Finale hh-4

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “What else did Patch say?”

  “Not much. He wants to find the blackmailer too. I know he’s been following leads and tracking at least one suspect. But I’m pretty sure he’s looking down the wrong holes. The other night I saw his ex talking to Pepper behind the Devil’s Handbag. I couldn’t hear what they said, but she looked confident. And Pepper looked furious. Her name is Dabria.”

  I was surprised to see a shadow of recognition cloud Dante’s expression. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Dabria?”

  I groaned. “Don’t tell me you know her too. I swear, she’s everywhere. If you tell me you think she’s beautiful, I’ll kick you off the ledge of the ravine behind you and send this boulder rolling down after you.”

  “It’s not that.” Dante shook his head, pity creeping into his countenance. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I know Dabria. Not personally, but—” The sympathy on his face deepened. He looked at me like he was about to break awful news.

  I’d taken a seat on a tree stump to tell my story, but now I jumped to my feet. “Just tell me, Dante.”

  “I have spies working for me. People I employ to keep an eye on influential fallen angels,” Dante confessed, sounding almost guilty. “It’s no secret Patch is highly respected in the fallen angel community. He’s smart, clever, and resourceful. He’s a good leader. Years as a mercenary gave him more experience in battle than most of my men combined.”

  “You’ve been spying on Patch,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I trust you, but I’m not discounting the possibility that he has influence over you.”

  “Influence? Patch has never made my decisions for me—I’m capable of doing that on my own. I’m in charge of this operation. If I wanted spies sent out, I would have done it myself,” I said, my irritation evident.

  “Point taken.”

  I paced to the nearest tree, facing away from Dante. “Are you going to tell me why you’re divulging all this in the first place?”

  He expelled a reluctant sigh. “While spying on Patch, Dabria has popped onto our radar more than once.”

  I shut my eyes, wishing I could tell him to stop there. I didn’t want to hear more. Dabria followed Patch everywhere—I knew that. But the tone of Dante’s voice suggested he had much more devastating news to deliver than simply telling me that Patch had a stalker who also happened to be his gorgeous ex.

  “A couple nights ago, they were together. I have evidence. Multiple photos.”

  I clenched my jaw and swung around. “I want to see them.”

  “Nora—”

  “I can handle it,” I snapped. “I want to see this so-called evidence your men—my men—collected.” Patch with Dabria. I spun through my memory, trying to pinpoint which night it could have been. I felt frantic and jealous and unsteady. Patch hadn’t done this. There was some explanation. I owed him the benefit of the doubt. We’d been through too much for me to pounce on the first conclusion that flew my way.

  I had to stay calm. I’d be foolish to pass judgment this early. Dante had pictures? Fine. I’d analyze them myself.

  Dante pressed his lips together, then nodded. “I’ll have them delivered to your house later today.”

  CHAPTER 24

  I WENT THROUGH THE MOTIONS OF GETTING READY for the day, but they felt mechanical. I couldn’t flush out the image of Patch and Dabria together. At the time, I hadn’t thought to ask Dante for specifics, and now my unanswered questions seemed to burn holes in my brain. They were together. I have photos.

  What did that mean? Together how? Was I naive for even asking? No. I trusted Patch. I was tempted to call him now, but of course I didn’t. I’d wait until I saw the pictures. Whether or not they were condemning . . . I’d know right away.

  Marcie strolled into the kitchen and perched herself on the table’s edge. “I’m looking for a shopping buddy today after school.”

  I pushed my now soggy bowl of cereal away. I’d been lost in thought for so long, any chanver. ;d be foolce at salvaging it had expired.

  “I always shop on Friday afternoon,” Marcie said. “It’s, like, a ritual.”

  “You mean a tradition,” I corrected.

  “I need a new fall coat. Something warm and wool, but still chic,” she said, frowning slightly in contemplation.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I have some hardcore trig homework to catch up on.”

  “Oh, come on. You haven’t done homework all week, why start now? And I really need a second opinion. This is an important purchase. And just when you were starting to act normal,” she muttered.

