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One half of my bra­in was ke­eping track of my con­ver­sa­ti­on with Vee, but the ot­her, mo­re sub­cons­ci­o­us half had stra­yed. My me­mory went back to the night Patch da­red me to ri­de the Arc­han­gel. I re­cap­tu­red the cre­epy and bi­zar­re pa­in­tings on the si­de of the cars. I re­mem­be­red the hor­ned be­asts rip­ping the wings off the an­gel. I re­mem­be­red the black up­si­de-down V whe­re the an­gel's wings used to be.

  I al­most drop­ped the pho­ne.

  "S-sorry, what?" I as­ked Vee when I re­ali­zed she'd car­ri­ed the con­ver­sa­ti­on furt­her and was wa­iting for my res­pon­se.

  "What. Hap­pe­ned. Next?" she re­pe­ated, enun­ci­ating each word. "Earth to No­ra. I ne­ed de­ta­ils. I'm dying he­re."

  "He got in a fight and his shirt rip­ped. End of story. The­re's no what-hap­pe­ned-next."

  Vee suc­ked in a bre­ath. "This is what I'm tal­king abo­ut. The two of you are out to­get­her… and he gets in a fight? What's his prob­lem? It's li­ke he's mo­re ani­mal than hu­man."

  In my mind I switc­hed back and forth bet­we­en the pa­in­ting of the an­gel's scars and Patch's scars. Both scars had he­aled to the co­lor of black li­co­ri­ce, both ran from the sho­ul­der bla­des to the kid­neys, and both cur­ved out as they tra­ve­led the length of the back. I told myself the­re was a go­od chan­ce it was me­rely a very cre­epy co­in­ci­den­ce that the pa­in­tings on the Arc­han­gel de­pic­ted Patch's scars per­fectly. I told myself a lot of things co­uld ca­use scars li­ke Patch's. Gang fight, pri­son scars, skid marks-just li­ke Vee sa­id. Un­for­tu­na­tely, all the ex­cu­ses felt li­ke li­es. Li­ke the truth was sta­ring me in the fa­ce, but I wasn't bra­ve eno­ugh to lo­ok back.

  "Was he an an­gel?" Vee as­ked.

  I snap­ped to myself. "What?"

  "Was he an an­gel, or did he li­ve up to his bad-boy ima­ge? Be­ca­use, ho­nestly? I'm not bu­ying this who­le he-didn't-try-anything ver­si­on of the story."

  "Vee? I ha­ve to go." My vo­ice was strewn with cob­webs.

  "I see how it is. You're go­ing to hang up be­fo­re I get the de­ta­ils on the big she­bang."

  "Not­hing hap­pe­ned on the da­te, and not­hing hap­pe­ned af­ter. My mom met us in the dri­ve­way."

  "Shut up!"

  "I don't think she li­kes Patch."

  "You don't say!" Vee sa­id. "Who'd ha­ve gu­es­sed?"

  "I'll call you to­mor­row, okay?"

  "Swe­et dre­ams, ba­be."

  Fat chan­ce, I tho­ught.

  After I got off the pho­ne with Vee, I wal­ked down the hall to my mom's ma­kes­hift ho­me of­fi­ce and bo­oted up our vin­ta­ge IBM. The ro­om was small, with a pitc­hed ro­of, mo­re of a gab­le than a ro­om. One gre­asy win­dow with fa­ded oran­ge cur­ta­ins from the 1970s lo­oked out at the si­de yard. I co­uld stand up to my full he­ight in abo­ut 30 per­cent of the ro­om. In the ot­her 70 per­cent, the top of my ha­ir brus­hed the ex­po­sed be­ams of the raf­ters. A sing­le ba­re bulb hung the­re.

  Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter the com­pu­ter se­cu­red a di­al-up con­nec­ti­on to the In­ter­net, and I typed "angel wing scars" in­to the Go­og­le se­arch bar. I ho­ve­red with my fin­ger abo­ve the en­ter key, af­ra­id that if I went thro­ugh with it, I'd ha­ve to ad­mit I was ac­tu­al­ly con­si­de­ring the pos­si­bi­lity that Patch was-well, not… hu­man.

  I hit en­ter and mo­use-clic­ked on the first link be­fo­re I co­uld talk myself out of it.

