Finale hh-4

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “Do something,” Vee told me. “Get her away from him. Now.”

  I jumped up and strolled over to Marcie. On the way over, I worked up a smile. By the time I reached her, I was pretty sure it looked almost genuine. “Hey,” I told her.

  “Oh, hey, Nora. I was just telling Scott how much I love indie music. Nobody in this town ever amounts to anything. I think it’s cool he’s trying to make it big.”

  Scott winked at me. I had to shut my eyes briefly to keep from rolling them.

  “So . . . ,” I drew out, struggling to fill the lapse in conversation. At Vee’s command, I’d come over here, but now what? I couldn’t just drag Marcie away from Scott. And why was I the one over here playing referee? This was Vee’s business, not mine.

  “Can we talk?” Marcie asked me, saving me from having to come up with a tactic on my own.

  “Sure, I have a minute,” I said. “Why don’t we go somewhere more quiet?”

  As if reading my mind, Marcie grabbed my wrist and propelled me out the back door and into the alley. After glancing both ways to make sure we were alone, she said, “Did my dad tell you anything about me?” She dropped her voice further. “About being Nephilim, I mean. I’ve been feeling funny lately. Tired and crampy. Is this some kind of weird Nephilim menstruation thing? Because I thought I already went through that.”

  How was I supposed to tell Marcie that purebred Nephilim, like her parents, rarely mated together successfully, and when they did, the offspring were weak and sickly, and that some of Hank’s final words to me included the somber truth that Marcie would in all likelihood not live much longer?

  In short, I couldn’t.

  “Sometimes I feel tired and crampy too,” I said. “I think it’s normal—”

  “Yeah, but did my dad say anything about it?” she pressed. “What to expect, how to cope, that kind of thing.”

  “I think your dad loved you and would want you to keep living your life, not stressing about the whole Nephilim thing. He’d want you to be happy.”

  Marcie looked at me incredulously. “Happy? I’m a freak. I’m not even human. And don’t think for one minute I’ve forgotten you aren’t either. We’re in this together.” She jabbed her finger accusingly at me.

  Oh boy. Just what I needed. Solidarity . . . with Marcie Millar.

  “What do you really want from me, Marcie?” I asked.

  “I want to make sure you understand that if you so much as hint to anyone that I’m not human, I will burn you. I will bury you alive.”

  I was running out of patience. “First off, if I wanted to announce to the world that you’re Nephilim, I already would have. And second, who would believe me? Think about it. ‘Nephilim’ isn’t an everyday word in the vocabulary of most people we know.”

  “Fine,” Marcie huffed, apparently satisfied.

  “Are we done here?”

  “What if I need someone to talk to?” she persisted. “It’s not like I can dump this on my psychiatrist.”

  “Um, your mom?” I suggested. “She’s a Nephil too, remember?”

  “Ever since my dad disappeared, she’s refused to accept the truth about him. Big-time denial issues going on there. She’s convinced he’s coming back, that he still loves her, that he’ll annul the divorce, and our lives will go back to being peachy keen.”

  Denial issues, maybe. But I wouldn’t put Hank above mind-tricking his ex-wife with a memory-altering enchantment so powerful that its effects lasted beyond his death. Hank and vanity went together like matching socks. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone speaking ill of his memory. And as far as I knew, no one in Coldwater had. It was as if a numbing fog had settled over the community, keeping human and Nephilim residents alike from asking the big question of what had happened to him. There wasn’t a single story going around town. People, when they spoke of him, simply murmured, “What a shock. Rest his soul. Poor family, ought to ask how I can help . . .”

  Marcie continued, “But he’s not coming back. He’s dead. I don’t know how or why or who did it, but there is no way my dad would drop off the grid unless something happened. He’s dead. I know it.”

  I tried to keep my expression sympathetic, but my palms started to sweat again. Patch was the only other person on Earth who knew I’d sent Hank to the grave. I had no intention of adding Marcie’s name to the insider list.

  “You don’t sound too broken up about it,” I said.

  “My dad was messed up in some pretty bad stuff. He deserved what he got.”

