The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Scott isn’t any old Nephil,” Patch said, cutting me off. “He belongs to a Nephilim blood society that has been growing in power. The society wants to free Nephilim from bondage to fallen angels during Cheshvan. They’re recruiting members like crazy to fight back against fallen angels, and a turf war is brewing between the two sides. If the society becomes powerful enough, fallen angels will back off . . . and start relying on humans as their vassals instead.”

  I bit my lip and looked up at him uneasily. Without wanting to, I remembered last night’s dream. Cheshvan. Nephilim. Fallen angels. I couldn’t escape any of it.

  “Why don’t fallen angels usually possess humans?” I asked. “Why do they choose Nephilim?”

  “Human bodies aren’t as strong or resilient as Nephilim bodies,” Patch replied. “A two-week-long possession will kill them. Tens of thousands of humans would die every Cheshvan.

  “And it’s a lot harder to possess a human,” he continued. “Fallen angels can’t force humans to swear fealty, they have to convince them to turn over their bodies. That takes time and persuasion. Human bodies also deteriorate faster. Not many fallen angels want to go to the trouble of possessing a human body if it could be dead in a week.”

  A shiver of foreboding crept through me, but I said, “That’s a sad story, but it’s hard to blame Scott or any Nephilim, for that matter. I wouldn’t want a fallen angel taking control of my body two weeks out of every year either. This doesn’t sound like a Nephilim problem. It sounds like a fallen angel problem.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumped. “The Z isn’t your kind of place. Go home.”

  “I just got here.”

  “Bo’s is mild compared to this place.”

  “Thanks for the tip, but I’m not really in the mood to hang out at home all night feeling sorry for myself.”

  Patch folded his arms and studied me. “You’re putting yourself in danger to get back at me?” he guessed. “In case you forgot, I’m not the one who called things off.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about you.”

  Patch dug in his pocket for his keys. “I’m taking you home.” His tone told me I was a huge inconvenience, and that if he saw any way around it, he’d gladly opt out.

  “I don’t want a ride. I don’t need your help.”

  He laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “You’re getting in the Jeep, even if I have to drag you inside, because you’re not staying here. It’s too dangerous.”

  “You can’t order me around.”

  He merely looked at me. “And while you’re at it, you’re going to stop hanging out with Scott.”

  I felt my anger bubbling up. How dare he assume I was weak and helpless. How dare he try to control me by telling me where I could and couldn’t go, and who I could spend time with. How dare he act like I’d meant nothing to him.

  I sent him a look of cool defiance. “Don’t do me any more favors. I never asked. And I don’t want you as my guardian angel anymore.”

  Patch stood over me, and a drop of rain slid from his hair, landing like ice on my collarbone. I felt it slide along my skin, disappearing beneath the neckline of my shirt. His eyes followed the raindrop, and I began to quiver on the inside. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for everything I’d said. I wanted to tell him I didn’t care about Marcie, or what the archangels thought. I cared about us. But the cold hard truth was, nothing I said or did could realign the stars. I couldn’t care about us. Not if I wanted to keep Patch close. Not if I didn’t want him banished to hell. The more we fought, the easier it was to get swallowed up in hatred and convince myself that he meant nothing to me, and that I could move on without him.

  “Take it back,” Patch said, his voice low.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, and I couldn’t bring myself to take it back. I tipped my chin up and pinned my eyes on the blur of rain over his shoulder. Damn my pride, and damn his, too.

  “Take it back, Nora,” Patch repeated more firmly.

  “I can’t do the right thing with you in my life,” I said, hating myself for allowing my chin to tremble. “This will be easier on everyone if we just—I want a clean break. I’ve thought this through.” I hadn’t. I hadn’t thought this through at all. I hadn’t meant to say these words. But a small, horrible, and despicable part of me wanted Patch to hurt as much as I was hurt. “I want you out of my life. All the way.”

  After a heavy beat of silence, Patch reached around me and shoved something deep into the back pocket of my jeans. I couldn’t tell whether I’d imagined that his hand had stayed there a half beat longer than necessary.

