I took an extra second to answer, coming very close to telling the truth. “No. I’m fine.”
“You seem stressed.”
“Long day. Oh, and did I mention Marcie Millar is my chem partner?”
I could tell by her expression that she knew just how deeply this cut. After all, it was my mom I’d run home to for most of the past eleven years after Marcie had had her way with me. And it was my mom who’d picked up the pieces, put me back together, and sent me back to school stronger and wiser and armed with a few tricks of my own.
“I’m stuck with her for eight weeks.”
“Tell you what, if you survive all eight weeks without killing her, we can talk about getting you a car.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mom.”
She kissed my forehead. “I’ll expect a full report on the first couple of days when I get back from my trip. No wild parties while I’m gone.”
“I make no promises.”
Five minutes later, my mom steered her Taurus down the driveway. I let the curtain drop back in place, curled into the sofa, and stared at my cell phone.
But no calls came in.
I reached for Patch’s necklace, still fastened around my neck, and squeezed it harder than I expected. I was struck by the horrible thought that it might be all I had left of him.
CHAPTER
4
THE DREAM CAME IN THREE COLORS: BLACK, WHITE, and a wan gray.
It was a cold night. I stood barefoot on the dirt road, sludge and rain quickly filling the potholes pockmarking it. Rocks and skeletal weeds sprang up intermittently. Darkness consumed the countryside, except for one bright spot: A few hundred yards off the road sat a stone-and-wood tavern. Candles guttered in the windows, and I was just about to head toward the tavern for shelter when I heard the distant jangle of bells.
As the sound of the bells grew louder, I moved a safe distance off the road. I watched as a horse-drawn coach rattled out of the darkness and came to a halt where I’d been standing moments before. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, the driver flung himself off the coach, splattering mud halfway up his boots. He tugged on the door and stepped back.
A dark form emerged. A man. A cape hung from his shoulders, flapping open in the wind, but the hood was drawn to cover his face.
“Wait here,” he told the driver.
“My lord, it’s raining heavily—”
The man in the cape gave a nod in the direction of the tavern. “I have business. I shan’t be long. Keep the horses ready.”
The driver’s eyes shifted to the tavern. “But m’lord . . . it’s thieves and vagabonds that keep company there. And there’s bad air tonight. I feel it in my bones.” He rubbed his arms briskly, as if to fight off a chill. “M’lord might be better to hurry back home to the lady and little ’uns.”
“Speak nothing of this to my wife.” The man in the cape flexed and opened his gloved hands while fixing his gaze on the tavern. “She has enough to worry about,” he murmured.
I turned my attention to the tavern, and the ominous candlelight flickering in its small, slanted windows. The roof was crooked too, tilting slightly to the right, as if the tools used to construct it had been far from exact. Weeds choked the exterior, and every now and then a rowdy yell or the sound of shattered glass traveled out from its walls.
The driver dragged the sleeve of his coat under his nose. “My own son died of the plague not two years past. A terrible thing, what you and the lady are sufferin’ through.”
In the stiff silence that followed, the horses stamped impatiently, their coats steaming. Little puffs of frost rose from their nostrils. The picture was so authentic, it suddenly scared me. Never before had any of my dreams felt this real.
The man in the cape had started across the cobblestone walkway leading to the tavern. The edges of the dream vanished behind him, and after a moment’s hesitation I started after him, afraid I’d disappear too, if I didn’t stay close. I slipped through the tavern door behind him.
Halfway down the back wall was a giant oven with a brick chimney. Various wooden bowls, tin cups, and utensils flanked the walls to either side of the oven, hanging in place on large nails. Three barrels had been rolled into the corner. A mangy dog was curled up in a sleeping ball in front of them. Overturned stools and a haphazard arrangement of dirty dishes and mugs cluttered the floor, which was hardly a floor at all. It was dirt, tamped smooth and sprinkled with what looked like sawdust, and the moment I stepped on it, the mud already caked on my heels sponged up the dusty earth. I was just wishing for a hot shower, when the appearance of the ten or so customers sitting at various tables around the tavern penetrated my awareness.