  I pushed up from my chair and carried my bowl to the sink. “Flattery gets me every time.”

  “Come on, Nora, I don’t want to fight,” she complained. “I just want you to come shopping with me.”

  “And I want to pass trig. Plus, I’m grounded.”

  “No worries, I already talked to your mom. She’s had time to cool off, and to come around. You’re not grounded anymore. I’ll hang around an extra thirty minutes after school. That should give you plenty of time to finish trig.”

  I narrowed my eyes speculatively at her. “Are you mind-tricking my mom?”

  “You know what I think? You’re jealous that she and I have bonded.”

  Ugh.

  “It’s not just math, Marcie. I also need to think. About what happened last night, and how to prevent it from happening again. I’m not going to swear fealty,” I said with resolve. “And I don’t want any more Nephilim to either.”

  Marcie made a sound of exasperation. “You’re just like my dad. For once stop being such a—”

  “Nephil?” I supplied. “Hybrid, freak, accident of nature? Target?”

  Marcie clenched her hands so tightly they flushed pink with blood. At last she tilted her chin up. Challenge and pride flashed in her eyes. “Yeah. A mutant, a monster, a phenomenon. Just like me.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “So that’s it? You’re finally going to accept what you are?”

  An almost bashful smile broke across her face. “Hell’s bells, yeah.”

  “I like this version of you better,” I said.

  “I like this version of you better.” Marcie stood, grabbing her handbag off the counter. “Do we have a shopping date or what?”

  Not two hours after the final bell dismissed us, Marcie had blown nearly four hundred dollars on a wool coat, jeans, and a few accessories. I didn’t spend four hundred on my entire wardrobe for the year. It occurred to me that if I’d grown up in Hank’s household, I wouldn’t think twice about sliding my credit card all afternoon either. In fact, I’d have a credit card.

  Marcie drove, since she ve,wice abclaimed she didn’t want to be seen in my car, and while I didn’t blame her, it did drive the message home. She had money and I didn’t. Hank had left me his doomed army, and he’d left Marcie his inheritance. Unfair didn’t begin to cover it.

  “Can we make a quick stop?” I asked Marcie. “It’s a little out of the way, but I need to pick up something from my friend Dante.” I felt queasy at the thought of seeing the pictures of Patch and Dabria, but I wanted to get the unknown over with. I didn’t have the patience to wait for Dante to deliver them. Since I had no way of knowing if he already had, I decided to be proactive.

  “Dante? Do I know him?”

  “No. He doesn’t go to school. Take your next right—he lives close to Casco Bay,” I told her.

  The irony of this moment didn’t slip past me. Over the summer, I’d accused Patch of getting involved with Marcie. Now, just a few months later, I was riding shotgun in her car, on my way to investigate the same story—just with a different girl.

  I pressed the heel of my hand between my eyes. Maybe I should let it go. Maybe this said a lot about my insecurities, and I should just trust Patch unconditionally. The thing was, I did trust him.

  And then there was Dabria.

  Besides, if P
atch was innocent, and I hoped with everything I had that he was, there was no harm in looking at the pictures.

  Marcie followed my instructions to Dante’s house and made an immediate sound of appreciation as she gazed at the architecture. “This Dante friend of yours has style,” she said, eyes sweeping over the quintessential Queen Anne house set back from a large apron of lawn.

  “His friends left it to him in their will,” I said. “Don’t bother getting out—I’ll just run up to the door and get what I need.”

  “No way. I have got to see the interior,” Marcie said, hopping out before I could stop her. “Does Dante have a girlfriend?” She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, blatantly admiring Dante’s wealth.

  Yeah, me, I thought. And I was clearly doing a stellar job keeping up the charade. Even my half sister who slept down the hall knew nothing of my “boyfriend.”

  We climbed the porch and rang the bell. I waited, then rang it again. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered through the dining room window into shadowy darkness. Just my luck I’d stop by when he wasn’t home.