  “Cash,” he explained. “You’re going to need it.”

  I dug the money out. “I don’t want your money.” When he didn’t take the outstretched wad of cash, I slapped it against his chest, meaning to brush past him as I did, but Patch caught my hand, trapping it against his body.

  “Take it.” The tone of his voice told me I knew nothing. I didn’t understand him, or his world. I was a stranger, and I’d never fit in. “Half the guys in there are carrying some form of weapon. If anything happens, throw the money on the table and head for the doors. Nobody’s going to follow you with a pile of cash up for grabs.”

  I remembered Marcie. Was he suggesting that someone might try to knife me? I nearly laughed. Did he honestly think that would scare me? Whether I wanted him as my guardian angel was irrelevant. The fact of the matter was, nothing I said or did would change his duty. He had to keep me safe. The fact that he was here right now proved it.

  He released my hand and tugged on the door handle, the muscles along his arm rigid. The door closed behind him, quaking on its hinges.

  CHAPTER

  6

  I FOUND SCOTT LEANING ON HIS POOL STICK AT A TABLE near the front. He was studying a spread of billiard balls when I walked up.

  “Find an ATM?” I asked, tossing my damp jean jacket on a metal folding chair pushed up against the wall.

  “Yeah, but not before I swallowed ten gallons of rain.” He lifted the Hawaiian hat and shook out the water for emphasis. Maybe he’d found an ATM—but not until after he’d finished whatever it was he’d been doing in the side alley. And as much as I would have liked to know what that was, I probably wasn’t going to find out any time soon. I’d missed my chance when Patch had pulled me away to tell me I was in over my head here at the Z and should run along home.

  I spread my hands on the lip of the pool table and leaned in casually, hoping I looked completely in my element, but the truth was, my heart rate was high. Not only had I just come off a confrontation with Patch, but no one in the near vicinity looked remotely friendly. And try as I might, I couldn’t sweep away the memory that someone had bled out on one of the tables. Was it this one? I pushed up from the table and brushed my hands clean.

  “We’re just about to start a game,” Scott said. “Fifty dollars and you’re in. Grab a cue.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to play and would have preferred watching, but a quick scan of the room revealed that Patch was seated at a poker table in the back. Even though his body wasn’t directly facing mine, I knew he was watching me. He was watching everyone in the room. He never went anywhere without making a careful and detailed assessment of his surroundings.

  Knowing this, I tried on the most dazzling smile I had inside me at the moment. “I’d love to.” I didn’t want Patch to know how upset I was, how much I was hurting. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t having a good time with Scott.

  But before I could head over to the rack, a short man in wire glasses and a sweater vest came up beside Scott. Everything about him looked out of place—he was groomed, his pants were pressed, and his loafers were polished. He asked Scott in a voice almost too muted to hear, “How much?”

  “Fifty,” Scott answered with a touch of annoyance. “Same as always.”

  “The game has a hundred minimum.”

  “Since when?”

  “Let me rephrase. For you
it has a hundred minimum.”

  Scott went red in the face, reached for his drink on the table’s edge, and tipped it back. Then he retrieved his wallet and crammed a wad of cash into the front pocket of the man’s shirt. “There’s fifty. I’ll pay the other half after the game. Now get your bad breath out of my face so I can concentrate.”

  The short man tapped a pencil against his bottom lip. “You’re going to have to settle your account with Dew first. He’s getting impatient. He’s been generous with you, and you haven’t returned the favor.”

  “Tell him I’ll have the money by the end of the night.”

  “That line wore out its welcome a week ago.”

  Scott stepped closer, crowding the man’s space. “I’m not the only guy here who owes Dew a little.”

  “But you’re the one he’s worried won’t pay him back.” The short man pulled out the cash Scott had tucked in his pocket and let the bills flutter to the ground. “Like I said, Dew’s getting restless.” He gave Scott a meaningful raise of his eyebrows and walked off.

