I walked deeper into the living room. Sure enough, I detected a noxious, acrid smell wafting in the air. A rotten smell. A smell almost like hot tar, but not quite.
Something was burning.
I ran from room to room, trying to find the feathers. They weren’t here. I shoved open the door to Patch’s old bedroom and was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of burning organic material.
Without pausing to think, I ran to the far wall of the bedroom—the one that slid open to reveal a secret passageway. The moment I cracked the sliding door, a thunderhead of black smoke rolled into the room. The greasy, charred stench was unbearable.
Sealing my mouth and nose with the collar of my shirt, I called to Scott, “I’m going in.”
He strode through the doorway behind me, batting the smoke with his hand.
I’d been down the passageway once before, when Patch had momentarily detained Hank Millar before I’d killed him, and I tried to remember the way. Dropping to my knees to avoid the worst of the smoke, I crawled quickly, coughing and gagging every time I drew breath. At last my hands struck a door. Fumbling for the ring pull, I jerked on it. The door swung slowly open, sending a fresh wave of smoke billowing into the corridor.
The light from a blazing fire flashed through the smoke, flames leaping and dancing like an exquisite magic show: brazen gold and molten orange and great plumes of black smoke. An awful crackling and snapping sounded in my ears as the flames devoured the massive hill of fuel beneath it. Scott vised my shoulders protectively, forcing his body in front of mine like a shield. The heat from the fire broiled our faces.
It only took me a moment to howl in terror.
CHAPTER 38
I SHOT TO MY FEET FIRST. OBLIVIOUS TO THE HEAT, I charged the fire while sparks rained down like fireworks. I clawed at the towering hill of feathers, shrieking with panic. Only two of Patch’s feathers from his days as an archangel remained. One feather we held for safekeeping. The other had been taken and meticulously stored by the archangels when they’d banished Patch from heaven. That feather was somewhere in the pile before me.
Patch’s feather could be anywhere. Maybe already burned. There were so many. And an even greater number of ash flecks floated like singed pieces of paper around the fire.
“Scott! Help me find Patch’s feather!” Think. I had to think. Patch’s feather. I’d seen it before. “It’s black, all black,” I blurted. “Start looking—I’ll go get blankets to smother the fire!”
I raced back toward Patch’s studio, the smoke forming a screen across my eyes. Suddenly I came up short, detecting another body in the tunnel, just ahead. I blinked against the smoke grinding into my eyes.
“It’s too late,” Marcie said. Her face was puffy from crying, and the tip of her nose glowed red. “You can’t put out the fire.”
“What have you done?” I yelled at her.
“I’m my dad’s rightful heir. I should be leading the Nephilim.”
“Rightful heir? Are you listening to yourself? Do you want this job? I don’t—your dad forced it on me!”
Her lip wobbled. “He loved me more. He would have chosen me. You stole this from me.”
I said, “You don’t want this job, Marcie. Who put these ideas in your head?”
Tears tumbled down her cheeks, and her breathing became choppy. “It was my mom’s idea for me to move in with you—she and her Nephilim friends wanted me to keep an eye on you. I agreed to do it because I thought you knew something about my dad’s death that you weren’t telling me. If I got close to you, I thought maybe—” For the first time, I noticed the pearly dagger in her hands. It shined a lustrous white, as if the sun’s purest rays were trapped beneath the surface. It could only be Pepper’s enchanted dagger. The nitwit hadn’t been careful enough, and had allowed Marcie to follow him here. Then he’d dumped the feathers and the dagger and bolted, leaving them to fall into Marcie’s possession.
I reached for her. “Marcie—”
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “Dante told me you killed my dad. How could you do it? How could you! I was sure it was Patch, but all along it was you!” she screeched hysterically.
Despite the heat, a shiver of fear whipped up my spine.
“I—can explain.” But I didn’t think I could. Marcie’s wild, overwrought expression hinted that she was spiraling into shock. I doubted she’d care to know that her dad had forced my hand when he’d attempted to send Patch to hell. “Give me the dagger.”
