The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “A successor picked up where Chauncey left off. I haven’t been able to get a name yet, but rumor has it he isn’t happy about Chauncey’s death, which doesn’t make sense. He’s in charge now—that alone should have wiped away any remorse he felt over Chauncey’s death. Which makes me wonder if the successor was a close friend of Chauncey’s, or a relative.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “The successor has a contract out on Chauncey’s killer.” Any further protesting on my part died forming. Patch and I shared a look. “He wants the killer to pay.”

  “You mean he wants me to pay,” I said, my voice barely pushing through.

  “Nobody knows you killed Chauncey. He didn’t know you were his female descendant until moments before he died, so there’s little chance anyone else knew. Chauncey’s successor might try to track down Chauncey’s descendants, but I wish him luck. It took me a long time to find you.” He took a step toward me, but I backed up. “When you wake up, I need you to say you want me as your guardian angel again. Say it like you mean it, so the archangels hear it, and hopefully grant your request. I’m doing everything I can to keep you safe, but I’m restricted. I need heightened access to the people around you, your emotions, everything in your world.”

  What was he saying? That the archangels had finally found my replacement guardian angel? Was this why he’d forced his way inside my dream tonight? Because he’d been cut off, and no longer had the access to me that he wanted?

  I felt his hands slide to my hips, holding me protectively against him. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  I stiffened and shrugged free. My mind was in a tempest. He wants the killer to pay. I couldn’t shake off the thought. The idea that someone out there wanted to kill me was numbing. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to know these things. I wanted to feel safe again.

  Realizing that Patch had no intention of leaving my dream, I made my own move. I fought against the invisible barriers of the dream by forcing myself awake. Open your eyes, I told myself. Open them!

  Patch gripped my elbow. “What are you doing?”

  I could feel myself becoming more lucid. I could feel the warmth of my sheets, my pillowcase soft against my cheek. All the familiar smells associated with my room comforted me.

  “Don’t wake up, Angel.” He smoothed his hands against my hair, trapping my face, forcing me to look him in the eye. “There’s more you need to know. There’s a very important reason why you need to see these memories. I’m trying to tell you something that I can’t tell you any other way. I need you to figure out what I’m trying to tell you. I need you to stop blocking me.”

  I jerked my face away. My feet seemed to rise up from the grass, drifting toward the stirring funnel cloud. Patch grabbed for me, swearing under his breath, but his hold on me was featherlight, imaginary.

  Wake up, I ordered myself. Wake up.

  I let the cloud consume me.

  CHAPTER

  18

  I WOKE UP WITH A SHARP INTAKE OF AIR. MY ROOM was settled in shadow, the moon glowing like a crystal ball on the far side of the window. My sheets were hot and damp, tangled around my legs. The clock read nine thirty.

  I flung myself out of bed and went to the bathroom, filling a cold glass of water. I gulped it down, then leaned against the wall. I couldn’t fall back asleep. Whatever I did, I couldn’t let Patch back in my dreams. I paced the upstairs hall, frantically trying to keep myself wide awake, but I was so worked up, I doubted I could have slept if I’d wanted to.

  Several minutes later the throb of my pulse had died down, but my mind wasn’t as easy to settle. The Black Hand. Those three words haunted me. They were elusive, menacing, taunting. I couldn’t bring myself to look them straight on. Not without feeling my already flimsy world start to shatter. I knew I was avoiding finding a way to let the archangels know Patch was the Black Hand, and my father’s killer, to protect myself from the shameful truth: I’d fallen in love with a killer. I’d let him kiss me, lie to me, betray me. When he touched me in my dreams, all my strength crumbled, and I felt myself being tangled up in his net all over again. He still held my heart in his hand, and that was the biggest betrayal of all. What kind of person was I, when I couldn’t bring my own father’s killer to justice?

