The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  I didn’t know if I could trust him. Patch had made it clear he didn’t, but Scott was shaking. His complexion was pasty, misted with sweat, and he plowed his hands through his hair, letting go of a long, wavering breath. Could he make up a story like that? All the details meshed with everything I already knew about Scott. He had a gambling addiction. He’d worked nights in Portland at a convenience store. He’d moved back to Coldwater to escape his past. He had the branding mark on his chest, proof someone had put it there. Could he sit two feet away and lie to me about what he’d gone through?

  “What did he look like?” I asked. “The Black Hand.”

  He shook his head. “It was dark. He was tall, that’s all I remember.”

  I groped for some way to connect Scott and my dad—both of whom were linked to the Black Hand. Scott had been tracked down by the Black Hand after running up debt. In exchange for paying off Scott’s debt, the Black Hand had branded him. Had my dad gone through the same thing? Had his murder not been as random as the police originally guessed? Had the Black Hand paid off a debt my dad owed, then killed him when my dad refused to be branded? No. I wasn’t buying it. My dad didn’t gamble, and he didn’t rack up debt. He was an accountant. He knew the value of money. Nothing about his situation tied him to Scott. There had to be something else.

  “Did the Black Hand say anything else?” I asked.

  “I try not to remember anything about that night.” He reached under his mattress and pulled out a plastic ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. He lit up, exhaling smoke slowly, and closed his eyes.

  My mind kept rebounding to the same three questions. Had the Black Hand really killed my dad? Who was he? Where could I find him?

  And then a new question. Was the Black Hand the leader of the Nephilim blood society? If he was the one branding Nephilim, it made sense. Only a leader, or someone with a lot of authority, would be in charge of actively recruiting members to fight back against fallen angels.

  “Did he say why he gave you his mark?” I asked. Clearly the branding was to mark members of the blood society, but maybe there was more. Something only its Nephilim members knew.

  Scott shook his head, taking another drag.

  “He didn’t give you any reason?”

  “No,” Scott snapped.

  “Has he come looking for you since that night?”

  “No.” I could tell by the wild look in his eyes that he was scared he wouldn’t always be able to say as much.

  I thought back to the Z. To the red-shirted Nephil. Did he have the same brand as Scott? I was almost certain he did. It only made sense that all members had the same mark. Which meant there were others like Scott and the Nephil at the Z. Members everywhere, recruited by force, but disjointed from any real strength or purpose because they were kept in the dark. What was the Black Hand waiting for? Why was he holding off uniting his members? To keep fallen angels from finding out what he was up to?

  Was this why my dad was murdered? Because of something that had to do with the blood society?

  “Have you ever seen the Black Hand’s brand on anyone else?” I knew I was in danger of pushing too hard, but I needed to determine just how much Scott knew.

  Scott didn’t answer. He was crumpled on the bed, passed out. His mouth was agape, and his breath smelled strongly of alcohol and smoke.

  I shook him gently. “Scott? What can you tell me about the society?” I slapped his cheeks gently. “Scott, wake up. Did the Black Hand tell you that you’re Nephilim? Did he tell you what it means?”

  But he had crashed into a deep, inebriated sleep.

  I ground out his cigarette, pulled a sheet up to his shoulders, and let myself out.

  CHAPTER

  15

  I WAS DEEP IN A DREAM WHEN THE PHONE SHRILLED. I stuck an arm out sideways, swept my hand over the nightstand, and located my cell phone. “Hello?” I said, wiping drool from the rim of my mouth.

  “Have you checked the Weather Channel yet?” Vee asked.

  “What?” I mumbled. I tried to blink my eyes open, but they were still rolled back in the dream. “What time is it?”

  “Blue skies, sizzling temps, zero wind. We are so going to Old Orchard Beach after class. I’m packing boogie boards in the Neon right now.” She belted out the first stanza to “Summer Nights” from Grease. I cringed and pulled the phone away from my ear.

  I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and watched the numbers on the clock seesaw into focus. That couldn’t possibly be a six at the front . . . could it?

  “Should I wear a hot pink bandeau, or a metallic gold bikini? The thing about the bikini is, I probably need a tan before I wear it. Gold will make my skin look even more washed out. Maybe I’ll wear pink this time, get a base tan, and—”

  “Why does my clock say six twenty-five?” I demanded, trying to wade through the haze of sleep long enough to push some volume into my voice.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Vee!”

  “Yeesh. Angry much?”

  I slammed the phone down and snuggled deeper under the covers. The home phone started ringing downstairs in the kitchen. I folded my pillow over my head. The answering machine picked up, but Vee wasn’t that easy to get rid of. She redialed. Again and again.

  I speed-dialed her cell. “What?”

  “Gold or pink? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. It’s just . . . Rixon’s going to be there, and this is the first time he’ll see me in a swimsuit.”

  “Back up. The plan is for all three of us to go together? I’m not going all the way out to Old Orchard Beach to be the third wheel!”

  “And I’m not going to let you sit home all afternoon with your sour face on.”

  “I don’t have a sour face.”

  “Yes, you do. And you’re wearing it right now.”