“Get away from me!” She scrabbled out of reach. “Dante and I are going to tell everyone. What will the Nephilim do to you once they know you murdered the Black Hand?”
I studied her carefully. Dante must have only just learned I’d killed Hank. Otherwise, he would have told the Nephilim long ago. Patch hadn’t given up my secret, which left Pepper. Somehow, Dante had gotten to him.
“Dante was right,” Marcie spat, cold rage bubbling up in her voice. “You stole the title from me. It was supposed to be mine. And now I’ve done what you couldn’t—I freed the Nephilim. When that fire finishes, every fallen angel on Earth will be chained in hell.”
“Dante is working for fallen angels,” I said, frustration sharpening my tone.
“No,” Marcie said. “You are.”
She swiped Pepper’s blade at me, and I jumped back, tripping. Smoke pressed down on me, fully obscuring my vision.
“Does Dante know you burned the feathers?” I yelled up at Marcie, but she gave no answer. She was gone.
Had Dante switched his strategy? After an unexpected windfall of every fallen angel feather, and therefore surefire victory for Nephilim, had he decided to side with his race after all?
There wasn’t time to debate. I’d already wasted too much precious time. I had to help Scott find Patch’s feather. Running back to the fiery chamhe fieryber, I coughed and gagged my way into the entrance.
“They’re all turning black from the ash,” Scott hollered at me over his shoulder. “They all look the same.” His cheeks glowed scarlet with heat. Embers whirled around him, threatening to ignite his hair, which had turned black with soot. “We have to get out of here. If we stay longer, we’ll catch on fire.”
I ran to him in a crouch, trying to avoid the heat, which blasted relentlessly. “First we find Patch’s feather.” I flung burning heaps of feathers behind me, shoveling deeper. Scott was right. A greasy black soot smeared every feather. I made a high sound of despair. “If we don’t, he’ll be sent to hell!”
I scattered handfuls of feathers, praying I would know his on sight. Praying it hadn’t already burned. I wouldn’t let my thoughts turn to the worst. Ignoring the smoke that scratched at my eyes and lungs, I sifted the feathers with more urgency. I couldn’t lose Patch. I wouldn’t lose Patch. Not like this. Not on my watch.
My eyes watered, tears brimming over. I couldn’t see clearly. The air was too hot to breathe. The skin on my face seemed to melt, and my scalp felt like it was on fire. I plunged my hands into the hill of feathers, desperate to find a solid black feather.
“I’m not going to let you burn,” Scott ground out above the crackling whoosh of flames. He rolled back on his knees, dragging me with him. I scratched ruthlessly at his hands. Not without Patch’s feather.
The fire clamored in my ears, and my concentration was wilting without enough oxygen. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes, only to rub in more soot. I groped at the feathers, my arms feeling as though they were attached to hundred-pound weights. My vision seesawed. But I refused to pass out until I had Patch’s feather.
“Patch,” I murmured, just as an ember landed on my shirtsleeve, igniting the fabric. Before I could raise a hand to tamp it out, the flame shot to my elbow. Heat torched my skin, so bright and agonizing, I screamed and pitched sideways. It was then that I saw my jeans were also ablaze.
Scott bellowed orders behind me. Something about leaving the chamber. He wanted to close the door and trap the fire inside.
I couldn
’t let him. I had to save Patch’s feather.
I lost my sense of direction, stumbling forward blindly. Bright, licking flames eclipsed my vision.
Scott’s voice, so urgent, dissolved into nothing.
Even before I opened my eyes, I knew I was in a moving car. I felt the irregular bump of tires bouncing over potholes, and an engine growled in my ears. I sat slouched against the car door, my head propped on the window. There were two unfamiliar hands in my lap, and it startled me when they moved at my command. I turned them over slowly in the air, staring at the strange black paper curling off them.
Blackened flesh.
A hand squeezed my arm in consolation.
“It’s okay,” Scott said from the driver’s seat of his Barracuda. “It will heal.”
I shook my head, imp my headlying he’d misunderstood. I licked my parched lips. “We have to go back. Turn the car around. We have to save Patch.”
