The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “That ever happens, you can bet I’ll gouge my eyes out!”

  I strove for composure. Angry or not, I could be rational. “You lied, Vee. You looked me in the eye and lied. I’d believe it of my mom, but not you.” I pushed the door open. “How were you going to explain yourself when I got my memory back?” I demanded suddenly.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t get it back.” Vee threw her hands in the air. “There. I said it. You were better off without it, if it meant not remembering that freak show. You don’t think straight when you’re around him. It’s like you see the one percent of him that might be good and miss the other ninety-nine percent of pure psychopathic evil!”

  My jaw fell open.

  “Anything else?” I snapped.

  “Nope. That sums up my feelings pretty adequately on the subject.”

  I shot out of the car and slammed the door.

  Vee rolled down her window and poked her head out. “When you come back to your senses, you have my number!” she called out.

  Then she floored down the driveway and sped off into the darkness.

  I stood in the shadow of the farmhouse, trying to collect my cool. I reflected on the vague answers Vee had given me when I’d first come home from the hospital without a shred of my memory intact, and my temper threatened to explode. I’d trusted her. I’d relied on her to tell me what I couldn’t figure out for myself. Worst of all, she’d collaborated with my mom. They’d used my memory loss to push the truth further out of reach. Because of them, it had taken me that much longer to find Patch.

  I was so worked up, I nearly forgot I’d told Patch to meet me down the street. Reining in my anger, I stormed away from the farmhouse, keeping my eyes alert for signs of Patch. By the time his form slowly took shape in the shadows ahead, the worst of my sense of betrayal had died down, but I wasn’t ready to call Vee and extend forgiveness just yet.

  Patch was parked by the roadside, straddling a black vintage Harley-Davidson Sportster motorcycle. I felt a shift in the air when I saw him; something dangerous and enticing resonated like a live wire. I stopped in my tracks at the sight of him. My heart stammered a beat, almost as if he held it in his grasp, commanding me in his own secret ways. I believed it. Bathed in moonlight, he looked positively criminal.

  He handed me a helmet as I walked up. “Where’s the Tahoe?” I asked.

  “Had to ditch it. Too many people knew I drove it, including Hank’s men. I parked it in an abandoned field. A homeless guy named Chambers is living out of it now.”

  Despite my mood, I flung my head back and laughed.

  Patch lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.

  “After the night I’ve been having, I needed that.”

  He kissed me, then secured the helmet strap under my chin. “Glad I could help. Hop on, Angel. I’m taking you home.”

  Despite being deep underground, Patch’s studio was warm when we arrived. I took the time to wonder if the steam pipes running beneath Delphic helped heat the place. There was also a fireplace, which Patch promptly lit. He took my coat, storing it in the closet just off the foyer.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “You bought food? For me?” He’d told me angels can’t taste and don’t require food, which made grocery shopping unnecessary.

  “There’s an organic grocery store just off the highway exit. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping for food.” A smile glittered in his eyes. “I might have gone overboard.”

  I walked into the kitchen, with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, black granite countertops, and walnut cabinetry. Very masculine, very sleek. I went for the fridge first. Water bottles, spinach and arugula, mushrooms, gingerroot, Gorgonzola and feta cheeses, natural peanut butter, and milk on one side. Hot dogs, cold cuts, Coke, chocolate pudding cups, and canned whipped cream on the other. I tried to picture Patch pushing a shopping cart down the aisle, tossing in food as it pleased him. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.

  I grabbed a pudding cup and offered Patch one as well, but he shook his head no. He perched himself on one of the bar stools, leaning his elbow on the counter contemplatively. “Do you remember anything else from the crash before you blacked out?”

  I found a spoon in the drawer and took a bite of pudding. “No.” I frowned. “This might be something, though. The car crash happened right before lunch. I originally thought I couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few minutes, but when I woke up in the hospital, it was evening. That means my time line is missing about six hours … so how do we account for those missing six hours? Was I with Hank? Lying unconscious in the hospital?”

