The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Patch is Nora’s bio partner,” Vee explained to Elliot. She winked slyly at me but made a face of innocence the moment Elliot gave her his attention. I shook my head subtly but firmly at her, transmitting a silent message—stop.

  “He keeps looking this way,” Vee said in a lowered voice. She leaned across the foosball table, attempting to make her conversation with me appear private, but she whispered loud enough that Elliot had no choice but to overhear. “He’s bound to wonder what you’re doing here with—” She bobbed her head at Elliot.

  I shut my eyes and envisioned banging my head against the wall.

  “Patch has made it very clear he’d like to be more than biology partners with Nora,” Vee continued. “Not that anyone can blame him.”

  “That so?” said Elliot, eyeing me with a look that said he wasn’t surprised. He’d suspected it all along. I noticed he took a step closer.

  Vee shot me a triumphant smile. Thank me later, it said.

  “It’s not like that,” I corrected. “It’s—”

  “Twice as bad,” Vee said. “Nora suspects he’s stalking her. The police are on the brink of becoming involved.”

  “Should we play?” I said loudly. I dropped the foosball in the center of the table. Nobody noticed.

  “Do you want me to talk to him?” Elliot asked me. “I’ll explain we’re not looking for trouble. I’ll tell him you’re here with me, and if he’s got a problem, he can discuss it with me.”

  This was not the direction I wanted the conversation to go. At all. “What happened to Jules?” I said. “He’s been gone for a while.”

  “Yeah, maybe he fell in the toilet,” said Vee.

  “Let me talk to Patch,” Elliot said.

  While I appreciated the concern, I did not like the idea of Elliot going head-to-head with Patch. Patch was an X factor: intangible, scary, and unknown. Who knew what he was capable of? Elliot was far too nice to be sent up against Patch.

  “He doesn’t scare me,” Elliot said, as if to disprove my thoughts.

  Obviously this was something Elliot and I disagreed on.

  “Bad idea,” I said.

  “Great idea,” Vee said. “Otherwise, Patch might get . . . violent. Remember last time?”

  Last time?! I mouthed at her.

  I had no idea why Vee was doing this, other than that she had a penchant for making everything as dramatic as possible. Her idea of drama was my idea of morbid humiliation.

  “No offense, but this guy sounds like a creep,” said Elliot. “Give me two minutes with him.” He started to walk over.

  “No!” I said, yanking on his sleeve to stop him. “He, uh, might get violent again. Let me handle this.” I narrowed a look at Vee.

  “You sure?” Elliot said. “I’m more than happy to do it.”

  “I think it’s best coming from me.”

  I wiped my palms on my jeans, and after taking a mostly steady breath, I started closing the distance between me and Patch, which was only the width of a few game consoles. I had no idea what I was going to say when I reached him. Hopefully just a brief hello. Then I could go back and reassure Elliot and Vee that everything was under control.

  Patch was dressed in the usual: black shirt, black jeans, and a thin silver necklace that flashed against his dark complexion. His sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and I could see his muscles working as he punched buttons. He was tall and lean and hard, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if under his clothes he bore several scars, souvenirs from street fights and other reckless behavior. Not that I wanted a look under his clothes.

  When I got to Patch’s console, I tapped a hand against the side of it to get his attention. In the calmest voice I could manage, I said, “Pac-Man? Or is it Donkey Kong?” In truth, it looked a little more violent and military.

  A slow grin spread over his face. “Baseball. Think maybe you could stand behind me and give me a few pointers?”

  Firebombs erupted on the screen, and screaming bodies sailed through the air. Obviously not baseball.

  “What’s his name?” Patch asked, directing an almost imperceptible nod at the foosball table.

  “Elliot. Listen, I have to keep this short. They’re waiting.”

  “Have I seen him before?”

  “He’s new. Just transferred.”

  “First week at school and he’s already made friends. Lucky guy.” He slid me a look. “Could have a dark and dangerous side we know nothing about.”

  “Seems to be my specialty.”

