hush, hush 04 - Finale

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  His question irritated me. “I’m the leader of the Nephilim army. I call the shots.”

  I expected his next question to be, “Where does this leave us?” so his ensuing words took me by surprise. “I want you by my side, Nora. Being with you is my top priority. I’ve been at war with the Nephilim a long time. It’s shaped me in ways I wish I could take back. The deception, the cheap tricks, even the brute force. There are days I wish I could go back and take a different path. I don’t want you to have the same regrets. I need to know you’re strong enough physically, but I also need to know you’re straight up here.” He touched my forehead gently. Then he caressed my cheek, holding my face in the palm of his hand. “Do you really understand what you’re getting into?”

  I pulled away, but not quite so hard as I’d intended. “If you’d quit worrying about me, you’d see I’m up for this.” I thought of all the training I’d done with Dante. I thought of how gifted he believed I was at mind-tricks. Patch had no clue how far I’d come. I was stronger, faster, and more powerful than I’d ever imagined possible. I’d also been through enough over the past several months to know I was now firmly in his world. Our world. I knew what I was getting into, even if Patch didn’t like it.

  “You might have stopped me from meeting Blakely, but you can’t stop the war from coming,” I pointed out. We were on the brink of a deadly and dangerous conflict. I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it, and I wasn’t about to look the other way. I was ready to fight. For Nephilim freedom. For mine.

  “It’s one thing to think you’re ready,” Patch said quietly. “Jumping into war and seeing it firsthand is a different ball game. I admire your bravery, Angel, but I’m being honest when I say I think you’re rushing into this without fully weighing the consequences.”

  “You think I haven’t thought this through? I’m the one who has to lead Hank’s army. I’ve spent many sleepless nights thinking this through.”

  “Lead the army, yes. But no one ever said anything about fighting. You can fulfill your oath and stay far out of harm’s way. Delegate the deadliest tasks. That’s what your army is for. That’s what I’m here for.”

  This argument was starting to make me bristle. “You can’t constantly protect me, Patch. I appreciate the thought, but I’m Nephilim now. I’m immortal and less in need of your protection. I’m a target of fallen angels, archangels, and other Nephilim, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Except learn to fight back.”

  His eyes were clear, his tone level, but I sensed a certain sadness under his cool exterior. “You’re a strong girl, and you’re mine. But strength doesn’t always mean brute force. You don’t have to kick ass to be a fighter. Violence doesn’t equal strength. Lead your army by example. There’s a better answer to all this. War isn’t going to solve anything, but it will tear our two worlds apart, and there will be casualties, including humans. There’s nothing heroic about this war. It will lead to a destruction unlike anything you or I have ever seen.”

  I swallowed. Why did Patch always have to do this? Say things that only made me more conflicted. Was he telling me this because he honestly meant it, or was he trying to sweep me off the battlefield? I wanted to trust his intentions. Violence wasn’t always the way. In fact, most of the time it wasn’t. I knew that. But I saw Dante’s point of view too. I had to fight back. If I came across as weak, it only hung a larger target on my back. I had to show that I was tough and would retaliate. For the foreseeable future, physical strength mattered more than strength of character.

  I pressed my fingers into my temples, trying to rub away the worry that echoed like a dull ache. “I don’t want to talk about this now. I just need—some quiet time, okay? I had a rough morning, and I’ll deal with this when I’m feeling better.”

  Patch didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say anything more on the matter.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said wearily.

  He retrieved a vial of milky white liquid from his pocket and handed it to me. “The antidote.”

  I’d been so caught up in our argument, I’d completely forgotten about it. I scrutinized the vial suspiciously.

  “I did manage to get Blakely to tell me that the knife he stabbed you with is the most powerful prototype he’s developed yet. It put twenty times the amount of devilcraft into your system than the drink Dante gave you. That’s why you need the antidote. Without it, you’ll develop an unbreakable addiction to devilcraft. In high enough doses, certain devilcraft prototypes will rot you from the inside out. They will scramble your brains same as any other lethal drug.”

  Patch’s words caught me off guard. I’d woken this morning with an insatiable appetite for devilcraft because Blakely had caused me to crave it more than eating, drinking, or even breathing?