  Something worrisome flicked across Patch’s eyes. “I know you’re not going to like this, but if we could get Dabria close to Hank, she might be able to read something off him. She can’t see inside his past, but if she still has some of her powers and can see his future, it might clue us in on what he’s been up to. Whatever his future holds, it’s dependent on his past. But getting Dabria close to him isn’t going to be easy. He’s being careful. When he goes out, he has at least two dozen of his men forming an impenetrable barrier around him. Even when he’s at your house, his men are outside, guarding the doors, pacing the fields, and patrolling the street.”

  This was news to me, and only made me feel more violated.

  “Speaking of Dabria, she was at the Devil’s Handbag tonight,” I said, aiming for a nonchalant air. “She was kind enough to introduce herself.”

  I watched Patch closely. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. It was one of those things where I’d know it when I saw it. To his credit, and my frustration, he showed no outward emotion or interest.

  “She said there’s a reward on Hank’s head,” I continued. “Ten million dollars to the first fallen angel who successfully drags him in. She said there are people who’d rather not see Hank lead a Nephilim rebellion, and while she didn’t give me specifics, I think I can figure out the details on my own. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few Nephilim out there who don’t want Hank in power. Nephilim who would much rather see him locked away.” I paused for emphasis. “Nephilim who are planning a coup d’état.”

  “Ten million sounds about right.” Again, said with no hint of his real feelings.

  “Are you going to sell me out, Patch?”

  He said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke, his words vibrated with quiet derision. “You realize this is what Dabria wants, don’t you? She followed you to the Devil’s Handbag tonight with one intent: to plant it in your head that I want to betray you. Did she tell you I’ve gambled away my fortune and the ten million will pose too great a temptation? No, I can tell by your face it’s not that. Maybe she told you I have women tucked away in every corner of the world, and I plan on using the money to keep them flocking to me. Jealousy would be more in her taste, which is why I’m betting if I haven’t hit the nail on the head yet, I’m getting warmer.”

  I tipped my chin higher, using defiance to mask my insecurity. “She said you’ve amassed a long list of enemies and you’re planning to pay them off.”

  Patch barked a laugh. “I have a long list of enemies, I won’t deny that. Could I pay them all off for ten million? Maybe, maybe not. That’s not the point. I’ve stayed one step ahead of my enemies for centuries, and I intend to keep it that way. Hank’s head on a platter means more to me than a paycheck, and when I learned you share my desire, it only strengthened my resolve to find a way to kill him, Nephilim or not.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say in response. Patch was right—Hank didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his life quarantined in a remote prison. He had destroyed my life and my family, and anything less than death was too kind a punishment.

  Patch raised his finger to his lips, silencing me on the spot. A moment later there was a brusque knock at the outer door.

  We shared a look, and Patch spoke to my thoughts. I’m not expecting anyone. Go to the bedroom and shut the do
or.

  With a nod, I signaled I understood. Moving silently, I crossed the studio, closing myself inside Patch’s bedroom. Through the door, I heard Patch give an abrupt laugh. His next words were laced with menace. “What are you doing?”

  “Bad timing?” returned a muffled voice. Female and oddly familiar.

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “It’s important.”

  Alarm and anger sprang to my chest as the unmistakable identity of the visitor became clear. Dabria had dropped by unannounced.

  “I have something for you,” she told Patch, her voice a little too smooth, a little too suggestive.

  I’ll bet you do, I thought cynically. I was tempted to stroll out and give her a warm welcome, but caught myself. Chances were, she’d be more open to talking if she didn’t know I was listening. Between my pride and potential information, the latter won out.

  “We had some luck. The Black Hand contacted me earlier tonight,” Dabria continued. “He wanted a meeting, was willing to pay top dollar, and I acquiesced.”

  “He wanted you to read his future,” Patch stated.