  I could have opened up to Marcie then and there, but something didn’t feel right. Her cynical gaze never wavered from my face, and I got the feeling she suspected I knew vital information about her father’s death, and her indifference was an act to get me to divulge.

  I wasn’t going to walk into a trap, if that’s what this was.

  “It’s not easy losing your dad, believe me,” I said. “The pain never really goes away, but it does eventually become bearable. And somehow, life moves on.”

  “I’m not looking for a sympathy card, Nora.”

  “Okay,” I said with a reluctant shrug. “If you ever need to talk, I guess you can call me.”

  “I won’t have to. I’m moving in with you,” Marcie announced. “I’ll bring my stuff over later this week. My mom is driving me crazy, and we both agree I need somewhere else to crash for a while. Your place is as good as any. Well, I for one am so glad we had this talk. If there’s one thing my dad taught me, it’s that Nephilim stick together.”

  CHAPTER 6

  NO,” I BLURTED AUTOMATICALLY. “NO, NO, NO. YOU can’t just—move in with me.” A feeling of pure panic escalated from my toes to the tips of my ears, blowing up faster than I could contain it. I needed an argument. Now. But my brain kept spitting out the same frantic and completely unhelpful thought—No.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Marcie said, and disappeared inside.

  “What about me?” I called out. I kicked the door, but what I really felt like doing was kicking myself around for an hour or two. I’d done Vee a favor and look where it had gotten me.

  I flung open the door and marched inside. I found Vee at our booth.

  “Which way did she go?” I demanded.

  “Who?”

  “Marcie!”

  “I thought she was with you.”

  I shot Vee my best bristled look. “This is all your fault! I have to find her.”

  Without further explanation, I pushed through the crowd, eyes alert and attentive for any sign of Marcie. I needed to sort this out before it got wildly out of hand. She’s testing you, I told myself. Putting feelers out. Nothing is set in stone. Besides, my mom had final say in this. And she wouldn’t let Marcie move in with us. Marcie had her own family. She was short one parent, sure, but I was a living testament that family was about more than numbers. Buoyed by this line of thinking, I felt my breathing start to relax.

  The lights dimmed and the lead singer for Serpentine grabbed the mic, pounding his head in a silent cadence. Taking the cue, the drummer hammered out an intro, and Scott and the other guitarist joined in, kicking off the show with a violent and angsty number. The crowd went wild, head-banging and chanting the lyrics.

  I gave one last frustrated glance around for Marcie, then dropped it. I’d have to sort things out with her later. The start of the show was my signal to meet Patch at the bar, and just like that, my heart was back to lurching in my chest.

  I made my way over to the bar and took the first bar stool I saw. I sat down a little too hard, losing my balance at the last second. My legs felt like they were made of rubber, and my fingers shook. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this.

  “ID, sweetheart?” the bartender asked. An electric-like current vibrated off him, alerting me that he was Nephilim. Just as Patch had said he’d be.

  I shook my head. “Just a Sprite, please.”

  Not a moment later, I felt Patch move behind me. The energy radiating off him was far stronger
than the bartender’s, skimming like heat under my skin. He always had that effect on me, but unlike usual, tonight the sizzling current made me sick with anxiety. It meant Patch had arrived, and I was out of time. I didn’t want to go through with this, but I understood that I didn’t really have a choice. I had to play this smart and factor in my safety, and that of those I loved most dearly.

  Ready? Patch asked me in the privacy of our thoughts.

  If feeling like I’ll throw up at any minute constitutes ready, sure.

  I’ll come over to your place later and we’ll talk it over. Right now, let’s just get through this.

  I nodded.

  Just like we rehearsed, he spoke calmly to my mind.

  Patch? Whatever happens, I love you. I wanted to say more, those three words pitifully inadequate for the way I felt about him. And at the same time, so simple and accurate, nothing else would do.

  No regrets, Angel.

  None, I returned solemnly.

