Silence

CHAPTER 26

AFTER DR. HOWLETT GAVE ME CLEARANCE TO leave, I rode the elevator down to the main lobby. On the way, I dialed Vee. I didn’t have a ride home, and I hoped it was still early enough that her mom would let her rescue a stranded friend.

The elevator eased to a stop, and the doors glided open. My phone clattered at my feet.

“Hello, Nora,” Hank said, standing directly in front of me.

Three counts passed before I summoned my voice. “Going up?” I asked, hoping I sounded calm.

“Actually, I was looking for you.”

“I’m in a hurry,” I said apologetically, scooping up my phone.

“I thought you might need a ride home. I had one of my boys bring over a rental from the dealership.”

“Thanks, but I’ve already called a friend.”

His smile was plastic. “At least let me see you to the doors.”

“I need to stop by the restrooms first,” I hedged. “Please don’t wait. Really, I’m fine. I’m sure Marcie is anxious to see you.”

“Your mother would want me to see you home safely.”

His eyes were bloodshot, his whole expression weary, but I didn’t for one moment think it was from his role as the grieving boyfriend. Dr. Howlett could insist all he wanted that Hank had arrived at the hospital unscathed, but I knew the truth. He’d come out of the crash worse than I had. Worse, even, than the crash warranted.

His face had resembled pulverized meat, and while his Nephilim blood had cured him almost instantly, I’d known from the moment he’d shaken me out of unconsciousness, and I’d taken that first blurry look at him, that something had happened to him after I blacked out. He could deny it up and down, but his condition had resembled being mauled by tigers.

He was haggard and exhausted because he’d battled a group of fallen angels today. At least, that was my current working theory. As I traced my way back through the events, it was the only explanation that made sense. Damn fallen angels! Weren’t those the words Hank had sworn viciously a fraction of a moment before the crash? He clearly hadn’t planned on running into them … so what had he planned to happen?

I had a terrible feeling churning inside me. One, I realized in retrospect, I’d been dangling at the back of my mind ever since Hank had shown up at school. What if Hank had in fact set the day’s events up? Could he have pushed my mom down the stairs? Dr. Howlett said she’d initially suffered from amnesia, a device Hank could have used to keep her from remembering the truth. Then he’d picked me up from school … for what? What was I missing?

“I smell rubber burning,” Hank said. “You’re thinking hard about something.”

His voice jerked me to the present. I stared up at him, wishing I could glean his motives from his expression. It was then that I realized his eyes were just as fixed on me. His gaze was so intent, it was almost trancelike.

Whatever conclusion I’d been about to draw swam away. My thoughts tipped sideways. Suddenly they were all out of order, and I couldn’t remember what I’d been pondering. The harder I tried to remember, the more my thoughts careened into an abyss at the back of my mind.

A cocoon stretched around my mind, wrapping any cognitive ability tightly out of reach. It was happening all over again. The muddled, heavy sensation of being unable to control my own thoughts.

“Has your friend agreed to pick you up, Nora?” he asked with that same laserlike attention.

Somewhere deep inside, I knew I shouldn’t tell Hank the truth. I knew I should say Vee was coming for me. But what reason did I have to lie to him?

“I called Vee, but she didn’t answer,” I admitted.

“I’m happy to give you a ride, Nora.”

I nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

My mind was jumbled, and I couldn’t snap out of it. I strolled down the corridor beside Hank, my hands cold and shaking. Why was I trembling? It was nice of Hank to offer me a ride. He cared about my mom enough to go out of his way for me … didn’t he?

The ride home was uneventful, and at the farmhouse, Hank followed me inside.

I stopped just inside the door. “What are you doing?”

“Your mom would want me to look after you tonight.”

“You’re staying the whole night?” My hands started to shake again, and through my cotton-filled head, I knew I had to find a way to make him leave. It wasn’t a good idea to let him sleep over. But how could I force him out? He was stronger. And even if I could get him out, my mom had recently given him a house key. He’d come right back inside.

