patch spoke to my thoughts. I’m not expecting anyone. Go to the bedroom and shut the door.
With a nod, I signaled I understood. Moving silently, I crossed the studio, closing myself inside Patch’s bedroom. Through the door, I heard Patch give an abrupt laugh. His next words were laced with menace. “What are you doing?”
“Mm-hmm,” I said.
“Mm-hmm, yourself.”
Onstage, a crew from the Devil’s Handbag helped adjust the microphones and amps. One of the crew members was on his knees, taping down cords, when he paused to wipe sweat off his brow. My eyes fell on his arm, and I was hit by a flash of recognition so strong it seemed to rock me back. Three words were tattooed like a mantra on his forearm. COLD. PAIN. HARD.
I didn’t know the significance of the combination of words, but I knew I’d seen them before. A pair of curtains drew back, revealing my memory long enough for me to remember seeing the tattoo right after I’d been hurled from Hank’s Land Cruiser. COLD. PAIN. HARD. I hadn’t remembered it before, but now I was positive. The man onstage had been there. Directly following the crash. He’d grabbed my wrists as I’d drifted into unconsciousness, dragging my body through the dirt. He had to have been one of the fallen angels riding in the El Camino.
As I came to this startling conclusion, the fallen angel dusted his hands and jumped offstage, wandering the perimeter of the crowd. He made brief conversation with a few people, slowly progressing toward the back of the room. Abruptly, he turned down the same hall where Dabria and I had talked.
I called into Vee’s ear, “I’m going to run to the restroom. Save my spot.”
Edging through the crowd, huddled three and four deep around the bar, I followed the fallen angel into the hallway. He stood at the far end of it, bent slightly forward. He shifted, revealing his profile, holding a lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips. Exhaling a plume of spoke, he stepped outside.
I gave him a few seconds’ head start, then cracked the door and stuck my head out. A handful of smokers loitered in the alley, but other than a flick of eyes, no one paid me any attention. I stepped all the way out, searching for the fallen angel. He was halfway down the alley, walking toward the street. Maybe he wanted to smoke alone, but I had a feeling he was leaving for good.
I ran down my options. I could hurry back inside and enlist Vee’s help, but I didn’t want to risk involving her if I could help it. I could call Patch for backup, but if I waited for him to arrive, I’d risk losing the fallen angel. Or I could take Patch’s advice and immobilize the fallen angel, taking advantage of his wing scars, and then call for backup.
I decided to give Patch as much of a heads-up as I could and pray that he hurried. We’d agreed to reserve calls and texts for emergencies only, not wanting to leave any unwanted evidence lying around for Hank to find. If this didn’t constitute an emergency, I didn’t know what did.
IN ALLEY BEHIND DEVIL’S HANDBAG, I texted in a hurry. SAW FALLEN ANGEL FROM CAR CRASH. WILL AIM FOR WING SCARS.
There was a snow shovel propped against the back door of the shoe repair store, and I picked it up without thinking. I didn’t have a plan, but if I was going to immobilize the fallen angel, I’d need a weapon. Keeping an unsuspecting distance behind, I followed him to the end of the alley. He turned onto the street, flicked his cigarette into the gutter, and dialed on his cell phone.
Hidden in shadow, I picked up bits and pieces of his conversation.
“Finished the job. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him.”
He hung up and scratched his neck. He let go of a sigh that sounded conflicted. Or maybe resigned.
Taking advantage of his quiet contemplation, I crept up behind him and swung the shovel sideways in a vicious sweep. It smashed into his back with more power than I ever thought I possessed, right where his wing scars should be.
The fallen angel staggered forward, taking a knee.
I brought the shovel down a second time with more confidence. Then a third, fourth, fifth time. Knowing I couldn’t kill him, I slammed a fierce blow to his head.
He wobbled off balance, then slumped to the ground.
I nudged him with my shoe, but he was out cold.
Hurried footsteps rang out behind me and I flipped around, still clutching the shovel. Patch emerged from the darkness, breathless from running. He looked between me and the fallen angel.