  FALLEN ANGELS: THE FRIGHTENING TRUTH

  At the cre­ati­on of the gar­den of Eden, he­avenly an­gels we­re dis­patc­hed to Earth to watch over Adam and Eve. So­on, ho­we­ver, so­me an­gels set the­ir sights on the world be­yond the gar­den walls. They saw them­sel­ves as fu­tu­re ru­lers over the Earth's po­pu­la­ti­on, lus­ting af­ter po­wer, mo­ney, and even hu­man wo­men.

  To­get­her they temp­ted and con­vin­ced Eve to eat the for­bid­den fru­it, ope­ning the ga­tes gu­ar­ding Eden. As pu­nish­ment for this gra­ve sin and for de­ser­ting the­ir du­ti­es, god strip­ped the an­gels' wings and ba­nis­hed them to Earth fo­re­ver.

  I skim­med down a few pa­rag­raphs, my he­art be­ating er­ra­ti­cal­ly.

  Fal­len an­gels are the sa­me evil spi­rits (or de­mons) desc­ri­bed in the Bib­le as ta­king pos­ses­si­on of hu­man bo­di­es. Fal­len an­gels ro­am the Earth lo­oking for hu­man bo­di­es to ha­rass and cont­rol. They tempt hu­mans to do evil by com­mu­ni­ca­ting tho­ughts and ima­ges di­rectly to the­ir minds, if a fal­len an­gel suc­ce­eds in tur­ning a hu­man to­ward evil, it can en­ter the hu­man's body and inf­lu­en­ce his or her per­so­na­lity and ac­ti­ons.

  Ho­we­ver, the pos­ses­si­on of a hu­man body by a fal­len an­gel can ta­ke pla­ce only du­ring the Heb­rew month of Chesh­van. Chesh­van, known as "the bit­ter month," is the only month wit­ho­ut any Jewish ho­li­days or fasts, ma­king it an un­holy month. Bet­we­en new and full mo­ons du­ring Chesh­van, fal­len an­gels in­va­de hu­man bo­di­es in dro­ves.

  My sta­re lin­ge­red on the com­pu­ter mo­ni­tor a few mi­nu­tes af­ter I fi­nis­hed re­ading. I had no tho­ughts. No­ne. Just a comp­le­xity of emo­ti­ons tang­ling in­si­de me. Cold, pa­nicky ama­ze­ment and fo­re­bo­ding among them.

  An in­vo­lun­tary shud­der ro­used me to my sen­ses. I re­mem­be­red the few ti­mes I was cer­ta­in Patch had bre­ac­hed nor­mal com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on met­hods and whis­pe­red di­rectly to my mind, just li­ke the ar­tic­le cla­imed fal­len an­gels co­uld. Com­pa­ring this in­for­ma­ti­on with Patch's scars, was it pos­sib­le… co­uld Patch be a fal­len an­gel? Did he want to pos­sess my body?

  I brow­sed qu­ickly thro­ugh the rest of the ar­tic­le, slo­wing when I re­ad so­met­hing even mo­re bi­zar­re.

  Fal­len an­gels who ha­ve a se­xu­al re­la­ti­ons­hip with a hu­man pro­du­ce su­per­hu­man of­fsp­ring cal­led nep­hi­lim. The nep­hi­lim ra­ce is an evil and un­na­tu­ral ra­ce and was ne­ver me­ant to in­ha­bit Earth. Alt­ho­ugh many be­li­eve the gre­at Flo­od at the ti­me of No­ah was in­ten­ded to cle­an­se the Earth of nep­hi­lim, we ha­ve no way of kno­wing if this hybrid ra­ce di­ed out and whet­her or not fal­len an­gels ha­ve con­ti­nu­ed to rep­ro­du­ce with hu­mans sin­ce that ti­me, it se­ems lo­gi­cal that they wo­uld, which me­ans the nep­hi­lim ra­ce is li­kely on the Earth to­day.

  I pus­hed back from the desk. I cram­med everyt­hing I'd re­ad in­to a men­tal fol­der and fi­led it away. And stam­ped SCARY on the out­si­de of the fol­der. I didn't want to think abo­ut it right now. I'd sort thro­ugh it la­ter. May­be.

  My cell pho­ne buz­zed in my poc­ket and I jum­ped.

  "Did we de­ci­de avo­ca­dos are gre­en or yel­low?" Vee as­ked. "I've al­re­ady fil­led all my gre­en fru­it slots to­day, but if you tell me avo­ca­dos are yel­low, I'm in bu­si­ness."

  "Do you be­li­eve in su­per­he­ro­es?"