“You’re letting cold air in,” Hank said, gently prying my hands from the door. “Let me help.”

That’s right, I thought with a smile at my own muddleheaded silliness. He wanted to help.

Hank tossed his keys on the counter and sank into the couch, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He angled his eyes at the cushion next to him. “Want to unwind with a show?”

“I’m tired,” I said, hugging myself now that the awful quivering had spread above my elbows.

“You’ve had a long day. Sleep might be just what the doctor ordered.”

I fought through the oppressive cloud suffocating my brain, but it seemed there was no end to the thick darkness. “Hank?” I asked quizzically. “Why do you really want to stay here tonight?”

He chuckled. “You look positively frightened, Nora. Be a good girl and go up to bed. It’s not like I’m going to strangle you in your sleep.”

In my bedroom, I scooted the dresser in front of the door, effectively blocking it. I had no idea why I did it; I had no reason to fear Hank. He was keeping a promise to my mom. He wanted to protect me. If he knocked, I would push the dresser aside and open the door.

And yet …

I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. Exhaustion raked down my body, and by now I was shivering violently. I wondered if I was catching a cold. When my mind began to feel heavy, I didn’t fight it. Colors and shapes seesawed in and out of focus. My thoughts slid deeper into my subconscious. Hank was right; it had been a long day. I needed sleep.

It wasn’t until I found myself standing at the threshold of Patch’s studio that I began to sense that something wasn’t quite right. The haze scattered from my brain, and I realized Hank had mind-tricked me into submission. Flinging open Patch’s front door and dashing inside, I shouted his name.

I found him in the kitchen, slouched on a bar stool. One look at me, and he swung off and crossed to me. “Nora? How did you get here? You’re inside my head,” he said with surprise. “Are you dreaming?” His eyes flicked back and forth across my face, hunting for an answer.

“I don’t know. I think so. I crawled into bed feeling a desperate need to talk to you … and here I am. Are you asleep?”

He shook his head. “I’m awake, but you’re eclipsing my thoughts. I don’t know how you did it. Only a powerful Nephil or fallen angel could pull off something like this.”

“Something terrible happened.” I threw myself into his arms, trying to dissipate my convulsive shivers. “First my mom fell down the stairs, and on our way to the hospital to see her, Hank and I were hit. Before I blacked out, I think Hank said the other car was full of fallen angels. Hank drove me home from the hospital — and I asked him to leave, but he won’t!”

Patch’s eyes flashed with anxiety. “Slow down. Hank is alone with you right now?”

I nodded.

“Wake up. I’m coming to see you.”

Fifteen minutes later there was a soft rap on my bedroom door. Dragging aside the dresser to clear the entrance, I cracked the door to find Patch on the other side of it. I grabbed his hand and hauled him inside.

“Hank is downstairs watching TV,” I whispered. Hank had been right; sleep had done me a world of good. Upon breaking out of the dream, enough of my normal thought process had returned to make me see what I’d been unable to before: Hank had mind-tricked me into submission. I’d let him drive me home without a single complaint, let him walk inside my house, let him make himself at home, and all because I’d thought he wanted to protect me. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Patch gave the door a gentle kick closed. “I came in through the attic.” He looked me over, head to toe. “Are you okay?” His finger traced a bandage covering a thin laceration cutting across my hair-line, and his eyes blazed with anger.

“Hank has been mind-tricking me all night.”

“Play everything back, starting with your mom’s fall.”

I swallowed a deep breath, then recounted my story.

“What did the fallen angels’ car look like?” Patch asked.

“El Camino. Tan.”

Patch rubbed his chin in thought. “Do you think it was Gabe? It’s not what he usually drives, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“There were three of them in the car. I couldn’t see their faces. It might have been Gabe, Dominic, and Jeremiah.”