  Patch had said I could tell the archangels I wanted him as my guardian angel again through the simple act of saying it out loud. It seemed logical, then, that I could shout out, “Patch killed my dad!” and be done with it. Justice would be served. Patch would be sent to hell, and I could slowly start to rebuild my life. But I couldn’t pull the words up, as if they were chained down someplace deep inside me.

  Too many things weren’t adding up. Why was Patch, an angel, mixed up with a Nephilim blood society? If he was the Black Hand, why was he branding Nephilim recruits? Why was he recruiting them in the first place? It wasn’t just odd—it was illogical. The Nephilim race hated angels, and vice versa. And if the Black Hand was Chauncey’s successor and the new leader of the society . . . how could that person possibly be Patch?

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose, feeling like my head might crack from chasing the same questions over and over. Why was it that everything surrounding the Black Hand seemed to be an endless maze of trapdoor, after trapdoor, after trapdoor?

  Right now Scott was my only reliable link left to the Black Hand. He knew more than he was letting on, I was sure of it, but he was too scared to talk. The tone of his voice when he’d spoken of the Black Hand carried sheer panic. I needed him to tell me what he knew, but he was running from his past, and nothing I said was going to make him turn back and face it. I pressed my forehead into the palms of my hands, trying to think clearly.

  I called Vee.

  “Good news,” she said before I could get a word in edgewise. “I talked my dad into driving back to the beach with me and paying the fine to get the boot off my car. I’m back in business.”

  “Good, because I need your help.”

  “Help is my middle name.”

  I was pretty sure she’d already told me bad was her middle name, but I kept my opinion to myself. “I need someone to help me look through Scott’s bedroom.” Chances were, Scott wasn’t going to keep any evidence detailing his involvement with the Nephilim blood society out in the open, but what alternative did I have? He had done a terrific job of not giving me direct answers in the past, and after our last encounter, I knew he was wary of me. If I wanted to find out what he knew, I was going to have to do a little legwork.

  “Apparently Patch canceled our double date, so my schedule is wide open,” Vee said, a little too eagerly. I’d expected her to ask what we were snooping for in Scott’s bedroom.

  “Going through Scott’s bedroom isn’t going to be dangerous or exciting,” I told her, just to make sure we were both on the same page. “All you’re going to do is sit in the Neon outside his apartment and call me if you see him coming home. I’m the one who’s going inside.”

  “Just because I’m not doing the spying doesn’t mean it’s not exciting. It’ll be like watching a movie. Only, in the movies the good guy almost never gets caught. But this is real life, and there’s a strong chance you’ll get caught. See what I mean? The excitement factor is through the roof.”

  Personally, I thought Vee was a little overanxious to see me caught.

  “You are going to warn me if Scott comes home, right?” I asked.

  “Heck yeah, babe. I’ve got you covered.”

  My next call was to Scott’s home line. Mrs. Parnell picked up.

  “Nora, so good to hear your voice! Scott tells me things have been heating up between the two of you,” she added in a conspirator’s voice.

  “Well, uh—”

  “I always thought it would be real nice if Scott married a local girl. I don’t much like the idea of him marrying into a family of strangers. What if his in-laws are nutcases? Your mom and I are such close friends, can you im
agine the fun we’d have planning a wedding together? But I’m getting ahead of myself! All in good time, as they say.”

  Oh boy.

  “Is Scott there, Mrs. Parnell? I have some news I think he’ll be interested in.”

  I heard her cup a hand over the mouthpiece and shout, “Scott! Pick up the phone! It’s Nora!”

  A moment later Scott came on. “You can hang up now, Mom.” His voice held a drop of wariness.

  “Just making sure you got it, hon.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Nora has some interesting news,” she said.

  “Then hang up so she can tell me.”

  There was a sigh of disappointment, and a click.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from me,” Scott said.

  “Have you found a band yet?” I asked, pushing forward, hoping to take control of the conversation and pique his interest before he hung up on me.

  “No,” he said with that same guarded skepticism.