  The thought of waking up every day, driven by that hunger, put a red-hot feeling of shame in my veins. I hadn’t realized how high the stakes were. Unexpectedly, I found myself grateful to Patch for getting the antidote. I’d do anything to never feel that unconquerable need again.

  I unstopped the vial. “Anything I should know before I take this?” I passed the vial under my nose. No odor.

  “It won’t work if you’ve had devilcraft introduced into your system in the last twenty-four hours, but that shouldn’t be a problem. It’s been well over a day since Blakely stabbed you,” Patch said.

  I had the vial an inch from my lips when I stopped. Just this morning I’d consumed an entire bottle of devilcraft. If I took the antidote now, it wouldn’t work. I’d still be addicted.

  “Plug your nose and tip it back. It can’t taste as bad as devilcraft,” Patch said.

  I wanted to tell Patch about the bottle I’d stolen from Dante. I wanted to explain myself. He wouldn’t blame me. This was Blakely’s fault. It was the devilcraft. I’d guzzled a whole bottle of it and I’d hardly had a choice, I was so blinded by need.

  I opened my mouth to confess everything, but something stopped me. A dark, foreign voice planted deep inside murmured that I didn’t want to be free of devilcraft. Not yet. I couldn’t forfeit the power and strength that came with it—not when we were on the brink of war. I had to keep those powers close, just in case. This wasn’t about devilcraft. It was about protecting myself.

  The cravings started then, licking up my skin, watering my mouth, causing me to shudder with hunger. I pushed the feelings aside, proud of myself when I did. I wouldn’t give in the way I had this morning. I would only steal and drink devilcraft when I absolutely needed it. And I’d keep the antidote with me always, so I could break the habit whenever I wanted. I’d do it on my terms. I had a choice in this. I was in control.

  Then I did something I never imagined I’d do. The impulse fired into my consciousness, and I acted without thinking. I locked eyes with Patch for the briefest of moments, summoned all my mental energy, feeling it flex inside me like a great, unleashed, and natural power, and mind-tricked him into thinking I’d taken the antidote.

  Nora drank it, I whispered deceptively to his mind, planting an image there that backed up my lie. Every last drop.

  Then I slipped the vial into my pocket. The whole thing was over in seconds.

  CHAPTER

  19

  I LEFT PATCH’S PLACE, INTENDING TO DRIVE HOME, all the while combating a violent wrenching in my stomach that felt part guilt, part genuine illness. I couldn’t remember a single time in my life when I’d felt more ashamed.

  Or more ravenous.

  My stomach contracted, spiking with hunger pangs. They were so sharp, they left me doubled over against the steering wheel. It was as though I’d swallowed nails, and they were scraping my insides raw. I had the strangest sensation of feeling my organs shrivel. It was followed by the frightening question of whether my body would eat itself for nourishment.

  But it wasn’t food I needed.

  I pulled over and called Scott. “I need Dante’s address.”

  “You’ve never been to his place before? Aren’t you his girlf
riend?”

  It irritated me that he was slowing the conversation. I needed Dante’s address; I didn’t have time to chitchat. “Do you have it or not?”

  “I’ll text you the address. Something wrong? You sound antsy. Have for a few days now.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, then hung up and slouched in my seat. Sweat beaded my upper lip. I clenched the steering wheel, trying to fend off the cravings that seemed to grip me by the throat and rattle me. My thoughts were glued to one word—devilcraft. I tried to swat the temptation away. I’d just taken devilcraft this morning. A whole bottle. I could beat these cravings. I decided when I needed more devilcraft. I decided when, and how much.

  The prickly sweat spread to my back, little rivulets scurrying beneath my shirt. The bottoms of my thighs, hot and moist, seemed to stick to the seat cushions. Even though it was October, I blasted the AC.

  I steered back onto the road, but the blare of a passing horn caused me to brake abruptly. A white van sped past, its driver making an obscene gesture through the window.

  Get a grip, I told myself. Pay attention.