  “How much do you owe Dew?” I asked Scott.

  He glared at me.

  Okay, next question. “What’s the competition like?” I spoke in hushed tones as I eyed the other players scattered around the various pool tables. Two out of every three were smoking. Three out of every three had tattoos of knives, guns, and various other weaponry climbing their arms. Any other night and I might have been scared, or at the very least uncomfortable, but Patch was still in the corner. As long as he was here, I knew I was safe.

  Scott snorted. “These guys are amateurs. I could beat them on my worst day. My real competition is in there.” He shifted his gaze toward a corridor that branched off from the main area. The corridor was narrow and dim, and led to a room that glowed a luminous orange. A curtain of beads hung across the doorway. One intricately carved pool table sat just back from the entrance.

  “That’s where the big money plays?” I guessed.

  “Back there, I could make in one game what I make in fifteen out here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Patch’s gaze flick to me. Pretending not to notice, I reached into my back pocket and took a step closer to Scott. “You need a hundred total for the next game, right? Here’s . . . fifty,” I said, quickly counting the two twenties and ten Patch had given me. I wasn’t a big fan of gambling, but I wanted to prove to Patch that the Z wasn’t going to eat me alive and spit me out. I could fit in. Or at least not get pushed around. And if it looked like I was flirting with Scott in the process, so be it. Screw you, I thought across the room, even though I knew Patch couldn’t hear me.

  Scott looked between me and the money in my hand. “Is this a joke?”

  “If you win, we’ll split the profit.”

  Scott considered the money with a lust that caught me off guard. He needed the money. He wasn’t at the Z tonight for entertainment. Gambling was an addiction.

  He swiped the money and jogged over to the short man in the sweater vest, whose pencil was furiously but meticulously scribbling numbers and balances for the other players. I stole a glance at Patch, to see his reaction to what I’d just done, but his eyes were on the poker game, his expression undecipherable.

  The man in the sweater vest counted Scott’s money, skillfully lining up the bills so they all faced the same direction. When he finished, he gave Scott a tight-lipped smile. It looked like we were in.

  Scott returned, chalking his pool stick. “You know what they say about good luck. Got to kiss my cue.” He stuck it in my face.

  I took a step back. “I’m not kissing your pool stick.”

  Scott flapped his arms and playfully made chicken noises.

  I glanced to the back of the hall, hoping to confirm that Patch wasn’t watching the humiliating scene unfolding, and that was when I saw Marcie Millar saunter up behind him, lean in, and cross her arms around his neck.

  My heart dropped to my knees.

  Scott was speaking, tapping the pool stick against my forehead, but the words went right past. I fought to recapture my breath and focused on the blur of concrete straight ahead to ground my complete shock and sense of betrayal. So this was what he meant when he said things with Marcie were strictly business? Because it sure didn’t look that way to me! And what was she doing here after having just been knifed at Bo’s? Did she feel safe because she was with Patch? On a split-second thought, I wondered if he was doing this to make me jealous. But if that were the case, he would have to have known I’d be at the Z tonight. Which he couldn’t have, unless he’d been spying on me. Had he been around more the past twenty-four hours than I’d originally believed?

  I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, struggling to focus on the pain there, and not the choked, humiliated feeling rising inside me. I stood that way, numb and holding in the threat of tears, before my attention was pulled to the doorway leading into the corridor. A guy in a red muscle tee leaned on the frame. Something was wrong with a patch of skin at the base of his throat—it almost looked deformed. Before I could take a closer look, I was paralyzed by a flash of déjà vu. Something about him was startlingly familiar, even though I knew we’d never met. I had a strong urge to run, but at the same time was overwhelmed by the need to place him.

  He picked up the white cue ball from the table closest to him and tossed it lazily a few times in the air.

  “Come on,” Scott said, waving the pool stick back and forth across my line of vision. The other guys surrounding the table laughed. “Do it, Nora,” Scott said. “Just a little peck. For luck.”