  “I mentioned to a friend that you play the guitar—”

  “I play bass.”

  “—and he spread the word and found a band that wants to audition you. Tonight.”

  “What’s the name of the band?”

  I hadn’t anticipated that question. “Uh—the Pigmen.”

  “Sounds like something out of 1960.”

  “Do you want the audition or not?”

  “What time?”

  “Ten. At the Devil’s Handbag.” If I’d known of a warehouse farther away, I would have mentioned it. As it was, I would have to make do with the twenty minutes it would take him to drive round trip.

  “I’ll need a contact name and number.”

  He definitely was not supposed to ask that.

  I said, “I told my friend I’d pass the information along to you, but I didn’t think to ask for names and numbers of the band members.”

  “I’m not going to blow my night on an audition without first getting an idea of who these guys are, what style they play, and where they’ve gigged. Are they punk, indie-pop, metal?”

  “What are you?”

  “Punk.”

  “I’ll get their numbers and call you right back.”

  I disconnected from Scott and immediately dialed Vee. “I told Scott I got him an audition with a band tonight, but he wants to know what kind of music the band plays and where they’ve played. If I give him your number, would you pretend to be the girlfriend of someone from the band? Just say you always answer your boyfriend’s phone when he’s practicing. Don’t elaborate further. Stick to the facts: They’re a punk band, they’re the next big thing, and he’d be stupid not to audition.”

  “I’m really starting to like all this spy work,” Vee said. “When my normal life gets boring, all I have to do is sidle up next to you.”

  I was sitting on the front porch with my knees tucked against my chest when Vee cruised up.

  “I think we should stop at Skippy’s for hot dogs before we do this,” she said when I swung in. “I don’t know what it is about hot dogs, but they’re like an instant shot of courage. I feel like I can do anything after I’ve had a hot dog.”

  “That’s because you’re high on all the toxins they pump inside those things.”

  “Like I said, I think we should stop by Skippy’s.”

  “I already had pasta for dinner.”

  “Pasta isn’t very filling.”

  “Pasta is very filling.”

  “Yeah, but not in the way mustard and relish are,” Vee argued.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were leaving the drive-through at Skippy’s with two grilled hot dogs, one large carton of fries, and two strawberry milk shakes.

  “I hate this kind of food,” I said, feeling grease seep through the wax-paper-wrapped hot dog onto my hand. “It’s unhealthy.”

  “So’s a relationship with Patch, but that didn’t stop you.”

  I didn’t respond.

  A quarter mile from Scott’s complex, Vee steered to the side of the road. The biggest problem I foresaw was our location. Deacon Road dead-ended just past the complex. Vee and I were out in the open, and as soon as Scott drove past and saw Vee sitting in the Neon, he’d know something was up. I hadn’t been worried that he’d recognize her voice on the phone, but I was worried he’d remember her face. He’d seen us together on more than one occasion, and had even seen us tailing him in the Neon once. She was guilty by association.

  “You’re going to have to drive off the road and park behind those bushes,” I instructed Vee.

  Vee leaned forward, peering into the darkness. “Is that a ditch between me and the bushes?”

  “It’s not very deep. Trust me, we’ll clear it.”

  “Looks deep to me. This is a Neon we’re talking about, not a Hummer.”

  “The Neon doesn’t weigh very much. If we get stuck, I’ll get out and push.”

  Vee put the car in drive and hopped the shoulder of the road, the sound of overgrown weeds dragging along the undercarriage.

  “More g-gas!” I said, my teeth knocking together as we bounced over the rocky embankment. The car tipped forward and raced into the ditch, and the front tires slammed to a stop, hitting bottom.

  “I don’t think we’re going to make it up,” Vee said, feeding the Neon more gas. The tires spun but didn’t find traction. “I need to approach this sucker from an angle.” She cranked the wheel a hard left and punched the gas again. “That’s more like it,” she said as the Neon dug in and lurched forward.