  I waited for him to catch my meaning, but he only said, “Up for a game?” He tilted his head toward the back of the arcade. Through the crowd I could just make out pool tables.

  “Nora!” Vee called out. “Get over here. Elliot is cramming defeat down my throat!”

  “Can’t,” I told Patch.

  “If I win,” he said, as if he had no intention of being refused, “you’ll tell Elliot something came up. You’ll tell him you’re no longer free tonight.”

  I couldn’t help it; he was way too arrogant. I said, “And if I win?”

  His eyes skimmed me, head to toe. “I don’t think we have to worry.”

  Before I could stop myself, I punched his arm.

  “Careful,” he said in a low voice. “They might think we’re flirting.”

  I felt like kicking myself, because that’s exactly what we were doing. But it wasn’t my fault—it was Patch’s. In close contact with him, I experienced a confusing polarity of desires. Part of me wanted to run away from him screaming, Fire! A more reckless part was tempted to see how close I could get without . . . combusting.

  “One game of pool,” he tempted.

  “I’m here with someone else.”

  “Head toward the pool tables. I’ll take care of it.”

  I crossed my arms, hoping to look stern and a little exasperated, but at the same time, I had to bite my lip to keep from showing a slightly more positive reaction. “What are you going to do? Fight Elliot?”

  “If it comes to that.”

  I was almost sure he was joking. Almost.

  “A pool table just opened up. Go claim it.” I . . . dare . . . you.

  I stiffened. “How did you do that?”

  When he didn’t immediately deny it, I felt a squeeze of panic. It was real. He knew exactly what he was doing. The palms of my hands touched with sweat.

  “How did you do that?” I repeated.

  He gave me a sly smile. “Do what?”

  “Don’t,” I warned. “Don’t pretend you’re not doing it.”

  He leaned a shoulder against the console and gazed down at me. “Tell me what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “My . . . thoughts.”

  “What about them?”

  “Cut it out, Patch.”

  He glanced around theatrically. “You don’t mean—talking to your mind? You know how crazy that sounds, right?”

  Swallowing, I said in the calmest voice I could manage, “You scare me, and I’m not sure you’re good for me.”

  “I could change your mind.”

  “Noooora!” Vee called over the din of voices and electronic beeps.

  “Meet me at the Archangel,” Patch said.

  I took a step back. “No,” I said on impulse.

  Patch came around behind me, and a chill shimmied up my spine. “I’ll be waiting,” he said into my ear. Then he slipped out of the arcade.

  CHAPTER

  8

  I WALKED BACK TO THE FOOSBALL TABLE IN A COLD DAZE. Elliot was bent over it, his face showing competitive concentration. Vee was shrieking and laughing. Jules was still missing.

  Vee looked up from the game. “Well? What happened? What’d he say to you?”

  “Nothing. I told him not to bother us. He left.” My voice sounded flat.

  “He didn’t look mad when he left,” Elliot said. “Whatever you said, it must have worked.”

  “Too bad,” Vee said. “I was hoping for some excitement.”

>   “Are we ready to play?” Elliot asked. “I’m getting hungry for some hard-won pizza.”

  “Yeah, if Jules would ever come back,” said Vee. “I’m starting to think maybe he doesn’t like us. He keeps disappearing. I’m starting to think it’s a nonverbal cue.”

  “You kidding me? He loves you guys,” Elliot said with too much enthusiasm. “He’s just slow to warm up to strangers. I’ll go find him. Don’t go anywhere.”

  As soon as Vee and I were alone, I said, “You know I’m going to kill you, right?”

  Vee raised her palms and took a step back. “I was doing you a favor. Elliot is wild about you. After you left, I told him you have, like, ten guys calling you every night. You should have seen his face. Barely contained jealousy.”

  I groaned.

  “It’s the law of supply and demand,” Vee said. “Who would’ve thought economics would come in useful?”

  I looked to the arcade doors. “I need something.”

  “You need Elliot.”