“I — got him,” I said, still in shock that it had been so easy.
Patch gently pried the shovel from my hands and set it aside. A faint smile twitched his lips. “Angel, this man isn’t a fallen angel.”
I blinked. “What?”
Patch crouched beside the man, took his shirt in his hands, and ripped the fabric. I stared at the man’s back, smooth and muscular. And not a wing scar in sight.
“I was sure,” I stammered. “I thought it was him. I recognized his tattoo—”
Patch peered up at me. “He’s Nephilim.”
A Nephil? I’d just bludgeoned a Nephil unconscious?
Rolling the Nephil’s body over, Patch unbuttoned his shirt, inspecting his torso. At the same time, our eyes traveled to the brand just below his clavicle. The clenched fist was all too familiar.
“The Black Hand’s mark,” I said with astonishment. “The men who attacked us that day, and nearly drove us off the road, were Hank’s men?” What did it mean? And how could Hank have made such a grave error in judgment? He’d claimed they were fallen angels. He’d sounded so certain—
“Are you sure this was one of the men in the El Camino?” Patch asked.
Rage leaped inside me as I realized I’d been played. “Oh, I’m sure.”
CHAPTER 28
HANK ORCHESTRATED THE CAR CRASH,” I SAID, deadly quiet. “Originally I thought the crash had upended his plans, but none of it was by accident. He told his men to hit us, and he planted it in my head that they were fallen angels. And I was stupid enough to fall for it!”
Patch transported the Nephil’s body behind an overgrown hedge, concealing it from the street. “This way he won’t attract any attention before he wakes up,” he explained. “Did he get a good look at you?”
“No, I took him by surprise,” I said distractedly. “But why did Hank need to crash his car? The whole thing seems pointless. His car was totaled, he was severely beat up in the process — I don’t get it.”
“I don’t want you leaving my sight until we’ve figured this out,” Patch said. “Go inside and tell Vee you don’t need a ride home. I’ll pick you up out front in five.”
I scrubbed my hands briskly over my arms, which prickled with goose bumps. “Come with me. I don’t want to be alone. What if there are more of Hank’s men inside?”
Patch made a sound that wasn’t quite amusement. “If Vee sees us together, things will get messy. Tell her you found a ride home, and you’ll call her later. I’ll stand just inside the doors. I won’t let you out of my sight.”
“She won’t buy it. She’s a lot more cautious than she used to be.” Quickly I worked out the only plausible solution. “I’ll ride home with her, and after she leaves, I’ll meet you up the street from my house. Hank is there, so don’t drive any closer than you have to.”
Patch pulled me into a brief, hard kiss. “Be careful.”
Inside the Devil’s Handbag, a loud murmur of complaint spread through the audience. People threw wadded napkins and plastic straws on the stage. A group on the far side of the floor took up chanting, “Serpentine sucks, Serpentine sucks.” I elbowed my way over to Vee.
“What’s going on?”
“Scott bailed. Just up and ran. The band can’t play without him.”
A sick feeling settled in my stomach. “Ran? Why?”
“I might have asked him if I could have caught him. He took a running leap off the stage and sprinted for the doors. Everyone thought it was a joke at first.”
“We should get out of here,” I told Vee. “The crowd isn’t going to hold much longer.”
“Amen to that,” Vee said, hopping off her bar stool and scurrying toward the doors.
At the farmhouse, Vee bounced the Neon into the driveway. “What do you think got into Scott?” she asked me.
I was tempted to lie, but I was tired of playing this game with Vee. “I think he’s in trouble,” I told her.
“What kind of trouble?”
“I think he made some mistakes and upset the wrong people.”
Vee looked bewildered … then skeptical. “Wrong people? What kind of wrong people?”
“Very bad people, Vee.”
That was all the explanation she needed. Vee shoved the Neon into reverse. “Well, what are we doing sitting here? Scott’s out there somewhere, and he needs our help.”
“We can’t help him. The people who are looking for him don’t exactly have a conscience. They wouldn’t think twice about hurting us. But there is someone who can help, and with any luck, he’ll be able to help Scott get out of town tonight, where he’ll be safe.”