  After a few head-clearing breaths, I uploaded the address to Dante’s house onto my cell phone. I studied the map, gave an ironic laugh, and flipped a U-turn. Dante, it seemed, lived less than five miles from Patch’s townhouse.

  Ten minutes later I’d driven under a lush arch of trees canopying the road, crossed a cobblestone bridge, and parked the Volkswagen on a quaint and curving tree-lined street. Houses were predominantly white Victorians with gingerbread detail and steeply pitched roofs. All were flamboyant and excessive. I identified Dante’s—a Queen Anne at 12 Shore Drive—that was all spindles and towers and gables. The door was painted red with a big brass knocker. I skipped the knocker and went straight for the bell, pushing it repeatedly. If he didn’t hurry and answer . . .

  Dante cracked the door, his face registering surprise. “How’d you find this place?”

  “Scott.”

  He frowned. “I don’t like people showing up at my door unexpectedly. A lot of foot traffic looks suspicious. I’ve got nosy neighbors.”

  “It’s important.”

  He jerked his chin back toward the road. “That piece of junk you drive is an eyesore.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to exchange witty insults. If I didn’t get devilcraft into my system soon—just a few drops—my heart was going to gallop right out of my chest. Even now my pulse raced and I was laboring to draw breath. I might as well have spent the past hour running up a steep hill, I was so winded.

  I said, “I changed my mind. I want devilcraft. As a backup,” I quickly added. “In case I find myself in a situation where I’m outnumbered and I need it.” I couldn’t focus long enough to tell if my reasoning sounded flimsy. Red spots flashed across my vision. I desperately wanted to wipe my brow, but I didn’t want to draw extra attention to how profusely I was sweating.

  Dante gave me a questioning look I couldn’t quite interpret, then led me inside. I stood in the foyer, darting my eyes over the clean white walls and lush Oriental rugs. A hallway led back to the kitchen. Formal living room on my left, and dining room, painted the same oxblood red as my eye spots, on my right. As far as I could see, every furnishing was antique. A crystal-droplet chandelier hung overhead.

  “Nice,” I managed to choke out between my skittering pulse and tingling extremities.

  “The house belonged to friends. They left it to me in their will.”

  “Sorry they passed.”

  He strode into the dining room, tilted a large painting of a haystack to one side, and revealed the time-honored hidden wall safe. He punched in the code and opened the box.

  “Here you go. It’s a new prototype. Incredibly concentrated, so drink it in low doses,” he cautioned. “Two bottles. If you decide to start taking it now, it should last a week.”

  I nodded, trying to hide my watering mouth as I took the blue-glowing bottles. “There’s something I want to tell you, Dante. I’m leading the Nephilim to war. So if you can spare more than two bottles, I could use them.” I’d fully intended to tell Dante about my decision to go into battle, but I had not meant to tell him with the intent of hoping to score extra devilcraft. It seemed like a sneaky maneuver, but I was too hungry to feel much more than a pinch of guilt.

  “War?” Dante repeated, sounding startled. “Are you sure?”

  “You can tell the Nephilim higher-ups that I’m devising plans to go against fallen angels.”

  “This is—great news,” Dante said, still sounding shell-shocked as he stuffed an extra bottle of devilcraft into my hands. “What made you change your mind?”

  “A conversion of heart,” I said, because I thought it sounded good. “I’m not just leading the Nephilim. I am one.”

  Dante saw me out, and it took every ounce of control to walk calmly to the Volkswagen. I kept our farewell short, then drove around the corner, immediately parked, and twisted the cap off the bottle. I was about to tip it back when the sound of Patch’s ringtone caused me to jump, splashing blue liquid on my lap.

  It evaporated instantly, rising into the air like smoke from a snuffed match. I cursed under my breath, furious that I’d lost even a few precious drops.

  “Hello?” I answered. The red spots streaked my vision.

  “I don’t like finding you in another man’s house, Angel.”

  Immediately, I looked both ways out the window. I shoved the devilcraft under my seat. “Where are you?”

  “Three cars back.”

  My eyes flew to the rearview mirror. Patch swung off his motorcycle and strolled toward me, phone pressed to his ear. I wiped my face with the neck of my shirt.

  I cranked down my window. “Following me?” I asked Patch.