  “No, I need sugar. Lots of it. I need cotton candy.” What I needed was an eraser big enough to scrub away all evidence of Patch from my life. Particularly the mind-speaking. I shuddered. How was he doing it? And why me? Unless . . . I’d imagined it. Just like I’d imagined hitting someone with the Neon.

  “I could use a little sugar myself,” Vee said. “I saw a vendor near the park entrance on our way in. I’ll stay here so Jules and Elliot don’t think we ran off, and you can get the cotton candy.”

  Outside, I backtracked to the entrance, but when I found the vendor selling cotton candy, I was distracted by a sight farther down the walkway. The Archangel rose up above the treetops. A snake of cars zipped over the lighted tracks and dove out of view. I wondered why Patch wanted to meet. I felt a jab in my stomach and probably should have taken it for an answer, but despite my best intentions, I found myself continuing down the walkway toward the Archangel.

  I stayed with the flow of foot traffic, keeping my eyes on the distant track of the Archangel looping through the sky. The wind had changed from chilly to icy, but that wasn’t the reason I felt increasingly ill at ease. The feeling was back. That cold, heart-stopping feeling that someone was watching me.

  I stole a look to both sides. Nothing abnormal in my peripheral vision. I spun a full 180 degrees. A little ways back, standing in a small courtyard of trees, a hooded figure turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  With my heart beating faster, I bypassed a large group of pedestrians, putting distance between me and the clearing. Several strides farther on, I glanced back again. Nobody stood out as following me.

  When I faced forward again, I ran smack into someone. “Sorry!” I blurted, trying to regain my balance.

  Patch grinned down at me. “I’m hard to resist.”

  I blinked up at him. “Leave me alone.” I tried to sidestep him, but he caught me by the elbow.

  “What’s wrong? You look ready to throw up.”

  “You have that effect on me,” I snapped.

  He laughed. I felt like kicking his shins.

  “You could use a drink.” He still had me by the elbow, and he tugged me toward a lemonade cart.

  I dug in my heels. “You want to help? Stay away from me.”

  He brushed a curl off my face. “Love the hair. Love when it’s out of control. It’s like seeing a side of you that needs to come out more often.”

  I smoothed my hair furiously. As soon as I realized I looked like I was trying to make myself more presentable for him, I said, “I have to go. Vee is waiting.” A frazzled pause. “I guess I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

  “Ride the Archangel with me.”

  I craned my neck, staring up at it. High-pitched screams echoed down as the cars thundered over the tracks.

  “Two people to a seat.” His smile changed to a slow, daring grin.

  “No.” No way.

  “If you keep running from me, you’re never going to figure out what’s really going on.”

  That comment right there should have sent me running. But it didn’t. It was almost as if Patch knew exactly what to say to pique my curiosity. Exactly what to say, at exactly the right moment.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “I can’t. I’m afraid of heights. Besides, Vee’s waiting.” Only, suddenly the thought of going up that high in the air didn’t scare me. Not anymore. In an absurd way, knowing I’d be with Patch made me feel safe.

  “If you ride the whole way through without screaming, I’ll tell Coach to switch our seats.”

  “I already tried. He won’t budge.”

  “I could be more convincing than you.”

  I took his comment as a personal insult. “I don’t scream,” I said. “Not for carnival rides.” Not for you.

  In step with Patch, I made my way to the back of the line leading up to the Archangel. A rush of screams lifted, then faded, far above in the night sky.

  “I haven’t seen you at Delphic before,” Patch said.

  “You’re here a lot?” I made a mental note not to take any more weekend trips to Delphic.

  “I have a history with the place.”

  We edged up the line as the cars emptied and a new set of thrill seekers boarded the ride.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You played hooky here instead of going to school last year.”

  I was being sarcastic, but Patch said, “Answering that would mean shedding light on my past. And I’d like to keep it in the dark.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with your past?”

  “I don’t think now is a good time to talk about it. My past might frighten you.”

  Too late, I thought.

