hush, hush 04 - Finale

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Scott!” I called out, flinging open the mausoleum’s door as I burst inside.

  There were no windows. I couldn’t see. Impatiently, I swept my hands out, trying to feel my surroundings. I tripped on a small object and heard it roll away. Patting my hands across the cold stone floor, I grasped the flashlight Scott had taken with him and obviously dropped, and switched it on.

  There. In the corner. Scott was on his back, eyes open but dazed. I scrambled over, tugging at the blue-glowing whip scorching his wrists until it fell free. His skin blistered and oozed. He gave a pained moan.

  “I think Dante is gone, but stay alert just the same,” I told him. “There’s a dog guarding the door—he’s on our side. Stay here until I come back. I have to find Patch.”

  Scott groaned again, this time cursing Dante’s name. “Didn’t see it coming,” he muttered.

  That made two of us.

  I rushed outside, sprinting across the cemetery, which had fallen into near-perfect darkness. I batted my way through a hedge of bushes, plowing my own shortcut to the parking lot. I leaped the wrought-iron fence and ran straight for the lone black truck parked in the lot.

  I saw the eerie blue light glowing behind the windows when I was still several feet away. Wrenching the door open, I dragged Patch out, laid him on the pavement, and began the laborious process of uncoiling the whip, which snaked the width of his chest, pinning his arms at his sides like a torturous corset. His eyes were shut, his skin emanating a faint blue. At last I jerked the whip loose and flung it aside, oblivious to my burned fingers.

  “Patch,” I said, shaking him. Tears jumped to my eyes, and my throat clogged with emotion. “Wake up, Patch.” I shook him harder. “You’re going to be fine. Dante is gone, and I untied the whip. Please wake up.” I pushed resolve into my voice. “You’re going to be okay. We’re together now. I need you to open your eyes. I need to know you can hear me.”

  His body felt feverish, heat pouring through his clothes, and I ripped open his shirt. I gasped at the bubbled skin, patterned where the whip had coiled. The worst wounds curled up like blackened, scorched paper. A blowtorch would have produced as much damage.

  I knew he couldn’t feel it, but I did. My jaw tightened with venomous hatred toward Dante even as tears streamed down my face. Dante had made a massive, unforgivable mistake. Patch was everything to me, and if the devilcraft left any lasting damage, I would see to it that Dante regretted this single assault as long as he lived, which if I had anything to say about it, wouldn’t be long. But my seething rage was pushed aside by a consuming distress for Patch. Grief and guilt and ice-cold apprehension plummeted inside me.

  “Please,” I whispered, my voice rattling. “Please, Patch, wake up,” I begged, kissing his mouth and wishing it would miraculously wake him. I gave my head a hard shake to dislodge the worst thoughts. I wouldn’t allow them to form. Patch was a fallen angel. He couldn’t be hurt. Not this way. I didn’t care how potent devilcraft was—it couldn’t cause Patch permanent harm.

  I felt Patch’s fingers grip mine a moment before his low voice vibrated weakly in my mind. Angel.

  At that one word, my heart soared with joy. I’m here! I’m right here. I love you, Patch. I love you so much! I sobbed back. Before I could restrain myself, I flung my mouth against his. I was straddling his hips, elbows planted on either side of his head, not wanting to cause him any more damage, but unable to restrain myself from embracing him. Then, just like that, he hugged me in such a tight embrace, I collapsed on top of him.

  “I’ll injure you worse!” I shrieked, squirming to roll off him. “The devilcraft— Your skin—”

  “You’re just the thing to make me feel better, Angel,” he murmured, finding my mouth and effectively cutting off my protest. His eyes were shut, lines of exhaustion and stress tightening his features, and yet the way he kissed me melted away every other worry. I relaxed my posture, sinking down on top of his long, lean form. His hand moved up the back of my shirt, feeling warm and solid as he held me close.

  “I was terrified of what might have happened to you,” I choked out.

  “I was terrified thinking the same about you.”

  “The devilcraft—” I began.