“Or it might have been any number of fallen angels targeting Hank. With Rixon gone, there’s a price on his head. He’s the Black Hand, the most powerful Nephil alive, and any number of fallen angels want him as their vassal for bragging rights alone. How long were you out before Hank drove you to the hospital?”

“If I had to guess, only a few minutes. When I came around, Hank was covered in blood, and he looked exhausted. He could barely lift me into the car. I don’t think his cuts and bruises came from the crash. Being coerced to swear fealty sounds plausible.”

A truly savage look sharpened Patch’s features. “This ends here. I want you out of this. I know you’re set on being the one to bring down Hank, but I can’t risk losing you.” He stood and paced the room, clearly upset. “Let me do this for you. Let me be the one to make him pay.”

“This isn’t your fight, Patch,” I said quietly.

His eyes burned with an intensity I’d never seen before. “You’re mine, Angel, and don’t you forget it. Your fights are my fights. What if something had happened today? It was bad enough when I thought your ghost was haunting me; I don’t think I could handle the real thing.”

I came up behind him, threading my arms under his. “Something bad could have happened, but it didn’t,” I said gently. “Even if it was Gabe, he obviously didn’t get what he wanted.”

“Forget Gabe! Hank has something planned for you and maybe your mom, too. Let’s concentrate on that. I want you to go into hiding. If you don’t want to stay at my place, fine. We’ll find somewhere else. You’ll stay there until Hank is dead, buried, and rotting.”

“I can’t leave. Hank will immediately suspect something if I disappear. Plus, I can’t put my mom through that again. If I disappear now, it will break her. Look at her. She’s not the same person she was three months ago. Maybe in part that’s due to Hank’s mind-tricks, but I have to face the fact that my disappearance weakened her in ways she’ll probably never recover from. From the moment she wakes up in the morning, she’s terrified. To her, there’s no such thing as safe. Not anymore.”

“Again, Hank’s doing,” Patch dismissed curtly.

“I can’t control what Hank did, but I can control what I do now. I’m not leaving. And you’re right — I’m not going to step aside and let you take on Hank alone. Promise me now that whatever happens, you won’t cheat me. Promise you won’t go behind my back and quietly do away with him, even if you honestly believe you’re doing it for my own good.”

“Oh, he won’t go quietly,” Patch said with a murderous edge.

“Promise me, Patch.”

He regarded me in silence a long time. We both knew he was faster, more skilled in fighting, and, when it came right down to it, more ruthless. He’d stepped in and saved me many times in the past, but this was one time—one time—when it was my fight to pick, and mine alone.

At last, and with great reluctance, he said, “I won’t stand by and watch you go up against him alone, but I won’t kill him privately, either. Before I lay a hand on him, I’ll make sure it’s what you want.”

His back was to me, but I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, nuzzling him softly. “Thank you.”

“If you’re ever attacked again, go for the fallen angel’s wing scars.”

I didn’t follow him right away. Then he continued, “Club him with a baseball bat or ram a stick in his scars if that’s all you have. Our wing scars are our Achilles’ heel. We can’t feel the pain, but the trauma to the scars will paralyze us. Depending on the damage done, you could cripple us for hours. After stabbing the tire iron through Gabe’s scars, I’d be surprised if he came out of the shock in less than eight.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said softly. Then, “Patch?”

“Mmm.” His response was terse.

“I don’t want to fight.” I traced my finger along his shoulder blades, his muscles stiff with aggravation. His whole body was clenched, frustrated beyond measure. “Hank has already taken my mom from me, and I don’t want him to take you, too. Can you understand why I have to do it? Why I can’t send you off to fight my battles, even though we both know you win in this department, hands down?”

He exhaled, long and slow, and I felt the knots in his body loosen. “There’s only one thing I know for certain anymore.” He turned, his eyes a clear black. “That I would do anything for you, even if it means going against my instincts or my very nature. I would lay down everything I possess, even my soul, for you. If that isn’t love, it’s the best I have.”