  He stepped closer and our arms met, a brushed connection that caused the hairs on my arm to rise. “The things I have to confess aren’t the kind of things you tell your flippant bio partner,” he said.

  The frigid wind wrapped around me, and when I breathed in, it filled me with ice. But it didn’t compare to the chill Patch’s words sent through me.

  Patch jerked his chin up the ramp. “Looks like we’re up.”

  I pushed through the revolving gate. By the time we made it to the boarding platform, the only empty cars were at the very front and the very back of the roller coaster. Patch headed toward the former.

  The roller coaster’s construction didn’t inspire my confidence, remodeled or not. It looked more than a century old and was made of wood that had spent a lot of time exposed to Maine’s harsh elements. The artwork painted on the sides was even less inspiring.

  The car Patch chose had a grouping of four paintings. The first depicted a mob of horned demons ripping the wings off a screaming male angel. The next painting showed the wingless angel perched on a headstone, watching children play from a distance. In the third painting, the wingless angel stood close to the children, crooking a finger at one little green-eyed girl. In the final painting, the wingless angel drifted through the girl’s body like a ghost. The girl’s eyes were black, her smile was gone, and she’d sprouted horns like the demons from the first painting. A slivered moon hung above the paintings.

  I averted my eyes and assured myself it was the frigid air making my legs tremble. I slid into the car beside Patch.

  “Your past wouldn’t frighten me,” I said, buckling my seat belt across my lap. “I’m guessing I’d be more appalled than anything.”

  “Appalled,” he repeated. The tone of his voice led me to believe he’d accepted the accusation. Strange, since Patch never degraded himself.

  The cars rolled backward, then lurched forward. Not in a smooth way, we headed away from the platform, climbing steadily uphill. The smell of sweat, rust, and saltwater blowing in from the sea filled the air. Patch sat close enough to smell. I caught the slightest trace of rich mint soap.

  “You look pale,” he said, leaning in to be heard above the clicking tracks.

  I felt pale, but did not admit it.<
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  At the crest of the hill there was a moment’s hesitation. I could see for miles, noting where the dark countryside blended with the sparkle of the suburbs and gradually became the grid of Portland’s lights. The wind held its breath, allowing the damp air to settle on my skin.

  Without meaning to, I stole a look at Patch. I found a measure of consolation in having him at my side. Then he flashed a grin.

  “Scared, Angel?”

  I clenched the metal bar drilled into the front of the car as I felt my weight tip forward. A shaky laugh slipped out of me.

  Our car flew demonically fast, my hair flapping out behind me. Swerving to the left, then to the right, we clattered over the tracks. Inside, I felt my organs float and fall in response to the ride. I looked down, trying to concentrate on something not moving.

  It was then that I noticed my seat belt had come undone.

  I tried to shout at Patch, but my voice was swallowed up in the rush of air. I felt my stomach go hollow, and I let go of the metal bar with one hand, trying to secure the seat belt around my waist with the other. The car lunged to the left. I slammed shoulders with Patch, pressing against him so hard it hurt. The car soared up, and I felt it lift from the tracks, not fully riveted to them.

  We were plunging. The flashing lights along the tracks blinded me; I couldn’t see which way the track turned at the end of the dive.

  It was too late. The car swerved to the right. I felt a jolt of panic, and then it happened. My left shoulder slammed against the car door. It flung open, and I was ripped out of the car while the roller coaster sped off without me. I rolled onto the tracks and grappled for something to anchor myself. My hands found nothing, and I tumbled over the edge, plunging straight down through the black air. The ground rushed up at me, and I opened my mouth to scream.

  The next thing I knew, the ride screeched to a stop at the unloading platform.

  My arms hurt from how tightly Patch held me. “Now that’s what I call a scream,” he said, grinning at me.

  In a daze, I watched him place a hand over his ear as if my scream still echoed there. Not at all certain what had just happened, I stared at the place on his arm where my nails had left semicircles tattooed on his skin. Then my eyes moved to my seat belt. It was secured around my waist.