  The bartender finished up with a customer and walked over to take Patch’s order. His eyes raked over Patch, and by the scowl that immediately appeared on his face, it was obvious he’d discerned that Patch was a fallen angel. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his tone clipped, as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

  Patch slurred in an unmistakably inebriated voice, “One beautiful redhead, preferably tall and slim, with legs a man can’t seem to find the end of.” He traced his finger down my cheekbone, and I tensed and pulled away.

  “Not interested,” I said, taking a sip of Sprite and keeping my eyes steadfastly on the mirrored wall behind the bar. I let just enough anxiety leak into my words to pique the bartender’s attention.

  He leaned across the bar, resting his massive forearms on the slab of granite, and stared Patch down. “Next time review the menu before you waste my time. We don’t offer disinterested females, red hair or otherwise.” He paused with menacing effect, then started toward the next waiting customer.

  “And if she’s Nephilim, all the better,” Patch announced drunkenly.

  The bartender stopped, eyes glittering with malice. “Mind keeping your voice down, pal? We’re in mixed company. This place is open to humans, too.”

  Patch brushed this off with an uncoordinated wave of his arm. “Sweet of you to worry about the humans, but one quick mind-trick later, and they won’t remember a word I’ve said. Done the trick so many times I can do it in my sleep,” he said, letting a bit of swagger creep into his tone.

  “You want this lowlife gone?” the bartender asked me. “Say the word and I’ll get the bouncer.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I can handle myself,” I told him. “You’ll have to excuse my ex for being a total jerk-off.”

  Patch laughed. “Jerk-off? That’s not what you called me last time we were together,” he implied suggestively.

  I just stared at him, disgusted.

  “She wasn’t always Nephilim, you know,” Patch informed the bartender with wistful nostalgia. “Maybe you’ve heard of her. The Black Hand’s heir. Liked her better when she was human, but there’s a certain cachet in running around with the most famous Nephil on Earth.”

  The bartender eyed me speculatively. “You’re the Black Hand’s kid?”

  I glared at Patch. “Thanks for that.”

  “Is it true the Black Hand is dead?” the bartender asked. “Can’t hardly comprehend it. A great man, rest his soul. My respects to your family.” He paused, bewildered. “But dead as in . . . dead?”

  “Word has it,” I murmured quietly. I couldn’t quite bring myself to shed a tear for Hank, but I did speak with a melancholic reverence that seemed to satisfy the bartender.

  “A free round of drinks to the fallen angel who got him,” Patch interrupted, raising my glass in a toast. “I think we can all agree that’s what happened. Immortal just doesn’t have the same ring anymore.” He laughed, banging his fist on the bar in high spirits.

  “And you used to date this pig?” the bartender asked me.

  I flicked my eyes to Patch and frowned. “A repressed memory.”

  “You know he’s a”—the bartender lowered his voice—“fallen angel, right?”

  Another sip and a hard swallow. “Don’t remind me. I’ve made amends—my new boyfriend is Dante Matterazzi, one hundred percent Nephilim. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” No time like the present to start a rumor.

  His eyes lit up, impressed. “Sure, sure. Great guy. Everyone knows Dante.”

  Patch closed his hand over my wrist too firmly to be affectionate. “She’s got it all wrong. We’re still together. What do you say we get out of here, sugar?”

  I jumped at his touch, as if shocked. “Get your hands off me.”

  “I’ve got my bike out back. Let me take you for a ride. For old time’s sake.” He stood, then dragged me off my barstool so roughly it toppled.

  “Get the bouncer,” I ordered the bartender, letting full-fledged anxiety flood my voice. “Now.”

  Patch hauled me toward the front doors, and while I put on a convincing show of trying to wrench free, I knew the worst was still to come.

  The club’s bouncer, a Nephil who had the advantage not only of several inches over Patch, but also a hundred pounds, elbowed his way toward us. He grabbed Patch by the collar, tearing him off me and sending him flying into the wall. Serpentine had worked up to a fever pitch, drowning out the scuffle, but those in the immediate vicinity parted, forming a semicircle of curious onlookers around the two men.