Most of the men had shoulder-length hair with odd, pointed beards. Their pants were baggy and tucked into tall boots, and their sleeves billowed. They wore broad-brimmed hats that reminded me of pilgrims.
I was definitely dreaming of a time far back in history, and since the detail of the dream was so vivid, I should have had at least some idea of what time period I’d dreamed myself into. But I was at a loss. Most likely England, but anywhere from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. I’d gotten an A in world history this year, but period clothing hadn’t been on any of our tests. Nothing in the scene before me had.
“I’m looking for a man,” the man in the cape said to the bartender, who was positioned behind a waist-high table that I assumed served as the bar. “I was told to meet him here tonight, but I’m afraid I don’t know his name.”
The bartender, a short man, bald except for a few wiry hairs standing on end at the top of his head, eyed the man in the cape. “Something to drink?” he asked, spreading his lips to show jagged black stumps for teeth.
I swallowed the nausea that rolled through my stomach at the sight of his teeth and stepped back.
The man in the cape didn’t show my same revulsion. He merely shook his head. “I need to find this man as quickly as possible. I was told you’d be able to help.”
The bartender’s rotted smile faded back behind his lips. “Aye, I can help you find him, m’lord. But trust an old man and have a drink or two first. Something to warm your blood on a cold night.” He pushed a small glass at the man.
Behind the hood, the man shook his head again. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Tell me where I can find him.” He pushed a few warped tokens across the table.
The bartender pocketed the tokens. Jerking his head at the back door, he said, “He keeps to the forest yonder. But m’lord? Be careful. Some say the forest is haunted. Some say the man who goes into the forest is the man who never comes back out.”
The man in the cape leaned on the table dividing the two and lowered his voice. “I wish to ask a personal question. Does the Jewish month of Cheshvan mean anything to you?”
“I am not a Jew,” the bartender said flatly, but something in his eyes told me this wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the question.
“The man I’ve come to see tonight told me to meet him here on the first night of Cheshvan. He said he needed me to provide a service for him, for the duration of an entire fortnight.”
The bartender stroked his chin. “A fortnight is a long time.”
“Too long. I wouldn’t have come, but I was afraid of what the man might do if I didn’t. He mentioned my family by name. He knew them. I have a beautiful wife and four sons. I don’t want them harmed.”
The bartender dropped his voice, as if to share a piece of scandalous gossip. “The man you’ve come to see is . . .” He trailed off, casting a suspicious look around the tavern.
“He’s unusually powerful,” the man in the cape said. “I’ve seen his strength before, and he is a mighty man. I’ve come to reason with him. Surely he can’t expect me to abandon my duties and family for such a length of time. The man will be reasonable.”
“I know nothing of this man’s reason,” the bartender said.
“My youngest son has contracted the plague,” the man in the cape explain
ed, his voice taking on a quiver of desperation. “The doctors do not think he’ll live long. My family needs me. My son needs me.”
“Have a drink,” the bartender said quietly. He nudged the glass forward a second time.
The man in the cape turned abruptly from the table and strode toward the back door. I followed.
Outside, I sloshed barefoot through the icy mud after him. The rain continued to pour down, and I had to walk carefully to avoid slipping. I wiped my eyes and saw the man’s cape disappear into the line of trees at the edge of the forest.
I stumbled after him, hesitating at the tree line. Cupping my hands to hold back my wet hair, I peered into the deep shadow ahead.
There was a flash of movement and suddenly the man in the cape was running back toward me. He tripped and fell. The branches snagged his cape; in a frenzy, he struggled to untie it from his neck. He gave a high shriek of terror. His arms flailed wildly, his whole body twisting and jerking convulsively.
I shoved my way toward him, twigs scraping my arms, rocks stabbing at my bare feet. I dropped to my knees beside him. His hood was still mostly drawn, but I could see that his mouth was slightly open, paralyzed in a scream.
“Roll over!” I ordered him, yanking to free the fabric trapped beneath him.