  “Yoo-hoo! Are you girls looking for the young man who used to live here?”

  Marcie and I turned to find an elderly woman standing on the sidewalk. She had pink slippers on her feet, pink rollers in her hair, and a little black dog at the end of a leash.

  “We’re looking for Dante,” I said. “Are you a neighbor?”

  “I moved in with my daughter and her husband at the beginning of summer. Just down the street,” she said, gesturing behind her. “My husband, John, is gone now, bless his soul, and it was either a nursing home or my son-in-law’s residence. He never puts the toilet seat down,” she informed us.

  What is she yapping about? Marcie asked my thoughts. And, hello. That dog needs a bath. I can smell it from here.

  I affected a neighborly smile and walked down the porch steps. “I’m Nora Grey. I’m friends with the guy who lives here, Dante Matterazzi.”

  “Matterazzi? I knew it! I knew he was Italian. Name like that screams Italian. They’re invading our shores,” the woman said. “Next thing you know, I’ll be sharing a garden wall with Mussolini himself.” As if to weigh in, the dog gave a snarling bark of agreement.

  Marcie and I shared a look, and Marcie rolled her eyes. I said to the woman, “Have you seen Dante today?”

  “Today? Why would I have seen him today? I just told you he moved out. Two days ago. Did it in the middle of the night, just like an Italian would. Sneaky and wily as a Sicilian mobster. Up to no good, I’ll tell you what.”

  “You must be mistaken. Dante still lives here,” I said, trying to hold a pleasant tone.

  “Ha! That boy is a goner. Always kept to himself and was about as unneighborly as they come. Was from the day he moved in. Wouldn’t so much as say hello. Sneaky boy like that in this nice, respectable neighborhood. It just wasn’t right. He only lasted a month, and I can’t say I’m sad to see him go. Ought to be laws against renters in this neighborhood, dragging down home values like they do.”

  “Dante wasn’t renting. He owns this house. His friends left it to him in their will.”

  “Is that what he told you?” She wagged her head, staring at me with sharp blue eyes like I was the biggest sucker the world had ever seen. “My son-in-law owns this house. Been in his family for years. Rented it out during the summertime, back before the economy crashed. Back when you could make a buck off tourism. Now we have to rent to Italian mobsters.”

  “You must be mistaken—” I began a second time.

  “Check the county land records! They don’t lie. Can’t say the same for shady Italians.”

  The dog was running circles around the woman’s legs, tying her up in the leash. Every once in a while he stopped to give Marcie and me a guttural growl of warning. Then he went right back to sniffing and chasing circles. The woman untangled herself and shuffled down the sidewalk.

  I stared at her from behind. Dante owned this house. He wasn’t renting.

  A terrifying sensation vised my chest. If Dante was gone, how would I get more devilcraft? I was almost out. I had a day’s supply left, two if I cut back.

  “Well, someone’s lying,” Marcie said. “I think it’s her. I never trust old women. Especially the cranky ones.”

  I hardly heard her. I tried Dante’s cell, praying he’d pick up, but I got nothing. Not even his voice mail.

  I helped Marcie carry her shopping bags inside, and my mom came downstairs to meet us. “One of your friends dropped this off,” she said, extending a manila envelopeaniped M. “He said his name was Dante? Should I know him?” she prodded.

  I tried not to look too eager as I snatched the envelope. “He’s a friend of Scott’s,” I explained.

  My mom and Marcie kept their eyes on the envelope, watching me expectantly.

  “It’s probably just something he wants me to pass on to Scott,” I lied, not wanting to draw extra attention to the situation.

  “He looked older than your friends. I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of you hanging out with older guys,” Mom said doubtfully.

  “Like I said, he’s Scott’s friend,” I responded evasively.

  In my bedroom I drew a deep breath and broke the envelope’s seal. I shook out several blown-up photographs. All black and white.

  The first several were taken at night. Patch strolling down a deserted street. Patch doing what appeared to be surveillance from his motorcycle. Patch talking on a pay phone. Nothing new there, since I already knew he was working around the clock to find Pepper’s blackmailer.