  “For the second time in two days. We have a very thorough Nephil on our hands. Thorough, but not as careful as he’s been in the past. He’s making small mistakes. This time he didn’t bother dragging along his bodyguards. He said he didn’t want our conversation overheard. He told me to read his future a second time, to make sure both versions matched. I pretended not to take offense, but you know I don’t like to be second-guessed.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Normally my visions are prophetess-client privilege, but I might be willing to strike a deal,” she said, her tone hinting toward flirtatious. “What are you laying on the table?”

  “Prophetess?”

  “Has a certain cachet, don’t you think?”

  “How much?” Patch asked.

  “First one to name a price loses—you taught me that.”

  I thought I heard Patch roll his eyes. “Ten thousand.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve. Don’t press your luck.”

  “Always fun doing business with you, Jev. Just like old times. We made a great team.”

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Start talking,” Patch said.

  “I foresaw Hank’s death, and I gave it to him straight. I couldn’t give him specifics, but I told him there’s going to be one less Nephil in the world very soon. I’m starting to think ‘immortal’ is a misnomer. First Chauncey, and now Hank.”

  “Hank’s reaction?” was all Patch said.

  “He didn’t have one. Left without a word.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You should know he’s in possession of an archangel’s necklace. I sensed it on him.”

  I wondered if this meant Marcie had succeeded in stealing Patch’s necklace from me. I’d invited her over to help me choose the best jewelry for my gown, but oddly, she hadn’t taken me up on the offer. Of course, I wouldn’t put it past Hank to give her his house key and tell her to snoop in my bedroom while I was out.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know any former archangels who are missing their necklace?” Dabria asked speculatively.

  “I’ll wire your money over tomorrow,” was Patch’s mild answer.

  “What does Hank want with an archangel’s necklace? On his way out, I heard him tell his driver to take him to the warehouse. What’s at the warehouse?” Dabria pressed.

  “You’re the prophetess.” This said with an undercurrent of amusement.

  Dabria’s tinkling laugh resonated through the studio before turning playful. “Maybe I should look into your future. Maybe it intersects mine.”

  That brought me to my feet. I strolled out, smiling. “Hello, Dabria. What a nice surprise.”

  She swung around, outrage blazing across her features as her eyes took me in.

  I stretched my arms over my head. “I was taking a nap when the pleasant sound of your voice woke me.”

  Patch smiled. “I believe you’ve met my girlfriend, Dabria?”

  “Oh, we’ve met,” I said cheerfully. “Fortunately, I lived to talk about it.”

  Dabria opened her mouth, then shut it. All the while, her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink.

  “Seems Hank came across an archangel’s necklace,” Patch said to me.

  “Funny how that worked out.”

  “Now we figure out what he plans on doing with it,” Patch said.

  “I’ll grab my coat.”

  “You’re staying here, Angel,” Patch said in a voice I didn’t like. He didn’t often hint at his emotions, but there was a clear note of firmness mixed with … worry.

  “You’re taking this one alone?”

  “First, Hank can’t see us together. Second, I don’t like the idea of dragging you into something that could get messy fast. If you need one more reason, I love you. This is uncharted territory for me, but I need to know that at the end of the night, I have you to come home to.”

  I blinked. I’d never heard Patch speak to me with this kind of affection. But I couldn’t just let the matter drop.

  “You promised,” I said.

  “And I’ll keep my promise,” he answered, shrugging into his motorcycle jacket. Crossing to me, he tipped his head against mine.

  Don’t think about moving an inch outside this door, Angel. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I can’t let Hank put the necklace on the archangel without hearing what he wants. Out there, you’re fair game. He’s got one thing he wants—let’s not give him two. We’re going to end this once and for all.

  “Promise you’ll stay here, where I know you’re safe,” he said out loud. “The alternative is I order Dabria to stay put and play watch-dog.” He raised his eyebrows as if asking, What’s it going to be?

  Dabria and I exchanged a look, neither of our expressions remotely pleased.

  “Hurry back,” I said.