But he couldn’t hear me. For the first time, the dream took on a familiar edge. Just like every other nightmare I’d ever been trapped in, the harder I struggled, the more the very thing I wanted slipped out of reach.
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Roll over! I can get you out of here, but you have to help.”
“I’m Barnabas Underwood,” he slurred. “Do you know the way to the tavern? That’s a good girl,” he said, patting the air as if he was patting an imaginary cheek.
I stiffened. There was no way he could see me. He was hallucinating about another girl. He had to be. How could he see me if he couldn’t hear me?
“Run back and tell the barkeep to send help,” he continued. “Tell him there is no man. Tell him it is one of the devil’s angels, come to possess my body and cast away my soul. Tell him to send for a priest, holy water, and roses.”
At the mention of the devil’s angels, the hairs on my arms rose.
He snapped his head back toward the forest, straining his neck. “The angel!” he whispered in a panic. “The angel is coming!”
His mouth twisted into distorted shapes, and it looked like he was fighting for control of his own body. He arched back violently, and his hood was flung all the way off.
I was still clutching the cape, but I felt my hands reflexively slacken. I stared at the man with a gasp of surprise caught in my throat. He wasn’t Barnabas Underwood.
He was Hank Millar.
Marcie’s dad.
I blinked my eyes awake.
Rays of light blazed through my bedroom window. The pane was cracked, and a lazy breeze rustled the first breath of morning across my skin. My heart was still working in double time from the nightmare, but I sucked in a deep breath and reassured myself it wasn’t real. Truth be told, now that my feet were planted firmly in my own world, I was more disturbed over the fact that I’d been dreaming about Marcie’s dad than anything else. In a hurry to forget it, I shoved the dream aside.
I dragged my cell phone out from under my pillow and checked for messages. Patch hadn’t called. Drawing the pillow against me, I curled into it and tried to ignore the hollow sensation inside me. How many hours had it been since Patch walked out? Twelve. How many more until I saw him again? I didn’t know. That was what really worried me. The more time passed, the more I felt the wall of ice between us thicken.
Just get through today, I told myself, swallowing the pebble in my throat. The strange distance between us couldn’t go on forever. Nothing was going to get resolved if I hid out in bed all day. I would see Patch again. He might even stop by after school. Either that, or I could call him. I kept on with these ridiculous thoughts, refusing to let myself think about the archangels. About hell. About how scared I was that Patch and I were facing a problem neither of us was strong enough to solve.
I rolled out of bed and found a yellow Post-it note stuck to the bathroom mirror.
The good news: I convinced Lynn not to send Scott over this morning to pick you up. The bad news: Lynn is set on the tour of town. At this point I’m not sure saying no is going to work. Would you mind taking him around after class? Keep it short. Really short. I left his number on the kitchen counter.
X OX O—Mom
P.S. I’ll call you tonight from my hotel.
I groaned and lowered my forehead to the counter. I didn’t want to spend ten more minutes with Scott, let alone a couple of hours.
Forty minutes later, I’d showered, dressed, and consumed a bowl of strawberry oatmeal. There was a knock at the front door, and I opened it to find Vee smiling. “Ready for another fun-filled day of summer school?” she asked.
I grabbed my backpack off a hook in the coat closet. “Let’s just get this day over with, okay?”
“Whoa. Who peed in your Cheerios?”
“Scott Parnell.” Patch.
“I see the incontinence problem didn’t go away over time.”
“I’m supposed to give him a tour of town after class.”
“One-on-one time with a boy. What’s to hate?”
“You should have been here last night. Dinner was bizarre. Scott’s mom started to tell us about his troubled past, but Scott cut her off. Not only that, but it almost seemed like he was threatening her. Then he excused himself to use the bathroom, but ended up eavesdropping on us from the hall.” And then spoke to his mom’s thoughts. Maybe.
“Sounds like he’s trying to keep his life private. Sounds like we might have to do something to change that.”