“Scott has to leave town?”
“It’s not safe for him here. I’m sure the men who are looking for him expect him to try to leave, but Patch will know a way around them—”
“Hold up! Back up. You’ve got that whack job helping Scott?” Vee’s volume shot higher and she glared at me accusingly. “Does your mom know you’re mixed up with him again? Did you ever think maybe, maybe this was information you should tell me? I’ve been lying about him this whole time, pretending he never existed, and all the while you were hooking up with him behind my back?”
Hearing her blatant confession, minus any trace of remorse, ignited my temper. “So you’re finally ready to come clean about Patch?”
“Come clean? Come clean? I lied because unlike that dirtbag, I actually care what happens to you. He’s not right in the head. He showed up and your life was never the same. My life either, while we’re on the subject. I’d rather face down a gang of convicts than bump into Patch on an empty street. He’s real good at taking advantage of people, and it sounds to me like he’s up to his old tricks again.”
I opened my mouth, so upset I couldn’t untangle my thoughts. “If you saw him the way I do—”
“That ever happens, you can bet I’ll gouge my eyes out!”
I strove for composure. Angry or not, I could be rational. “You lied, Vee. You looked me in the eye and lied. I’d believe it of my mom, but not you.” I pushed the door open. “How were you going to explain yourself when I got my memory back?” I demanded suddenly.
“I hoped you wouldn’t get it back.” Vee threw her hands in the air. “There. I said it. You were better off without it, if it meant not remembering that freak show. You don’t think straight when you’re around him. It’s like you see the one percent of him that might be good and miss the other ninety-nine percent of pure psychopathic evil!”
My jaw fell open.
“Anything else?” I snapped.
“Nope. That sums up my feelings pretty adequately on the subject.”
I shot out of the car and slammed the door.
Vee rolled down her window and poked her head out. “When you come back to your senses, you have my number!” she called out.
Then she floored down the driveway and sped off into the darkness.
I stood in the shadow of the farmhouse, trying to collect my cool. I reflected on the vague answers Vee had given me when I’d first come home from the hospital without a shred of my memory intact, and my temper threatened to explode. I’d trusted her. I’d relied on her to tell me what I couldn’t figure out for myself. Worst of all, she’d collaborated with my mom. They’d used my memory loss to push the truth further out of reach. Because of them, it had taken me that much longer to find Patch.
I was so worked up, I nearly forgot I’d told Patch to meet me down the street. Reining in my anger, I stormed away from the farmhouse, keeping my eyes alert for signs of Patch. By the time his form slowly took shape in the shadows ahead, the worst of my sense of betrayal had died down, but I wasn’t ready to call Vee and extend forgiveness just yet.
Patch was parked by the roadside, straddling a black vintage Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle. I felt a shift in the air when I saw him; something dangerous and enticing resonated like a live wire. I stopped in my tracks at the sight of him. My heart stammered a beat, almost as if he held it in his grasp, commanding me in his own secret ways. I believed it. Bathed in moonlight, he looked positively criminal.
He handed me a helmet as I walked up. “Where’s the Tahoe?” I asked.
“Had to ditch it. Too many people knew I drove it, including Hank’s men. I parked it in an abandoned field. A homeless guy named Chambers is living out of it now.”
Despite my mood, I flung my head back and laughed.
Patch lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“After the night I’ve been having, I needed that.”
He kissed me, then secured the helmet strap under my chin. “Glad I could help. Hop on, Angel. I’m taking you home.”
Despite being deep underground, Patch’s studio was warm when we arrived. I took the time to wonder if the steam pipes running beneath Delphic helped heat the place. There was also a fireplace, which Patch promptly lit. He took my coat, storing it in the closet just off the foyer.
“Hungry?” he asked.
It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “You bought food? For me?” He’d told me angels can’t taste and don’t require food, which made grocery shopping unnecessary.
“There’s an organic grocery store just off the highway exit. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping for food.” A smile glittered in his eyes. “I might have gone overboard.”