I didn’t know what to say in return; nothing seemed adequate. So I took his face between my hands and kissed his set, determined mouth.

Slowly, Patch’s mouth molded to mine. I relished the delicious pressure shooting across my skin as his mouth rose and dipped against my own. I didn’t want him to be angry. I wanted him to trust me the way I trusted him. “Angel,” he said, my name muted from where our lips met. He drew back, his eyes judging what I wanted from him.

Unable to bear having him so close without feeling his touch, I slid my hand to the back of his neck, guiding him to kiss me again. His kiss was harder, escalating as his hands ran over my body, sending hot chills shuddering like electricity under my skin.

His finger flicked open a button on my cardigan — then two, three, four. It tumbled off my shoulders, leaving me in my camisole. He pushed up the hem, teasing and stroking his thumb across my stomach. My breath came in a sharp intake of air.

A pirate smile glowed in his eyes as he concentrated his attention higher, nuzzling the curve of my throat, planting kisses, his stubble raking with a gratifying ache.

He lowered me backward against the soft down of my pillows.

He tasted deeper, holding himself over me, and suddenly he was everywhere; his knee trapping my leg, his lips grazing warm, rough, sensuous. He splayed his hand at the small of my back, holding me tightly, driving me to sink my fingers deeper into him, clinging to him as if letting go would mean losing part of myself.

“Nora?”

I looked to the doorway — and screamed.

Hank filled the entrance, leaning his forearm on the doorjamb. His eyes swept the room, his face contracted in quizzical contemplation.

“What are you doing!” I yelled at him.

He didn’t answer, his eyes still roving every corner of my bedroom.

I didn’t know where Patch was; it was as though he’d sensed Hank a split moment before the doorknob turned. He could be feet away, hiding. Seconds away from being discovered.

“Get out!” I sprang off the bed. “I can’t do anything about the house key my mom gave you, but this is where I draw the line. Do not ever come into my bedroom again.”

His eyes made a slow scan of my closet doors, which were cracked. “I thought I heard something.”

“Yeah, well, guess what? I’m a living, breathing person, and every now and then I make noise!”

With that, I flung the door shut and sagged against it. My pulse was all over the board. I heard Hank stand resolute a moment, probably trying to pinpoint, once more, whatever it was that had brought him up to search my bedroom in the first place.

At last he wandered down the hall. He’d frightened me to the point of tears. I swatted them hastily away, replaying his every word and expression in my mind, trying to find any clue that would prove whether he knew Patch was in my room.

I let five treacherously long minutes pass before I cracked my door. The hall outside was empty. I returned my attention to my bedroom. “Patch?” I whispered in the faintest voice.

But I was alone.

I didn’t see Patch again until I fell asleep. I dreamed I was wading through a field of wild grass that parted around my hips as I walked. Ahead, a barren tree appeared, twisted and misshapen. Patch leaned against it, hands pocketed. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, a stark contrast against the creamy white of the field.

I ran the rest of the way to him. He wrapped his leather jacket around us, more as an act of intimate possession than to conserve heat.

“I want to stay with you tonight,” I said. “I’m scared Hank is going to try something.”

“I’m not letting you or him out of my sight, Angel,” he said with something almost territorial in his tone.

“Do you think he knows you were in my bedroom?”

Patch’s agitated sigh was barely audible. “One thing’s for sure: He sensed something. I made a big enough impression that he came upstairs to investigate. I’m starting to wonder if he’s stronger than I’ve given him credit for. His men are impeccably organized and trained. He’s managed to hold an archangel captive. And now he can sense me from several rooms away. The only explanation I can think of is devilcraft. He’s found a way to channel it, or he made a bargain. Either way, he’s invoking the powers of hell.”

I shuddered. “You’re scaring me. That night, after Bloody Mary’s, the two Nephilim who chased me mentioned devilcraft. But they said Hank had pronounced it a myth.”