I was two steps ahead of Vee, leading the way out, and I came up short. I’d just experienced a flash of inspiration. “I have a great idea,” I said, turning around. “Why don’t you give Scott the tour? No, seriously, Vee. You’ll love him. He has that reckless, anti-rules, bad-boy attitude. He even asked if we had beer—scandalous, right? I think he’s right up your alley.”
“No can do. I’ve got a lunch date with Rixon.”
I felt an unexpected stab in the vicinity of my heart. Patch and I had lunch plans today too, but somehow I doubted they were happening. What had I done? I had to call him. I had to find a way to talk to him. I wasn’t going to end things like this. It was absurd. But a small voice that I despised questioned why he hadn’t called first. He had just as much to apologize for as I did.
“I’ll pay you eight dollars and thirty-two cents to take Scott around, final offer,” I said.
“Tempting, but no. And here’s another thing. Patch probably isn’t going to be a happy camper if you and Scott make a habit of this exclusive time. Don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t care less what Patch thinks, and if you want to drive him crazy, more power to you. Still, I thought I’d raise the point.”
I was halfway down the front porch steps, and my footing slipped at the mention of Patch. I thought about telling Vee that I’d called things off, but I wasn’t ready to say it out loud. I felt my cell phone, with Patch’s picture saved on it, burning in my pocket. Part of me wanted to hurl the phone into the trees on the far side of the road. Part of me couldn’t lose him that quickly. Besides, if I told Vee, she’d inevitably point out that a breakup made us free to date other people, which was the wrong conclusion. I wasn’t looking elsewhere, and neither was Patch. I hoped. This was just a snag. Our first real fight. The breakup wasn’t permanent. Caught up in the moment, we’d both said things we didn’t mean.
“If I were you, I’d bail,” Vee said, her four-inch heels stabbing down the steps behind me. “That’s what I do whenever I find myself in a jam. Call Scott and tell him your cat’s coughing up mice intestines, and you have to take it to the vet after school.”
“He was over here last night. He knows I don’t have a cat.”
“The
n unless he’s got overcooked spaghetti for brains, he’ll figure out you’re not interested.”
I considered this. If I got out of giving Scott a tour of town, maybe I could borrow Vee’s car and follow him. Try as I might to rationalize what I’d heard last night, I couldn’t ignore the nagging suspicion that Scott had spoken to his mom’s thoughts. One year ago I would have brushed the idea off as ridiculous. But things were different now. Patch had spoken to my thoughts numerous times. So had Chauncey (a.k.a. Jules), a Nephil from my past. Since fallen angels didn’t age, and I’d known Scott since he was five, I’d already ruled that out. But even if Scott wasn’t a fallen angel, he could still be Nephilim.
But if he was Nephilim, what was he doing in Coldwater? What was he doing living an ordinary teen life? Did he know he was Nephilim? Did Lynn? Had Scott sworn fealty to a fallen angel yet? If he hadn’t, was it my responsibility to warn him about what lay ahead? I hadn’t instantly hit it off with Scott, but that didn’t mean I thought he deserved to give up his body for two weeks every year.
Of course, maybe he wasn’t Nephilim at all. Maybe I was getting carried away with the imagined belief that I’d overheard him speak to his mom’s thoughts.
After chemistry I swung by my locker, traded out my textbook for my backpack and cell, then walked to the side doors offering a clear view of the student parking lot. Scott was sitting on the hood of his silver-blue Mustang. He was still wearing the Hawaiian hat, and it dawned on me that if he kept this up, I wouldn’t recognize him without it. Case in point: I didn’t even know his hair color. I pulled the Post-it note my mom had left for me out of my pocket and dialed his number.
“This must be Nora Grey,” he answered. “I hope you’re not ditching me.”
“Bad news. My cat’s sick. The vet squeezed me in for a twelve thirty appointment. I’m going to have to take a rain check on the tour. Sorry,” I finished, not expecting to feel quite this guilty. After all, it was just a little lie. And not one part of me honestly believed that Scott wanted a tour of Coldwater. At least, that’s what I was telling myself to ease my conscience.
The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 34