  Patch exhaled beneath me, and my body dipped with his. His breath carried relief and raw emotion. His eyes, stripped of everything but sincerity, found mine. “My skin can be replaced. But you can’t, Angel. When Dante left, I thought it was over. I thought I’d failed you. I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.”

  I blinked back tears glittering on my lashes. “If he had taken you from me—” I was too choked up to finish the thought.

  “He tried to take you from me, and that’s reason enough for me to mark him a dead man. He’s not getting away with this. I’ve forgiven him for several small trespasses in the name of trying to be civil and understanding about your role as leader of his predecessor’s army, but tonight he threw out the old rules. He used devilcraft on me. I don’t owe him any gestures of courtesy. Next time we meet, we’ll play by my rules.” Despite the exhaustion evident in every tense knot of muscle down his body, the decisiveness in his voice held no wavering or sympathy.

  “He’s working for fallen angels, Patch. They have him in their pocket.”

  I’d never seen Patch look as surprised as at that moment. His black eyes dilated, sorting out this news. “He told you that?”

  I nodded soberly. “He said there’s no way the Nephilim are going to come out of this war on top. Despite every convincing, contradictory, and hope-filled word he’s been singing to the Nephilim,” I added bitterly.

  “Did he name specific fallen angels?”

  “No. He’s in this to save his own skin, Patch. He said when push comes to shove, the archangels will side with fallen angels. After all, their history runs deep. It’s hard to turn your back on blood, even if it is bad blood. There’s more.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “Dante’s next move is to steal my title as leader of the Black Hand’s army, and march the Nephilim straight into the hands of the fallen angels.”

  Patch lay in stunned silence, but I saw thoughts shooting rapid-fire behind his black eyes, which held a sharp edge. He knew, like I did, that if Dante succeeded in stripping me of my title, my oath to Hank would be broken. Failure meant only one thing: death.

  “Dante is also Pepper’s blackmailer,” I said.

  Patch gave a curt nod. “I made that assumption when he ambushed me. How did Scott fare?”

  “He’s in the mausoleum, with an incredibly smart stray dog watching over him.”

  Patch lifted his eyebrows. “Should I ask?”

  “I think that dog is vying for your job as my guardian angel. He scared off Dante and is the only reason I got away.”

  Patch traced the curve of my cheekbone. “I’ll have to thank him for saving my girl.”

  Despite the circumstances, I smiled. “You’re going to love him. The two of you share the same fashion sense.”

  • • •

  Two hours later I parked Patch’s truck in his garage. Patch was slumped in the passenger seat, his complexion washed out, the same blue hue still radiating from his skin. He smiled his lazy smile when he spoke, but I could tell it took effort; it was a ploy to reassure me. The devilcraft had weakened him, but for how long was anyone’s guess. I was grateful Dante had fled when he did. I imagined I had my new dog friend to thank for that. If Dante had hung around to finish what he’d started, we’d all have been in more danger than I suspected we could have escaped. Once again, I directed my gratitude toward the stray black dog. Scrappy and eerily smart. And loyal nearly to his own detriment.

  Patch and I had stayed at the cemetery with Scott until he’d recovered enough strength to drive himself home. As for the black dog, despite several attempts to ditch him, including forcibly removing him from the bed of Patch’s truck, he’d persistently leaped back inside. Giving up, we’d let him tag along. I’d take him to an animal shelter after I’d gotten enough
sleep to start thinking clearly.

  But as much as I wanted to collapse into Patch’s bed the moment I stepped foot inside his townhouse, there was still work to be done. Dante was already two steps ahead. If we rested before taking countermeasures, we might as well start assembling a white flag of surrender.

  I paced Patch’s kitchen, clasping my hands behind my neck as though the gesture might squeeze out a brilliant next move. What was Dante thinking now? What was his next move? He’d threatened to destroy me if I accused him of treason, so he’d at least considered that I might go through with it. Which meant he was most likely busy doing one of two things. First, devising a watertight alibi. Or second, and far more troublesome, beating me to the punch by spreading news that I was the traitor. The thought froze me in my tracks.