  "After se­e­ing To­bey Ma­gu­ire in Spi­der-Man, yes. And then the­re's Chris­ti­an Ba­le. Ol­der, but kil­ler hot. I'd let him res­cue me from sword-wi­el­ding ni­nj­as."

  "I'm be­ing se­ri­o­us."

  "So am I."

  "When was the last ti­me you went to church?" I as­ked.

  I he­ard her pop a gum bub­ble. "Sun­day."

  "Do you think the Bib­le is ac­cu­ra­te? I me­an, do you think it's re­al?" '

  "I think Pas­tor Cal­vin is hot. In a forty so­met­hing way. That pretty much sums up my re­li­gi­o­us con­vic­ti­on."

  After I hung up, I went to my ro­om and slid un­der the co­vers. I threw on an ext­ra blan­ket to ward off the sud­den chill. Whet­her the ro­om was cold, or the icy fe­eling ori­gi­na­ted in­si­de me, I wasn't su­re. Ha­un­ting words li­ke "fal­len an­gel," "hu­man pos­ses­si
­on," and "Nep­hi­lim" dan­ced me off to sle­ep.

  CHAPTER 20

  I TOS­SED ALL NIGHT. THE WIND GUS­TED THRO­UGH THE OPEN fi­elds rim­ming the farm­ho­use, spra­ying deb­ris aga­inst the win­dows. I wo­ke se­ve­ral ti­mes, he­aring shing­les be­ing pul­led from the ro­of and tumb­ling over the ed­ge. Every small no­ise from the rat­tle of the win­dow­pa­nes to my own cre­aking bedsp­rings had me jum­ping out of sle­ep.

  Aro­und six I ga­ve up, drag­ged myself out of bed, and pad­ded down the hall for a hot sho­wer. Next I cle­aned my ro­om-my clo­set was lo­oking slim, and su­re eno­ugh, I fil­led the ham­per with three lo­ads of la­undry. I was clim­bing the sta­irs with a fresh lo­ad when a knock so­un­ded at the front do­or. I ope­ned it to find El­li­ot stan­ding on the do­ors­tep.

  He wo­re je­ans, a vin­ta­ge pla­id shirt rol­led to the el­bows, sung­las­ses, and a Red Sox cap. On the out­si­de, he lo­oked all-Ame­ri­can. But I knew bet­ter, and a jolt of ner­vo­us ad­re­na­li­ne con­fir­med it.

  "No­ra Grey," El­li­ot sa­id in a pat­ro­ni­zing vo­ice. He le­aned in and grin­ned, and I ca­ught the so­ur tang of al­co­hol on his bre­ath. "You've be­en ca­using me a lot of tro­ub­le la­tely."

  "What are you do­ing he­re?"

  He pe­ered be­hind me in­to the ho­use. "What's it lo­ok li­ke I'm do­ing? I want to talk. Don't I get to co­me in?"

  "My mom's as­le­ep. I don't want to wa­ke her."

  "I've ne­ver met yo­ur mom." So­met­hing abo­ut the way he sa­id it ma­de the ha­irs on the back of my neck stand tall.

  "I'm sorry, do you ne­ed so­met­hing?"

  His smi­le was half sloppy, half sne­ering. "You don't li­ke me, do you, No­ra Grey?"

  By way of ans­wer, I fol­ded my arms ac­ross my chest.

  He stag­ge­red back a step with his hand pres­sed to his he­art. "Ouch. I'm he­re, No­ra, as a last-ditch ef­fort to con­vin­ce you that I'm an ave­ra­ge guy and you can trust me. Don't let me down."

  "Lis­ten, El­li­ot, I ha­ve a few things I ne­ed to-"

  He dril­led his fist in­to the ho­use, smac­king his knuck­les aga­inst the si­ding hard eno­ugh to sha­ke lo­ose chip­ped pa­int. "I'm not fi­nis­hed!" he slur­red in a he­ated vo­ice. Sud­denly he tip­ped his he­ad back and la­ug­hed qu­i­etly. He bent over and pla­ced his ble­eding hand bet­we­en his kne­es and gro­aned. "Ten dol­lars says I'm go­ing to reg­ret that la­ter."

  Elli­ot's pre­sen­ce ma­de my skin crawl. I re­mem­be­red back se­ve­ral days, when I ac­tu­al­ly tho­ught he was go­od-lo­oking and char­ming. I won­de­red why I'd be­en such an idi­ot.