  The next photo was of Patch and Dabria.

  They were in Patch’s new black Ford F-150 pickup truck. Little needles of rain sliced through the streetlight above them. Dabria had her arms around Patch’s neck, a coy smile dancing on her lips. They were locked in an embrace, and Patch didn’t appear to be offering resistance.

  I flipped through the last three pictures rapidly. My stomach heaved, and I knew I was going to be sick. Kissing.

  Dabria kissing Patch. Right there in the photos.

  CHAPTER 25

  I WAS SITTING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR, MY BACK against the shower door. My knees were drawn up, and even though the space heater was running, I felt cold and clammy. An empty bottle of devilcraft lay beside me. It was the last of my supply. I hardly remembered drinking it. A whole bottle gone, and it had done nothing for me. Even it couldn’t make me immune to heart-sickening despair.

  I trusted Patch. I loved him too much to believe he’d hurt me this way. There had to be a reason, an explanation.

  An explanation. The word echoed in my head, empty and taunting.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “We have to share this thing, remember? And I have a bladder the size of a squirrel’s,” Marcie said.

  I was slow to climb to my feet. Of all the absurd things to worry about, I wondered if Dabria was a better kisser. If Patch wished I was more like her. Crafty, icy, sophisticated. I wondered the precise moment he’d gone back to her. I wondered whether he hadn’t broken things off with me yet because he knew how devastated I’d be.

  Yet.

  A heavy feeling of uncertainty pressed doanipesquo;d gown on me.

  I opened the door and brushed past Marcie. I’d made it five steps down the hall when I felt her eyes on my back.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Hey, wait up. Nora? Are you crying?”

  I swiped my fingers under my eyes, surprised to find I had been crying. The whole moment felt frozen and distant. As if it were happening far away, in a dream.

  Without turning I said, “I’m going out. Can you cover for me? I might not make curfew.”

  I stopped once on my way to Patch’s place. I veered the Volkswagen sharply to the roadside, swung out, and paced the shoulder. It was full dark, and cold enough that I wished I’d brought my coat. I didn’t know what I’d say when I
saw him. I didn’t want to launch into a raving outburst. I didn’t want to reduce myself to bawling, either.

  I’d brought the pictures with me, and in the end, I decided they could do the talking. I’d hand them to him and limit my question to a succinct, “Why?”

  The icy detachment that had settled over me like frost melted the moment I saw Dabria’s Bugatti parked outside Patch’s townhouse. I braked a half block away, swallowing hard. A knot of anger swelled in my throat, and I shoved out of the car.

  I jammed my key into the house lock and marched in. The only light came from a lamp on an end table in the living room. Dabria was pacing the balcony window but stopped when she saw me.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, visibly startled.

  I shook my head angrily. “Nope. That’s my line. This is my boyfriend’s house, which makes that my line, exclusively. Where is he?” I demanded, already striding to the hallway leading back to the master bedroom.

  “Don’t bother. He’s not here.”

  I whirled around. I gave Dabria a look that was incredulity, disgust, and menace all wrapped into one. “Then what. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I enunciated each word. I could feel rage bubbling up inside me, and I didn’t try to temper it. Dabria had this coming.

  “I’m in trouble, Nora.” Her lip quivered.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” I flung the envelope of pictures at her. It landed near her feet. “How does it feel knowing you’re a boyfriend stealer? Is that what makes you feel good, Dabria? Taking what doesn’t belong to you? Or is it just the act of ripping apart a good thing that you enjoy?”

  Dabria bent to retrieve the envelope, but she held my eyes the whole way. Her eyebrows furrowed with guarded uncertainty. I couldn’t believe she had the audacity to act like she didn’t know.

  “Patch’s truck,” I raged. “You and him, some night earlier this week, together in his truck. You kissed him!”

  She broke eye contact just long enough to peer inside the envelope. She set it on a sofa cushion. “You don’t u d;