  “Start at the beginning,” Patch said from the sofa. His voice was low with fatigue, but his eyes burned with wrath. He stuffed a pillow under his head and directed his full attention my way. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “When Dante told me he’s working for fallen angels, I threatened to out him, but he only laughed, saying no one would believe me.”

  “They won’t,” Patch agreed bluntly.

  I tipped my head against the wall, sighing in frustration. “Then he told me he plans on taking over as leader. Nephilim love him. They wish he were their leader. I can see it in their eyes. It won’t matter how vehemently I try to warn them. They’ll welcome him as their new leader with wide-open arms. I don’t see a solution. He’s got us beat.”

  Patch didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. “If you publicly attack Dante, you’ll give the Nephilim an excuse to rally against you, that’s true. Tensions are high, and they’re looking for an outlet for their uncertainty. Which is why publicly denouncing Dante is not the move we’re going to make.”

  “Then what is?” I asked, turning to look at him straight on. He clearly had something in mind, but I couldn’t guess what.

  “We’re going to let Pepper take care of Dante for us.”

  I carefully examined Patch’s logic. “And Pepper will do it because he can’t risk Dante ratting him out to the archangels? But then why hasn’t Pepper already made Dante disappear?”

  “Pepper isn’t going to get his own hands dirty. He doesn’t want to leave a trail leading back to him for the archangels to find.” Patch’s mouth hardened with a frown. “I’m starting to get an idea of what Pepper wanted from me.”

  “You think Pepper had hoped you’d make Dante disappear for him? Was that his so-called job offer?”

  Patch’s black eyes sliced into mine. “One way to find out.”

  “I have Pepper’s number. I’ll arrange the meeting right now,” I said with disgust. And here I’d thought Pepper couldn’t stoop any lower. Rather than man up to his own problems, the coward had tried to dump the risk on Patch.

  “You know, Angel, he has something that could be useful to us,” Patch added thoughtfully. “Something we might convince him to steal from heaven, if we play this right. I’ve tried to avoid war, but maybe it’s time to fight. Let’s end this. If you beat the fallen angels, your oath will be fulfilled.” His eyes locked on mine. “And we’ll be free. Together. No more war, no more Cheshvan.”

  I started to ask what he was thinking, when the obvious answer hit me. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. Yes, Pepper did have access to something that would give us bargaining power over fallen angels—and secure Nephilim faith in me. Then again, did we really want to go down that road? Was it our right to put the entire fallen angel population at grave risk?

  “I don’t know, Patch. . . .”

  Patch stood and reached for his leather jacket. “Call Pepper. We’re meeting him now.”

  • • •

  The lot behind the gas station was empty. The sky was black, and so were the store’s greasy windows. Patch parked his motorcycle, and we both swung off. A short, pudgy form waddled out of the shadows and, after looking apprehensively around, scurried over to us.

  Pepper’s eyes danced self-righteously at the sight of Patch. “Look a little worse for wear, old friend. I think it’s fair to say life on Earth hasn’t been kind.”

  Patch ignored the insult. “We know Dante is your blackmailer.”

  “Yes, yes, Dante. The dirty pig. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I want to hear about your job offer.”

  Pepper drummed his fingertips together, his shrewd eyes never leaving Patch’s. “I know you and your girlfriend here killed Hank Millar. I need someone ruthless like that.”

  “We had help. The archangels,” Patch reminded him.

  “I’m an archangel,” Pepper said peevishly. “I want Dante dead, and I’ll give you the tools to do it.”

  Patch nodded. “We’ll do it. At the right price.”

  Pepper blinked, taken aback. I didn’t think he’d expected to come to an agreement so easily. He cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

  Patch glanced at me, and I inclined my head. Time to pull out the proverbial ace up the sleeve. With little time to consider, Patch and I had decided this was one card we couldn’t afford not to play.

  “We want access to every fallen angel feather being stored in heaven,” I announced.

  The pompous smirk drained from Pepper’s eyes, and he gave a cold bark of laughter. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t give you that. It would take a whole committee to release those feathers. And what are you planning to do? Burn the whole lot of them? You’d send every fallen angel on Earth to hell!”