  I was con­temp­la­ting clo­sing the do­or and loc­king it, when El­li­ot pul­led off his sung­las­ses, re­ve­aling blo­ods­hot eyes. He cle­ared his thro­at, his vo­ice co­ming out stra­ight­for­ward. "I ca­me he­re be­ca­use I wan­ted to tell you Jules is un­der a lot of stress at scho­ol. Exams, stu­dent go­vern­ment, scho­lars­hip ap­pli­ca­ti­ons, yad­da, yad­da, yad­da. He's not ac­ting li­ke him­self. He ne­eds to get away from it all for a few days. The fo­ur of us-Jules, me, you, Vee-sho­uld go cam­ping for spring bre­ak. Le­ave to­mor­row for Pow­der Horn and co­me back Tu­es­day af­ter­no­on. It'll gi­ve Jules a chan­ce to de­comp­ress." Every word that ca­me out of his mo­uth so­un­ded eerily and ca­re­ful­ly re­he­ar­sed.

  "Sorry, I al­re­ady ha­ve plans."

  "Let me chan­ge yo­ur mind. I'll plan the who­le trip. I'll get the tents, the fo­od. I'll show you what a gre­at guy I am. I'll show you a go­od ti­me."

  "I think you sho­uld le­ave."

  Elli­ot le­aned his hand on the do­orj­amb, ben­ding to­ward me. "Wrong ans­wer." For a fle­eting mo­ment, the glassy stu­por in his eyes di­sap­pe­ared, so­met­hing twis­ted and si­nis­ter ec­lip­sing it. I in­vo­lun­ta­rily step­ped back. I was al­most po­si­ti­ve El­li­ot had it in him to kill. I was al­most po­si­ti­ve Kj­irs­ten's de­ath was on his hands.

  "Le­ave, or I'm cal­ling a cab," I sa­id.

  Elli­ot flung the scre­en do­or open so hard it smac­ked back aga­inst the ho­use. He grab­bed the front of my bath­ro­be and yan­ked me out­si­de. Then he sho­ved me back aga­inst the si­ding and pin­ned me the­re with his body. "You're co­ming cam­ping whet­her you want to or not."

  "Get off me!" I sa­id, twis­ting away from him.

  "Or what? What are you go­ing to do?" He had me by the sho­ul­ders now, and he knoc­ked me back aga­inst the ho­use aga­in, rat­tling my te­eth.

  "I'll call the po­li­ce." I had no idea how I sa­id it so bra­vely. My bre­at­hing was ra­pid and shal­low, my hands clammy.

  "Are you go­ing to sho­ut for them? They can't he­ar you. The only way I'm let­ting you go is if you swe­ar to go cam­ping."

  "No­ra?"

  Elli­ot and I both tur­ned to­ward the front do­or, whe­re my mom's vo­ice car­ri­ed out. El­li­ot kept his hands on me a mo­ment lon­ger, then ma­de a dis­gus­ted no­ise and sho­ved me away. Half­way down the porch steps, he lo­oked over his sho­ul­der. "This isn't over."

  I hur­ri­ed in­si­de and loc­ked the do­or. My eyes star­ted to burn. I drag­ged my back down the length of the do­or and sat on the entry rug, figh­ting the ur­ge to sob.

  My mom ap­pe­ared at the top of the sta­irs, cinc­hing her ro­be at the wa­ist. "No­ra? What's wrong? Who was at the do­or?"

  I blin­ked my eyes dry in a hurry. "A guy from scho­ol." I co­uldn't ke­ep the wa­ver out of my vo­ice. "He-he-" I was al­re­ady in eno­ugh tro­ub­le over my da­te with Patch. I knew my mom was plan­ning to at­tend a wed­ding and re­cep­ti­on to­night for the da­ugh­ter of a fri­end from work, but if I told her El­li­ot had ro­ug­hed me up, the­re was no way she'd go. And that was the last thing I wan­ted, be­ca­use I ne­eded to dri­ve to Port­land and in­ves­ti­ga­te El­li­ot. Even a sli­ver of inc­ri­mi­na­ting evi­den­ce might be eno­ugh to put him be­hind bars, and un­til that hap­pe­ned, I wo­uldn't fe­el sa­fe. I sen­sed a cer­ta­in vi­olen­ce es­ca­la­ting in­si­de him, and I didn't want to see what wo­uld hap­pen if it blew out of cont­rol. "He wan­ted my Ham­let no­tes," I sa­id flatly. "Last we­ek he che­ated off my qu­iz, and ap­pa­rently he's trying to ma­ke a ha­bit of it."