  “Watch out for the rock—,” I began, but it was too late.

  Vee drove the Neon straight over a large jutting rock half buried in the earth. She stomped on the brake and killed the engine. We got out and stared at the front left tire.

  “Something doesn’t look right,” Vee said. “Is the tire supposed to look like that?”

  I banged my head against the nearest tree trunk.

  “So we’ve got a flat,” Vee said. “What now?”

  “We stick to the plan. I’ll search Scott’s room, and you’ll keep a lookout. When I get back, you’ll call Rixon.”

  “And tell him what?”

  “That we saw a deer and you swerved to miss it. That’s when you ran the Neon into the ditch and over a rock.”

  “I like that story,” said Vee. “It makes me sound like an animal lover. Rixon will like that.”

  “Any questions?” I asked her.

  “Nope, I’ve got it. Call you as soon as Scott leaves the premises. Call you again if he comes back and warn you to get the heck out of there.” Vee dropped her eyes to my footwear. “Are you going to scale the building and climb in through a window? Because you might have wanted to wear tennis shoes for that. Your ballet flats are cute, but not practical.”

  “I’m going in through the front door.”

  “What are you going to say to Scott’s mom?”

  “It doesn’t matter. She likes me. She’ll let me walk right inside.” I held out my hot dog, which had grown cold. “Do you want this?”

  “No way. You’re going to need it. If anything bad happens, just take a bite. Ten seconds later, you’ll feel all warm and happy inside.”

  I jogged the rest of the way down Deacon, veering off into the shadows of the trees as soon as I could make out a human form moving back and forth across the lighted windows of Scott’s third-story apartment. From what I could tell, Mrs. Parnell was in the kitchen, moving between the fridge and the sink, most likely baking dessert or throwing together a snack. The light in Scott’s bedroom was on, but the shades were drawn. The light blinked out, and a moment later Scott entered the kitchen and brushed a kiss on his mom’s cheek.

  I stayed put, swatting mosquitoes for five minutes, before Scott walked out the front door carrying what looked like a guitar case. He stowed the case in the trunk of the Mustang and backed out of the parking space.

  A minute later, Vee’s ringtone sounded in my pocket.

  “The eagle has flown the nest,
” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “Stay where you are. I’m going in.”

  I hiked up to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened, and as soon as Mrs. Parnell saw me, she broke into a wide smile.

  “Nora!” she said, grasping me good-naturedly by the shoulders. “You just missed Scott. He left to audition with the band. I can’t tell you how much it means to him that you went to the trouble to set this up. He’s going to knock the socks off the other band members. Just you wait and see.” She pinched my cheek affectionately.

  “Actually, Scott just called me. He left some of his sheet music here and asked if I could pick it up. He would have come back for it himself, but he didn’t want to show up late to the audition and make a bad impression.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course! Come right in. Did he say which music he wanted?”

  “He texted me a couple of titles.”

  She drew the door all the way open. “I’ll walk you back to his room. Scott will be so upset if the audition doesn’t go just the way he wants. He’s usually so particular about taking the right music, but it all happened on such short notice. I’m sure he’s going out of his mind, poor thing.”

  “He sounded really upset,” I agreed. “I’ll hurry as fast as I can.”

  Mrs. Parnell led the way down the hall. As I stepped across the threshold into Scott’s bedroom, I took in the complete change of scenery. The first thing I noticed was the black paint on the walls. They’d been white the last time I came over. The Godfather poster and the New England Patriots pennant had been ripped down. The air smelled heavily of paint and Febreze.

  “You’ll have to excuse the walls,” Mrs. Parnell said. “Scott’s been going through a bit of an emotional downturn. Moving can be hard. He needs to get out more.” She looked meaningfully at me. I pretended to miss the hint.

  “So that’s the sheet music?” I asked, gesturing at a heap of paper on the floor.

  Mrs. Parnell wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you want me to help you hunt down the titles?”