I walked into the kitchen, with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, black granite countertops, and walnut cabinetry. Very masculine, very sleek. I went for the fridge first. Water bottles, spinach and arugula, mushrooms, gingerroot, Gorgonzola and feta cheeses, natural peanut butter, and milk on one side. Hot dogs, cold cuts, Coke, chocolate pudding cups, and canned whipped cream on the other. I tried to picture Patch pushing a shopping cart down the aisle, tossing in food as it pleased him. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.
I grabbed a pudding cup and offered Patch one as well, but he shook his head no. He perched himself on one of the bar stools, leaning his elbow on the counter contemplatively. “Do you remember anything else from the crash before you blacked out?”
I found a spoon in the drawer and took a bite of pudding. “No.” I frowned. “This might be something, though. The car crash happened right before lunch. I originally thought I couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few minutes, but when I woke up in the hospital, it was evening. That means my time line is missing about six hours … so how do we account for those missing six hours? Was I with Hank? Lying unconscious in the hospital?”
Something worrisome flicked across Patch’s eyes. “I know you’re not going to like this, but if we could get Dabria close to Hank, she might be able to read something off him. She can’t see inside his past, but if she still has some of her powers and can see his future, it might clue us in on what he’s been up to. Whatever his future holds, it’s dependent on his past. But getting Dabria close to him isn’t going to be easy. He’s being careful. When he goes out, he has at least two dozen of his men forming an impenetrable barrier around him. Even when he’s at your house, his men are outside, guarding the doors, pacing the fields, and patrolling the street.”
This was news to me, and only made me feel more violated.
“Speaking of Dabria, she was at the Devil’s Handbag tonight,” I said, aiming for a nonchalant air. “She was kind enough to introduce herself.”
I watched Patch closely. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. It was one of those things where I’d know it when I saw it. To his credit, and my frustration, he showed no outward emotion or interest.
“She said there’s a reward on Hank’s head,” I continued. “Ten million dollars to the first fallen angel who successfully drags him in. She said there are people who’d rather not see Hank lead a Nephilim rebellion, and while she didn’t give me specifics, I think I can figure out the details on my own. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few Nephilim out there who don’t want Hank in power. Nephilim who would much rather see him locked away.” I paused for emphasis. “Nephilim who are planning a coup d’état.”
“Ten million sounds about right.” Again, said with no hint of his real feelings.
“Are you going to sell me out, Patch?”
He said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke, his words vibrated with quiet derision. “You realize this is what Dabria wants, don’t you? She followed you to the Devil’s Handbag tonight with one intent: to plant it in your head that I want to betray you. Did she tell you I’ve gambled away my fortune and the ten million will pose too great a temptation? No, I can tell by your face it’s not that. Maybe she told you I have women tucked away in every corner of the world, and I plan on using the money to keep them flocking to me. Jealousy would be more in her taste, which is why I’m betting if I haven’t hit the nail on the head yet, I’m getting warmer.”
I tipped my chin higher, using defiance to mask my insecurity. “She said you’ve amassed a long list of enemies and you’re planning to pay them off.”
Patch barked a laugh. “I have a long list of enemies, I won’t deny that. Could I pay them all off for ten million? Maybe, maybe not. That’s not the point. I’ve stayed one step ahead of my enemies for centuries, and I intend to keep it that way. Hank’s head on a platter means more to me than a paycheck, and when I learned you share my desire, it only strengthened my resolve to find a way to kill him, Nephilim or not.”
I wasn’t sure what to say in response. Patch was right — Hank didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his life quarantined in a remote prison. He had destroyed my life and my family, and anything less than death was too kind a punishment.
Patch raised his finger to his lips, silencing me on the spot. A moment later there was a brusque knock at the outer door.
We shared a look, and Patch spoke to my thoughts. I’m not expecting anyone. Go to the bedroom and shut the door.
With a nod, I signaled I understood. Moving silently, I crossed the studio, closing myself inside Patch’s bedroom. Through the door, I heard Patch give an abrupt laugh. His next words were laced with menace. “What are you doing?”