  “Would you really be that disappointed?” I asked him in all seriousness.

  “Who cares what I think?” he growled. “There are rules. There are procedures. Only fallen angels who’ve committed a serious crime or breach of humanity are sent to hell.”

  “You’re out of options,” Patch stated coldly. “We both know you can get the feathers. You know where they’re stored, and you know the procedure for releasing them. You have everything you need. Devise a plan and carry it out. Either that, or take your chances against Dante.”

  “One feather, possibly! But thousands? I’ll never get away with it!” Pepper protested shrilly.

  Patch stepped toward him, and Pepper shrank back in fear, his arms flying up to shield his face.

  “Look around,” Patch told him in a quiet, lethal voice. “This isn’t a place you want to call home. You’ll be the newest fallen angel, and they’ll make you remember it. You won’t last a week of initiation.”

  “I-i-initiation?”

  Patch’s black stare sent a shiver up my spine.

  “W-w-what do I do?” Pepper wailed softly. “I can’t go through initiation. I can’t live on Earth full-time. I need to be able to go back to heaven when I want.”

  “Get the feathers.”

  “I can’t d-d-do it.” Pepper hiccuped.

  “You don’t have a choice. You’re going to get those feathers, Pepper. And I’m going to kill Dante. Have you thought this plan through?”

  A miserable nod. “I’ll bring you a special dagger. It will kill Dante. If the archangels come after you, and you try to give them my name, you’ll cut your own tongue out with the dagger. I’ve enchanted it. The dagger won’t let you betray me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “If we go through with this, you can’t contact me. Not while I’m in heaven. All communication goes dark until I finish. If I can finish,” he whimpered wretchedly. “I’ll let you know when I have the feathers.”

  “We need them by tomorrow,” I told Pepper.

  “Tomorrow?” he fussed. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”

  “Monday at midnight at the latest,” Patch said with no room for compromise.

  Pepper gave a queasy nod. “I’ll get as many as I can.”

  “You need to clear out the inventory,” I told him. “That’s our deal.”

  Pepper swallowed. “Every last one of them?”


  That was the idea, yes. If Pepper succeeded in getting the feathers, the Nephilim would have a way of winning the war with a single strike of a match. Since we couldn’t chain fallen angels in hell ourselves, we’d let their Achilles’ heels—their former angelic feathers—do it for us. Every fallen angel would be given a choice: release their Nephilim vassal from their oath and swear a new oath of peace, or make a new home for themselves in a place much hotter than Coldwater, Maine.

  If our plan worked, it wouldn’t matter if Dante accused me of treason. If I won the war, nothing else would matter to the Nephilim. And despite their lack of faith in me, I wanted to win this for them. It was the right thing to do.

  I met Pepper’s gaze, putting steel behind mine. “All of them.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  SCOTT CALLED ME AS SOON AS PATCH AND I WERE BACK at the townhouse. It was now Sunday, just after three in the morning. Patch closed the front door behind us, and I put the phone on speaker.

  “We might have a problem,” Scott said. “I’ve gotten a handful of texts from friends saying Dante is making a public announcement to Nephilim later tonight at Delphic, after closing. After what happened tonight, anybody else find this odd?”

  Patch swore.

  I tried to stay calm, but black tinged the edges of my vision.

  “Everyone’s speculating, and the theories are all over the board,” Scott continued. “Any idea what this is about? The prick pretended to be your boyfriend and then wham. Earlier tonight. And now this.”

  I braced my hand on the wall for support. My head spun and my knees shook. Patch took the phone from me.

  “She’ll call you back, Scott. Let us know if you hear anything else.”

  I sank into Patch’s sofa. I stuck my head between my knees and drew several rapid breaths. “He’s going to publicly accuse me of treason. Later tonight.”

  “Yes,” Patch agreed quietly.

  “They’ll lock me in prison. They’ll try to torture a confession out of me.”

  Patch knelt in front of me and placed his hands protectively on my hips. “Look at me, Angel.”