  "Oh, ho­ney." She ca­me down be­si­de me, stro­king my damp ha­ir, which had chil­led sin­ce my sho­wer. "I can un­ders­tand why you're up­set. I can call his pa­rents if you'd li­ke."

  I sho­ok my he­ad.

  "Then I'll ma­ke bre­ak­fast," Mom sa­id. "Go fi­nish dres­sing. I'll ha­ve everyt­hing re­ady by the ti­me you co­me down."

  I was stan­ding in front of my clo­set when my cell pho­ne rang.

  "Did you he­ar? The fo­ur of us are go­ing c-a-m-p-i-n-g for spring bre­ak!" sa­id Vee, so­un­ding bi­zar­rely che­er­ful.

  "Vee," I sa­id, my vo­ice tremb­ling, "Elli­ot's plan­ning so­met­hing. So­met­hing scary. The only re­ason he wants to go cam­ping is so he can get us alo­ne. We're not go­ing."

  "What do you me­an we're not go­ing? This is a joke, right? I me­an, we fi­nal­ly get to do so­met­hing ex­ci­ting over spring bre­ak, and you're sa­ying no"? You know my mom will ne­ver let me go alo­ne. I'll do anyt­hing. Se­ri­o­usly. I'll do yo­ur ho­me­work for a we­ek. Co­me on, No­ra. One lit­tle word. Say it. It starts with the let­ter Y…"

  The hand hol­ding my cell qu­ive­red, and I bro­ught up my ot­her hand to ste­ady it. "Elli­ot sho­wed up at my ho­use fif­te­en mi­nu­tes ago, drunk. He-he physi­cal­ly thre­ate­ned me."

  She was qu­i­et a mo­ment. "What do you me­an by 'physi­cal­ly thre­ate­ned'?"

  "He drag­ged me out the front do­or and sho­ved me aga­inst the ho­use."

  "But he was drunk, right?"

  "Do­es it mat­ter?" I snap­ped.

>   "Well, he has a lot go­ing on. I me­an, he was wrongly ac­cu­sed of be­ing mes­sed up in so­me girl's su­ici­de, and he was for­ced to switch scho­ols. If he hurt you-and I'm not jus­tif­ying what he did, by the way-may­be he just ne­eds… co­un­se­ling, you know?"

  "If he hurt me?"

  "He was was­ted. May­be-may­be he didn't know what he was do­ing. To­mor­row he's go­ing to fe­el hor­rib­le."

  I ope­ned my mo­uth, shut it. I co­uldn't be­li­eve Vee was si­ding with El­li­ot. "I ha­ve to go," I sa­id curtly. "I'll talk to you la­ter."

  "Can I be comp­le­tely ho­nest, ba­be? I know you're wor­ri­ed abo­ut this guy in the ski mask. Don't ha­te me, but I think the only re­ason you're trying so hard to pin it on El­li­ot is be­ca­use you don't want it to be Patch. You're ra­ti­ona­li­zing everyt­hing, and it's fre­aking me out."

  I was spe­ech­less. "Ra­ti­ona­li­zing? Patch didn't show up at my do­or this mor­ning and slam me aga­inst my ho­use."

  "You know what? I sho­uldn't ha­ve bro­ught it up. Let's just drop it, okay?"

  "Fi­ne," I sa­id stiffly.

  "So… what are you do­ing to­day?"

  I po­ked my he­ad out the do­or, lis­te­ning for my mom. The so­und of a whisk scra­ping the si­de of a bowl car­ri­ed up from the kitc­hen. Part of me didn't see the po­int in sha­ring anyt­hing el­se with Vee, but anot­her part of me felt re­sent­ful and conf­ron­ta­ti­onal. She wan­ted to know my plans? Fi­ne by me. It wasn't my prob­lem if she didn't li­ke them. "I'm dri­ving to Port­land as so­on as my mom le­aves for a wed­ding at Old Orc­hard Be­ach." The wed­ding star­ted at 4 p.m., and with the re­cep­ti­on fol­lo­wing, my mom wo­uldn't get ho­me un­til 9 p.m. at the ear­li­est. Which ga­ve me eno­ugh ti­me to spend the eve­ning in Port­land, and be­at her ho­me. "Actu­al­ly, I was won­de­ring if may­be I co­uld bor­row the Ne­on. I don't want my mom to see the mi­les I put on my car."

  "Oh, boy. You're go­ing to spy on El­li­ot, aren't you? You're go­ing to sno­op aro­und King­horn."