  He slipped the pool stick under the hem of my shirt and lifted it.

  I slapped the pool stick away. “Knock it off.”

  I saw movement from the guy in the red muscle tee. It happened so fast it took two beats of my heart to realize what was about to happen. He cranked his arm and hurled the cue ball across the room. An instant later, the mirror hanging on the far wall shattered, shards of glass raining to the floor.

  The room fell silent except for the classic rock playing through the speakers.

  “You,” the guy in the red muscle tee said. He aimed a handgun at the man in the sweater vest. “Give me the money.” He motioned him closer with a flick of the gun. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Beside me, Scott pushed forward to the front of the crowd. “No way, man. That’s our money.” A few shouts of agreement rose up from the room.

  The guy in the red tee kept the gun trained on the man in the sweater vest, but his eyes roved sideways to Scott. He grinned, baring teeth. “Not anymore.”

  “If you take that money, I’ll kill you.” There was a calm fury to Scott’s voice. He sounded like he meant it. I stood frozen in place, barely breathing, terrified of what might happen next, because not one part of me doubted that the gun was loaded.

  The gunman’s smile grew. “That so?”

  “Nobody in here is going to let you leave with our money,” Scott said. “Do yourself a favor and put the gun down.”

  Another murmur of agreement circled the room.

  Despite the fact that the temperature in the room seemed to be rising, the guy in the red muscle tee lazily scratched his neck with the barrel of the gun. He didn’t appear the least bit worried. “No.” Switching the gun to aim at Scott, he ordered, “Get on the table.”

  “Get lost.”

  “Get on the table!”

  The guy in the red tee was two-handing the gun, aiming at Scott’s chest. Very slowly, Scott raised his hands level with his shoulders and scooted backward onto the pool table. “You won’t leave alive. You’re outnumbered thirty to one.”

  The guy in the red tee crossed to Scott in three strides. He stood directly in front of Scott for a moment, his finger poised on the trigger. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Scott’s face. I couldn’t believe he didn’t wrench the gun away. Didn’t he know he couldn’t die? Didn’t he know he was Nephilim? But Patch had said he belonged to a Nep
hilim blood society—how could he not know?

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Scott said, his voice still cool, but spilling the first drop of panic.

  I wondered why nobody made a move to help him. As Scott had pointed out, the crowd had the guy in the red tee outnumbered by a landslide. But there was something vicious and frighteningly powerful about him. Something . . . otherworldly. I wondered if they were just as spooked by him as I was.

  I also wondered if the queasy and uncomfortably familiar feeling inside me meant he was a fallen angel. Or Nephilim.

  Out of all the faces in the crowd, I suddenly found myself locking eyes with Marcie. She stood across the crowd, with something I could only describe as bewildered fascination written all over her expression. I knew, right then, that she had no idea what was about to happen. She didn’t realize Scott was Nephilim and had more strength in one of his hands than a human had in his whole body. She hadn’t seen Chauncey, the first Nephil I’d ever met, mangle my cell phone in the palm of his hand. She hadn’t been there the night he’d chased me through the halls of the high school. And the guy in the red muscle tee? Whether Nephilim or fallen angel, he was likely just as powerful. Whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t a mere fistfight.

  She should have learned her lesson at Bo’s and stayed home. And so should have I.

  The guy in the red tee shoved Scott with the gun, and he flew back on the tabletop. Out of surprise or fear, Scott fumbled his pool stick, and the guy in the red tee snatched it up. Without pausing, he leaped onto the table and held the pool stick pointed down at Scott’s face. He drilled the stick into the table an inch from Scott’s ear. The pool stick went down with such force, it smashed through the felt surface. Twelve inches of it were visible beneath the table.

  I swallowed a scream.

  Scott’s Adam’s apple quivered. “You’re crazy, man,” he said.

  Suddenly a bar stool flew through the air, knocking the guy in the red tee sideways. He caught his balance but had to jump off the table to keep it.

  “Get him!” someone in the crowd shouted.