Scott said nothing, just cast me a sidelong look of uncertainty.
No.
It was a lie. A deep, unimaginable fear swallowed me up. My throat felt thick and slippery and hot. It was a lie.
“I know you cared about him,” Scott said quietly.
I love him! I’ll always love him! I promised him we’d be together! I screamed inside my head, because the words were too jagged to push out. They scraped like nails in my throat.
I turned my attention out the window. I stared at the night, at the blur of trees and fields and fences, here one moment, gone the next. The words in my throat coiled into a scream, all sharp edges and icy pain. The scream hung there, swelling and hurting while my world unraveled and drifted out of orbit.
A pile of twisted metal blocked the road ahead.
Scott swerved to miss it, slowing as we passed. I didn’t wait for the car to stop; I threw myself out, running. Patch’s motorcycle. Beaten and battered. I gaped at it, blinking over and over, trying to see a different picture. The demolished metal, twisted over on itself, appeared as though the driver had raced at top speed—then jumped through a hole in the wind.
I ground my palms into my eyes, waiting for the awful picture to clear. I searched the road, thinking he must have crashed. In the impact, his body must have been thrown a distance. I ran farther, a little farther, searching the ditch, the weeds, the shadows off in the trees. He could be just ahead. I called his name. I paced up and down the roadside, my hands shaking as I plowed them through my hair.
I didn’t hear Scott come up behind me. I hardly felt his arms around my shoulders. Grief and anguish rattled me, a living presence, so real and frightening. It filled me with such cold, it hurt to draw breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
“Don’t tell me he’s gone,” I snapped. “He crashed his motorcycle and kept on walking. He said he’d meet me at the studio. He wouldn’t break his promise.” I said the words because I had to hear them.
“You’re shivering. Let me take you back to my house, your house, his place—wherever you want.”
“No,” I barked. “We’re going back to the studio. He’s there. You’ll see.” I shoved out of his embrace, but I felt unsteady. My legs shuffled one numb step after another. A wild, unforgivable thought gripped me. What if Patch was gone?
My feet drifted back to the motorcycle.
“Patch!” I cried out, dropping to my knees. I stretched my body over his motorcycle, strange, powerful sobs erupting from deep in my chest. I was slipping, sliding into the lie.
Patch.
I thought his name, waiting, waiting. I sobbed his name, hearing myself make uncontrollable noises of anguish and despair.
Tears rolled down my face. My hmy face.eart hung by a thread. The hope I’d clung to untethered, drifting out of reach. I felt my soul shatter, irreparable pieces of me flying outward.
What little light was left inside me flickered out.
CHAPTER 39
I GAVE MYSELF UP TO SLEEP. DREAMS WERE THE only place I could reach Patch. Holding on to a phantom memory of him was better than living without him. Curled up in his bed, surrounded by a smell that was distinctly his, I summoned his memory to haunt me.
I never should have trusted Pepper to get the feathers. I should have known he’d screw up. I should not have underestimated Dante. I knew Patch would dismiss my guilt at once, but I felt responsible for what had happened to him. If only I’d arrived at his studio ten minutes earlier. If only I’d stopped Marcie from lighting the match . . .
“Wake up, Nora.”
Vee leaned over me, her voice hurried and charged. “You have to get ready for the duel. Scott told me everything. One of Lisa Martin’s messengers came by while you were asleep. The duel is at sunrise in the cemetery. You have to go kick Dante’s butt to Jupiter. He took Patch away from you, and now he’s out for your blood. I’ll tell you what I think about that. Hell, no. Not if we have anything to say about it.”
Duel? The idea seemed almost laughable. Dante didn’t need to clash swords with me to steal my title; he had more than enough ammunition to blow apart my credibility and reputation. Every last fallen angel had been chained in hell. The Nephilim had won the war. Dante and Marcie would take credit, explaining how they’d bullied an archangel into giving them the feathers, and how they relished every moment of watching them burn.