  “This is my annoyed face. You woke me up at six in the morning!”

  The sky was summer blue from horizon to horizon. The Neon’s windows were rolled down, a hot wind ripped through Vee’s and my hair, and the heady smell of salt water filled the air. Vee exited off the highway and drove down Old Orchard Street, eyes peeled for parking. The lanes on both sides of the street were backed up with slow-moving cars that rolled along well under the speed limit, hoping for a spot to open up on the street before they slipped past and lost their chance.

  “This place is packed,” Vee complained. “Where am I supposed to park?” She steered down an alley and slowed to a stop behind a bookstore. “This looks good. Lots of parking back here.”

  “The sign says employee parking only.”

  “How are they going to know we aren’t employees? The Neon blends right in. All these cars speak low class.”

  “The sign says violators will be towed.”

  “They just say that to scare people like you and me away. It’s an empty threat. Nothing to worry about.”

  She wedged the Neon into a space and cranked the parking brake. We grabbed an umbrella and a tote filled with bottled water, snacks, sunscreen, and towels out of the trunk, then hiked down Old Orchard Street until it dead-ended at the beach. The sand was dotted with colorful umbrellas, the frothy waves rolling under the twiggy legs of the pier. I recognized a group of soon-to-be senior guys from school playing Ultimate Frisbee just ahead.

  “Normally I’d say we should go check out those guys,” Vee said, “but Rixon is so hot, I’m not even tempted.”

  “When is Rixon supposed to get here, anyway?”

  “Hey now. That didn’t sound very cheerful. In fact, it sounded just a little bit cynical.”

  Shielding my eyes, I squinted at the coastline, looking for an ideal place to pitch the umbrella. “I already told you: I hate being the third wheel.” The last thing I needed or wanted was to sit under a hot sun all afternoon, watching Vee and Rixon make out.

  “For your information, Rixon had a few errands to run, but he promised to be here by three.”

  “What kind of errands?”

  “
Who knows? Probably Patch roped him into doing a favor. Patch always has something he needs Rixon to run off and take care of. You’d think Patch could just do it himself. Or at least pay Rixon, so he’s not taking advantage of him. Do you think I should wear sunscreen? I’m going to be really mad if I go to all this trouble and don’t get a tan.”

  “Rixon doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who lets people take advantage of him.”

  “People? No. Patch? Yes. It’s like Rixon worships him. It’s so lame. It makes my stomach heave. Patch is not the kind of guy I want my boyfriend aspiring to be.”

  “They have a long history together.”

  “So I’ve heard. Blah, blah, blah. Probably Patch is a drug dealer. No. Probably he’s an arms dealer and has Rixon out playing the sacrificial mule, gunrunning for free and risking his neck.”

  Behind my knockoff Ray-Bans, I rolled my eyes. “Does Rixon have a problem with their relationship?”

  “No,” she said, all huffy.

  “Then leave it at that.”

  But Vee wasn’t about to let it go. “If Patch isn’t dealing in arms, how’s he get all his cash?”

  “You know where he gets his money.”

  “Tell me,” she said, folding her arms stubbornly across her chest. “Tell me out loud where he gets his money.”

  “The same place Rixon gets his.”

  “Uh-huh. Just as I thought. You’re ashamed to say it.”

  I gave her a pointed look. “Please. That’s the dumbest thing ever.”

  “Oh yeah?” Vee marched up to a woman not far away who was building a sand castle with two small children. “Excuse me, ma’am? Sorry to interrupt your quality beach time with the little ones, but my friend here would like to tell you what her ex does for a living.”

  I clamped my hand around Vee’s arm and dragged her away.

  “See?” Vee said. “You’re ashamed. You can’t say it out loud and not feel your insides start to rot.”

  “Poker. Pool. There. I said it and I didn’t shrivel up and die. Satisfied? I don’t know what the big deal is. Rixon earns his living the very same way.”

  Vee shook her head. “You’re so in the dark, girl. You don’t buy the kind of clothes Patch wears by winning bets at Bo’s Arcade.”

  “What are you talking about? Patch wears jeans and T-shirts.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “You know how much jeans like that run?”

  “No,” I said, confused.

  “Let’s just say you can’t buy jeans like that in Coldwater. He probably ships them up from New York. Four hundred dollars a pair.”

  “You lie.”

  “Cross my heart, hope to die. Last week, he was wearing a Rolling Stones concert T-shirt with Mick Jagger’s autograph. Rixon said it’s the real thing. Patch isn’t paying off his MasterCard in poker chips. Back before you and Patch were Splitsville, did you ever ask where he really gets his money? Or how he got that nice shiny Jeep?”

  “Patch won his Jeep off a poker game,” I argued. “If he won a Jeep, I’m sure he could win enough to buy a pair of four-hundred-dollar jeans. Maybe he’s just really good at poker.”

  “Patch told you he won the Jeep. Rixon has a different story.”

  I flipped my hair off my shoulders, trying to pretend like I couldn’t care less about the direction our conversation was headed, because I wasn’t buying it. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Rixon won’t say. All he said was, ‘Patch would like you to think he won the Jeep. But he got his hands dirty getting that car.’”