“Could be Hank doesn’t want anyone knowing what he’s up to. Devilcraft might explain why he thinks he can overthrow fallen angels as early as Cheshvan. I’m not an expert in devilcraft, but it seems plausible that it could be used to combat an oath, even an oath sworn under heaven. He might be counting on it to break thousands upon thousands of oaths Nephilim have sworn to fallen angels over the centuries.”

“In other words, you don’t think it’s a myth.”

“I used to be an archangel,” he reminded me. “It wasn’t under my jurisdiction, but I know it exists. That’s about all any of us knew. It originated in hell, and most of what we knew was speculation. Devilcraft is forbidden outside of hell, and the archangels should be on top of this.” An edge of frustration crept into his tone.

“Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Hank found a way to hide it from them. Or maybe he’s using it in such little doses, they haven’t picked up on it.”

“Here’s a cheerful thought,” Patch said with a short, unamused laugh. “He could be using devilcraft to rearrange molecules in the air, which would explain why I’ve had a hard time tracking him. The whole time I’ve been spying for him, I’ve done my best to keep a tail on him, trying to figure out how he’s using the information I’ve fed him. Not easy, given he moves like a ghost. He doesn’t leave evidence the way he should. He could be using devilcraft to alter matter altogether. I have no idea how long he’s been using it or how good he’s gotten at harnessing it.”

We both contemplated this in chilling silence. Rearranging matter? If Hank was capable of tampering with the basic components of our world, what else could he manipulate?

After a moment, Patch reached under his shirt collar, unclasping a plain men’s chain. It was made of interlocking links of sterling silver and was slightly tarnished. “Last summer I gave you my archangel’s necklace. You gave it back to me, but I want you to have it again. It doesn’t work for me anymore. But it might come in useful.”

“Hank would do anything to get your necklace,” I protested, pushing Patch’s hands away. “Keep it. You need to hide it. We can’t let Hank find it.”

“If Hank puts my necklace on the archangel, she’ll have no choice but to tell him the truth. She’ll give him pure, unadulterated knowledge, and freely. You’re right about that. But the necklace will also record the encounter, imprinting it forever. Sooner or later, Hank’s going to get his hands on a necklace. Better he takes mine than finds another.”

“Imprint?”

“I want you to find a way to give this to Marcie,” he instructed, clasping the chain at the nape of my neck. “It can’t be obvious. She has to think she’s stolen it from you. Hank will grill her, and she has to believe that she outsmarted you. Can you do that?”

I pulled back, giving him an admonitory look. “What are you planning?”

His smile was faint. “I wouldn’t call this planning. I’d call this throwing a Hail Mary with seconds left on the clock.”

With great care, I thought through what he was asking of me. “I can invite Marcie over,” I said at last. “I’ll tell her I need help picking out jewelry to go with my homecoming dress. If she’s really helping Hank hunt down an archangel’s necklace, and if she thinks I have it, she’ll take advantage of having access to my bedroom. I’m not thrilled about having her poking around, but I’ll do it.” I paused meaningfully. “But first I want to know exactly why I’m doing it.”

“Hank needs the archangel to talk. So do we. We need a way to let the archangels in heaven know Hank is practicing devilcraft. I’m a fallen angel, and they aren’t going to listen to me. But if Hank touches my necklace, it will imprint on the necklace. If he’s using devilcraft, the necklace will record that, too. My word means nothing to the archangels, but that kind of evidence would. All we’d need to do is get the necklace into their hands.”

I still felt a tug of doubt. “What if it doesn’t work? What if Hank gets the information he needs, and we get nothing?”

He agreed with a slight nod. “What would you like me to do instead?”

I thought about it, and came up empty. Patch was right. We were out of time, out of options. It wasn’t the best position to be in, but something told me Patch had been making the best of risky decisions his entire existence. If I had to get dragged into a gamble as big as this, I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather be with.