  Patch raised his hands level with his shoulders. He flashed a brief, intoxicated smile. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Too late,” the bouncer said, and smashed his fist into Patch’s face. The skin above Patch’s eyebrow split, seeping blood, and I forced myself not to wince or reach for him.

  The bouncer jerked his head at the doors. “If you ever show your face here again, you and trouble gonna be fast friends. You understand?”

  Patch stumbled toward the door, giving a sloppy salute to the bouncer. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The bouncer planted his foot in the crook of Patch’s knee, sending him tripping down the cement stoop. “Would you look at that. My foot slipped.”

  A man just inside the door laughed, low and harsh, and the sound snatched my attention. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the laugh. When I was human, I wouldn’t have recognized it, but all my senses were heightened now. I squinted through the darkness, trying to match the rankling laugh to a face.

  There.

  Cowboy Hat. He wasn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses tonight, but I could place those hunched shoulders and that caustic smile anywhere.

  Patch! I shouted, unable to see whether he was still within hearing range as the crowd closed around me, filling in the empty spaces now that the fight was over. One of the Nephilim from the cabin. He’s here! He’s just inside around the doorway, wearing a red-and-black flannel shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.

  I waited, but there was no response.

  Patch! I tried again, using all the mental power I possessed. I couldn’t follow him outside—not if I wanted to keep my cover.

  Vee appeared at my side. “What’s going on here? Everyone’s talking about a fight. I can’t believe I missed it. Did you see any of it?”

  I pulled her aside. “I need you to do something for me. See the guy just inside the doors, in the hick flannel shirt? I need you to find out his name.”

  Vee frowned. “What’s this all about?”

  “I’ll explain later. Flirt, steal his wallet, whatever it takes. Just don’t mention my name, okay?”

  “If I do this, I want a favor in return. A double date. You and your whack-job boyfriend, and me and Scott.”

  With no time to explain that Patch and I were finished, I said, “Yes. Now hurry before we lose him in the crowd.”

  Vee cracked her knuckles and sashayed off. I didn’t hang around to see how she fared. I threaded my way through the crowd, ducking out the back door and jogg
ing to the top of the alley. I rounded the building, looking both ways for Patch.

  Patch! I cried out to the shadows.

  Angel? What are you doing? It’s not safe for us to be seen together.

  I spun around, but Patch wasn’t there. Where are you?

  Across the street. In the van.

  I looked across the street, and sure enough, there was a rusty brown Chevy van parked at the curb. It blended into the backdrop of dilapidated buildings. The windows were tinted, shielding the inner cab from prying eyes.

  One of the Nephilim from the cabin is inside the Devil’s Handbag!

  A thick beat of silence.

  Did he see the fight? Patch asked after a moment.

  Yes .

  What does he look like?

  He’s wearing a black-and-red flannel shirt and cowboy boots.

  Get him to leave the building. If the others from the cabin are with him, get them out too. I want to talk to them.

  Coming from Patch it sounded ominous, but then again, they had it coming. They’d lost my sympathies the moment they’d stuffed me inside their van.

  I jogged back inside the Devil’s Handbag and worked my way into the thick crowd packed around the stage. Serpentine was still going strong, rocking out a ballad that had everyone riled up. I didn’t know how to get Cowboy Hat to leave the premises, but I knew one person who could help me clear the whole place.

  Scott! I yelled. But it was useless. He couldn’t hear me over the thunderous music. It probably didn’t help that he was deep ct h from th in concentration.

  I rose up on my tiptoes and looked for Vee. She was heading this way.

  “I put the ol’ Vee charm on him, but he wasn’t having any of it,” she told me. “Maybe I need a new haircut.” She sniffed her underarms. “Far as I can tell, deodorant’s still working.”

  “He blew you off?”

  “Yup, and I didn’t get his name, either. Does this mean our double date is off?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, and fought my way to the alley once again. I had every intention of getting close enough to Patch to mind-speak to him that forcing our Nephil friend out of the Devil’s Handbag was going to be harder than I anticipated, when two shadowy figures standing on the back stoop of the next building down, and conversing in hushed tones, brought me to an abrupt stop.