  “Maybe you heard wrong.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Vee repeated cynically. “Or maybe Patch is a damn lunatic running an illegal business.”

  I handed her a tube of sunscreen, maybe just a little too hard. “Put this on my back, and don’t miss any areas.”

  “I think I’m going straight to oil,” Vee said, slapping sunscreen across my back. “A little burn is better than spending a whole day at the beach and leaving it as white as when you came.”

  I craned my neck over my shoulder but couldn’t tell how thorough Vee’s job was. “Make sure you get under my straps.”

  “Think they’d arrest me if I take off my top? I really hate tan lines.”

  I spread my towel under the umbrella and curled up beneath its shade, rechecking to make sure my feet weren’t hanging out in the sun. Vee shook her towel out a few feet away and lathered her legs with baby oil. In the back of my mind, I conjured up images of skin cancer I’d seen at the doctor’s office.

  “Speaking of Patch,” Vee said, “what’s the latest? Is he still hooked up with Marcie?”

  “Last I heard,” I said stiffly, thinking the only reason she’d raised the question was to goad me further.

  “Well, you know my opinion.”

  I did, but I was going to hear it again, whether I wanted to or not.

  “The two of them deserve each other,” Vee said, spraying Sun-In through her hair, misting the air with chemical lemon. “Of course, I don’t think it will last. Patch will get bored and move on. Just like he did with—”

  “Can we talk about something other than Patch?” I cut in, pinching my eyes closed and massaging the muscles at the back of my neck.

  “You sure you don’t want to talk? Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  I rolled out a sigh. No use hiding it. Obnoxious or not, Vee was my best friend and deserved the truth, when I could give it. “He kissed me the other night. After the Devil’s Handbag.”

  “He what?”

  I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes. “In my bedroom.” I didn’t think I could explain to Vee that he’d kissed me inside my dream. The point was, he had. Location was irrelevant. That, and I didn’t want to even think about what it meant that he now seemed capable of inserting himself into my dreams.

  “You let him inside?”

  “Not exactly, but he came in anyway.”

  “Okay,” Vee said, looking like she was struggling to come up with a decent response to my idiocy. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’re going to swear a blood oath. Don’t give me that look, I’m serious. If we swear a blood oath, you’ll have to keep it or something really bad will happen—like rats might gnaw off your feet while you’re sleeping. And when you wake up, all that will be left are bloody stumps. Do you have a pocketknife? We’ll find a pocketknife, and then we’ll both cut our palms and press them together. You’ll swear never to be alone with Patch again. That way, if temptation strikes, you’ll have something to fall back on.”

  I wondered if I should tell her that being alone with Patch wasn’t always my choice. He moved like vapor. If he wanted alone time with me, he was going to get it. And though I hated to admit it, I didn’t always mind.

  “I need something a little more effective than a blood oath,” I said.

  “Babe, get a clue. This is serious stuff. I hope you’re a believer, because I am. I’ll go hunt down a knife,” she said, starting to rise to her feet.

  I pulled her back down. “I have Marcie’s diary.”

  “Wh-what?!” Vee sputtered.

  “I took it, but I haven’t read it.”

  “Why am I just now hearing about this? And what is taking you so long to crack that baby open? Forget Rixon—let’s drive home right now and read it! You know Marcie’s talked about Patch in it.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why the delay? Are you scared about what it might reveal? Because I could read it first, filter out the bad stuff, and just give you answers, straight up.”

  “If I read it, I might never speak to Patch again.”

  “That’s a good thing!”

  I looked sideways at Vee. “I don’t know if it’s what I want.”

  “Oh, babe. Don’t do this to yourself. It’s killing me. Read the stupid diary and allow yourself closure. There are other guys out there. Just so you know. There will never be a shortage of guys.”

  “I know,” I said, but it felt lik
e a cheap lie. There had never been a guy before Patch. How could I tell myself there’d be one after? “I’m not going to read the diary. I’m going to give it back. Marcie and I have had this ridiculous feud for years, and it’s getting old. I just want to move on.”

  Vee’s jaw dropped, and she sputtered a little more. “Can’t moving on wait until after you’ve read the diary? Or at least given me a quick peek? Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  “I’m taking the higher road.”

  Vee rolled out her own sigh. “You’re not going to budge, are you?”

  “No.”

  A shadow fell over our towels.

  “Mind if I join you lovely ladies?”

  We looked up to find Rixon standing over us in swim trunks and a tank, with a towel thrown over his shoulder. He had a gangly build that appeared surprisingly tough and resilient, a hawk nose, and a shag of inky hair that fell across his forehead. A pair of black angel wings was tattooed on his left shoulder, and combined with a heavy five o’clock shadow, he looked like he was employed by the mob. Charming, playful, and up to no good.

  “You made it!” Vee said, her smile lighting up her whole face.

  Rixon collapsed on the sand in front of us, elbow down, cheek propped on his fist. “What’d I miss?”

  “Vee wants me to swear a blood oath,” I said.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds serious.”

  “She thinks it will keep Patch out of my life.”

  Rixon tilted his head back and laughed. “Good luck with that.”