The thought of Patch imprisoned in hell slashed a fresh wave of pain through me. I didn’t know how I would hold my emotions in check as the Nephilim cheered wildly over their triumph. They would never know that up until the last moment, Dante had been helping fallen angels. Nephilim would sweep him into power. I didn’t yet know what it meant for me. If the army was abolished, would it matter that I lost control of leading it? In retrospect, my oath had been too vague. I hadn’t planned for this.
But I had to assume Dante had plans for me. Like me, he knew the moment I failed to lead the army, my life was over. But in the name of covering his bases, he’d likely arrest me for the Black Hand’s murder. Before the day was out, I’d either be executed for treason, or at best, imprisoned.
I was betting executed.
“It’s almost sunrise. Get up,” Vee said. “You aren’t letting Dante get away with this.”
I hugged Patch’s pillow to me, breathing in the lingering smell of him before it was gone forever. I memorized the contours of his bed and nestled into the imprint of his body. I shut my eyes and imagined he was there. Beside me. Touching me. I imagined his black eyes softening as he caressed my cheek, his hands warm and sturdy and real.
“Nora,” Vee warned怅o.
I ignored her, choosing to stay with Patch. The mattress dipped as he scooted closer. He smiled and slid his hands beneath me, rolling me on top of him. You’re cold, Angel. Let me warm you.
I thought I’d lost you, Patch.
I’m right here. I promised we’d be together, didn’t I?
But your feather—
Shh, he soothed. His finger sealed my lips. I want to be with you, Angel. Stay here with me. Forget about Dante and the duel. I won’t let him hurt you. I’ll keep you safe.
Tears burned at the backs of my eyes. Take me away. Like you promised. Take me far away, just the two of us.
“Patch would hate to see you like this,” Vee chided, clearly trying to appeal to my conscience.
I pulled the covers up to form a secret canopy above Patch and me, and giggled in his ear. She doesn’t know you’re here.
Our secret trick, he agreed.
I won’t leave you, Patch.
I won’t let you. In one swift movement, he reversed our positions, pinning me to the mattress. He bent over me. Try and escape now.
I frowned at the glimpse of icy blue that seemed to lurk under the surface of his eyes. I blinked to clear my vision, but when my eyes came into focus, I was very aware of the sizzling blue that ringed his irises.
Swallowing, I said, I need to get a drink of water.
I’ll get it for you, Patch insisted. Don’t move. Stay in the bed
.
I’ll only be a second, I argued, trying to wiggle out from beneath him.
Patch seized my wrists. You said you wouldn’t leave.
I’m only getting a drink, I demurred.
I won’t let you leave, Nora. The words resonated like a growl. His features contorted, twisting and morphing, until I saw flashes of another man. Dante’s olive skin, cleft chin, and those hooded eyes that at one time I’d actually believed were handsome appeared before me. I rolled away, but not fast enough. Dante’s fingers dug painfully into my shoulders, shoving me back under him. His breath felt hot on my cheek.
It’s over. Give up. I’ve won.
“Get away from me,” I hissed.
His touch dissolved, his face hovering briefly over mine like a blue haze before it disappeared.
Ice-cold water struck my face, and I bolted upright with a gasp. The dream shattered; Vee stood an arm’s reach away, holding an empty pitcher.
“Time to go,” she said, clutching the pitcher as if preparing to use it as a weapon of defense if she had to.
“I don’t want to,” I croaked, too miserable to get angry over the water. My throat tightened, t tighteand I feared I was going to cry. I only wanted one thing, and he was gone. Patch wasn’t coming back. Nothing I did could change that. The things I’d thought were worth fighting for, the things that burned and raged inside me, even beating Dante and destroying devilcraft, had lost their fire without him.
“And Patch?” Vee demanded. “You’ve given up on yourself, but have you given up on him, too?”
“Patch is gone.” I pressed my fingers into my eyes until I’d ground out the urge to cry.
“Gone, not dead.”
“I can’t do this without Patch,” I said, my breath catching.
“Then find a way to get him back.”
“He’s in hell,” I snapped.
“Better that than in the grave.”
Finale hh-4 Page 29