  CHAPTER

  29

  I PACED PATCH’S STUDIO, SELF-TALKING MYSELF OUT OF running after him. He had promised me—promised me—he wouldn’t take Hank down on his own. This was my fight as much as it was his, more even, and given all the countless ways Hank had made me suffer, I’d won the right to dole out his punishment. Patch had said he’d find a way to kill Hank, and I wanted to be the one to send him into the next life, where the deeds he’d committed in this life would haunt him for eternity.

  A voice of doubt crept into my thoughts. Dabria was right. Patch needs the money. He’s going to deliver Hank to the right people, give me a cut of the money, and call it even. Between asking permission and begging forgiveness, Patch held firmly to the latter—he’d said so himself.

  I braced my hands on the back of Patch’s sofa, breathing deeply to imitate an air of calm, all the while inventing various ways I might bind and torture him if he returned without Hank—alive—in tow.

  My phone rang, and I shoveled through my messenger bag to answer it. “Where are you?”

  Short, hard breathing sounded in my ear. “They’re onto me, Grey. I saw them at the Devil’s Handbag. Hank’s men. I bolted.”

  “Scott!” Not the voice I expected, but by no means unimportant. “Where are you?”

  “I don’t want to say over the phone. I need to get out of town. When I went to the bus station, Hank had men there. He has them everywhere. He’s got friends in the police force, and I think he gave them my picture. Two cops chased me into a grocery store, but I got away through the back door. I had to leave the Charger behind. I’m on foot. I need cash—as much as you can get—hair dye, and new clothes. If you can spare the Volkswagen, I’ll take it. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. Can you meet me in thirty at my hideout?”

  What could I say? Patch had told me to stay put. But I couldn’t sit back and do nothing while time was running out for Scott. Hank was currently occupied at his warehouse, and there was no better time to try and get Scott out of town. Beg forgiveness later, indeed
.

  “I’ll be there in thirty,” I told Scott.

  “You remember the way?”

  “Yes.” More or less.

  As soon as I hung up, I rushed through Patch’s studio, opening and closing drawers, grabbing whatever I thought would be useful to Scott. Jeans, T-shirts, socks, shoes. Patch was a couple of inches shorter than Scott, but it would have to do.

  Upon opening the antique mahogany armoire in Patch’s bedroom, my frantic search slowed. I stood in place, absorbing the sight. Patch’s wardrobe was impeccably organized, chinos folded on the shelves, dress shirts on wood hangers. He owned three suits, a tailored black with narrow lapels, a luxurious Newman pinstripe, and a charcoal gray with Jacquard stitching. A small bin stored silk handkerchiefs, and a drawer held multiple rows of silk ties in every color from red to purple to black. Shoes ranged from black running sneakers to Converses to Italian loafers—even a pair of nubuck flip-flops for good measure. The woodsy scent of cedar lingered in the air. Not what I was expecting. At all. The Patch I knew wore jeans, T-shirts, and a ratty baseball cap. I wondered if I’d ever see this side of Patch. I wondered if there even was an end to the many sides of Patch. The more I thought I knew him, the more the mystery deepened. With these doubts fresh in my mind, I asked myself once more if I thought Patch would sell me out tonight.

  I didn’t want to believe it, but the truth was, I was on the fence.

  In the bathroom, I threw a razor, soap, and shaving cream into a duffel. Then a hat, gloves, and mirrored Ray-Bans. In the kitchen drawers, I found several fake ID cards and a roll of cash totaling more than five hundred dollars. Patch would be less than thrilled when he discovered the money had gone to Scott, but given the circumstances, I could justify playing Robin Hood.

  I didn’t have a car, but Scott’s cave couldn’t be more than two miles from Delphic Amusement Park, and I set out at a brisk jog. I kept to the shoulder of the road, pulling the hoodie I’d borrowed from Patch over my face. Cars streamed steadily out of the park as the hour edged toward midnight, and while a few people honked, I managed not to draw much attention.