  “Tracking device.”

  I was starting to hate that thing.

  Patch leaned a forearm on the roof of my car, bending close. “Who lives on Shore Drive?”

  “That tracking device is pretty specific.”

  “I only buy the best.”

  “Dante lives at 12 Shore Drive.” No use lying when it sounded like he’d already done his research.

  “I don’t like finding you in another man’s home, but I hate finding you in his.” His expression was calm enough, but I could tell he wanted an explanation.

  “I needed to confirm our workout time for tomorrow morning. I was in the area and figured I might as well stop by.” The lie slipped out easy, so easy. All I could think of was getting rid of Patch. My throat filled with the taste of devilcraft. I swallowed impatiently.

  Gently, Patch pushed my sunglasses higher on my nose, then bent through the window and kissed me. “I’m on my way to research a few more leads into Pepper’s blackmailer. Need anything before I head out?”

  I shook my head no.

  “If you need to talk, you know I’m here for you,” he added softly.

  “Talk about what?” I asked, almost defensively. Could he know about the devilcraft? No. No, he couldn’t.

  He studied me a moment. “Anything.”

  I waited until Patch drove off before I drank, one greedy sip at a time, until I was full.

  CHAPTER

  20

  THURSDAY EVENING ARRIVED, AND WITH IT, THE complete transformation of the farmhouse. Garlands of autumn leaves in scarlet, gold, and chestnut spilled off the eaves. Bushels of dried cornstalks framed the door. Marcie had purchased what appeared to be every pumpkin and gourd in all of Maine, and lined them up along the sidewalk, the driveway, and every last square inch of porch. Some were carved into jack-o’-lanterns, flickering candlelight in their spooky expressions. A vindictive part of me wanted to tell her it looked like a craft store had thrown up on our lawn, but the truth was, she’d done a nice job.

  Inside, haunted music played from the stereo. Skulls, bats, cobwebs, and ghosts cluttered the furniture. Marcie had rented a dry-ice machine—as if we didn’t have enough authentic fog in the yard.

  I had two paper bags f
illed with last-minute items in my arms, and I carted them into the kitchen.

  “I’m back!” I yelled. “Plastic cups, one bag of spider rings, two bags of ice, and more skeleton confetti—just like you asked. Soda is still in the trunk. Any volunteers to help carry it in?”

  Marcie sashayed into the room, and I did a jaw drop. She wore a black vinyl bra and matching leggings. Nothing more. Her ribs poked through her skin, and she had total Popsicle-stick thighs. “Put the soda in the fridge, the ice in the freezer, and sprinkle the skeleton confetti on the dining room table, but don’t get any in the food. That’s it for now. Stay close in case I need anything else. I have to go finish my costume.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. For a minute there, I thought that was all you planned on wearing,” I said, gesturing at the skimpy vinyl.

  Marcie glanced down. “It is. I’m Catwoman. I just need to hot-glue black felt ears to my headband.”

  “You’re wearing a bra to the party? Just a bra?”

  “A bandeau.”

  Oh, this was going to be good. I couldn’t wait for Vee’s commentary. “Who’s Batman?”

  “Robert Boxler.”

  “I guess that means Scott bailed?” It was more of a rhetorical question. Just to give the proverbial knife one last twist.

  Marcie gave her shoulders a pompous little hike. “Scott who?” she said, and marched upstairs.

  “He chose Vee over you!” I called triumphantly after her.

  “I don’t care,” Marcie singsonged back. “You probably made him. It’s no secret he does everything you say. Put the soda in the fridge before the turn of the century.”

  I stuck my tongue out, even though she couldn’t see it. “I have to get ready too, you know!”

  • • •

  At seven, the first guests arrived. Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Mark Anthony, Elvis and Priscilla. Even a bottle of ketchup and mustard strolled through the front door. I let Marcie play hostess and moseyed into the kitchen, stacking my plate with deviled eggs, cocktail wieners, and candy corn. I’d been too busy granting Marcie’s every pre-party command to eat dinner. That, and the new formula of devilcraft Dante had given me, seemed to curb my appetite for the first several hours after I took it.