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  I swal­lo­wed at the less-than-che­er­ful tho­ught.

  He brus­hed his thumb over my birth­mark. His to­uch was de­cep­ti­vely soft, which ma­de it all the mo­re pa­in­ful to en­du­re.

  "What abo­ut Dab­ria?" I as­ked, still bre­at­hing hard. "She's the sa­me thing you are, isn't she? You're both-angels." My vo­ice crac­ked on the word.

  Patch ro­ta­ted slightly off my hips, but kept his hands at my wrists. "If I ease up, are you go­ing to he­ar me out?"

  If he eased up, I was go­ing to bolt for the do­or. "What do you ca­re if I run? You'll just drag me back in he­re."

  "Ye­ah, but that wo­uld ca­use a sce­ne."

  "Is Dab­ria yo­ur girlf­ri­end?" I co­uld fe­el each rag­ged ri­se and fall of my chest. I wasn't su­re I wan­ted to he­ar his ans­wer. Not that it mat­te­red. Now that I knew Patch wan­ted to kill me, it was ri­di­cu­lo­us that I even ca­red.

  "Was. It was a long ti­me ago, be­fo­re I fell to the dark si­de." He ga­ve a hard smi­le, at­temp­ting hu­mor. "It was al­so a mis­ta­ke." He roc­ked back on his he­els, slowly re­le­asing me, tes­ting to see if I'd fight back. I lay on the mat­tress, bre­at­hing hard, my el­bows prop­ping me up. Three co­unts went by, and I hur­led myself at him with all the for­ce I had.

  I sho­ved aga­inst his chest, but ot­her than swa­ying back slightly, he didn't mo­ve. I scramb­led out from un­der him and to­ok my fists to him. I ham­me­red his chest un­til the bot­toms of my fists be­gan to throb.

  "Do­ne?" he as­ked.

  "No!" I dro­ve my el­bow down in­to his thigh. "What's the mat­ter with you? Don't you fe­el anyt­hing?"

  I ro­se to my fe­et, fo­und my ba­lan­ce on the mat­tress, and kic­ked him as hard as I co­uld in the sto­mach.

  "You've got one mo­re mi­nu­te," he sa­id. "Get yo­ur an­ger out of yo­ur system. Then I ta­ke over."

  I didn't know what he me­ant by "ta­ke over," and I didn't want to find out. I ma­de a le­aping run off the bed, with the do­or in sight. Patch snag­ged me mi­da­ir and bac­ked me aga­inst the wall. His legs we­re flush with mi­ne, front to front down the length of our thighs.

  "I want the truth," I sa­id, strug­gling not to cry. "Did you co­me to scho­ol to kill me? Was that yo­ur aim right from the start?"

  A musc­le in Patch's jaw jum­ped. "Yes."

  I swi­ped a te­ar that da­red es­ca­pe. "Are you glo­ating in­si­de? That's what this is abo­ut, isn't it? Get­ting me to trust you so you co­uld blow it up in my fa­ce!" I knew I was be­ing ir­ra­ti­onal­ly ira­te. I sho­uld ha­ve be­en ter­ri­fi­ed and fran­tic. I sho­uld ha­ve be­en do­ing everyt­hing in my po­wer to es­ca­pe. The most ir­ra­ti­onal part of all was that I still didn't want to be­li­eve he wo­uld kill me, and no mat­ter how hard I tri­ed, I co­uldn't smot­her that il­lo­gi­cal speck of trust.

  "I get that you're angry-," sa­id Patch.

  "I am rip­ped apart!" I sho­uted.

  His hands slid up my neck, se­aring hot. Pres­sing his thumbs gently in­to my thro­at, he tip­ped my he­ad back. I felt his lips co­me aga­inst mi­ne so hard he stop­ped wha­te­ver na­me I'd be­en abo­ut to call him from co­ming out. His hands drop­ped to my sho­ul­ders, skim­med down my arms, and ca­me to rest at the small of my back. Lit­tle shi­vers of pa­nic and ple­asu­re shot thro­ugh me. He tri­ed to pull me aga­inst him, and I bit him on the lip.

  He lic­ked his lip with the tip of his ton­gue. "Did you just bi­te me?"

  "Is everyt­hing a joke to you?" I as­ked.

  He dab­bed his ton­gue to his lip aga­in. "Not everyt­hing."

  "Li­ke what?"

  'You."

  The who­le night felt un­ba­lan­ced. It was hard to ha­ve a show­down with so­me­one as in­dif­fe­rent as Patch. No, not in­dif­fe­rent. Per­fectly cont­rol­led. Down to the last cell in his body.

  I he­ard a vo­ice in my mind. Re­lax. Trust me.

  "Omi­gosh," I sa­id with a burst of cla­rity. "You're do­ing it aga­in, aren't you? Mes­sing with my mind." I re­mem­be­red the ar­tic­le I'd pul­led up when I Go­og­led fal­len an­gels. "You can put mo­re than words in my he­ad, can't you? You can put ima­ges-very re­al ima­ges-the­re."

  He didn't deny it.

  "The Arc­han­gel," I sa­id, fi­nal­ly un­ders­tan­ding. "You tri­ed to kill me that night, didn't you? But so­met­hing went wrong. Then you ma­de me think my cell pho­ne was de­ad, so I co­uldn't call Vee. Did you plan to kill me on the ri­de ho­me? I want to know how you're ma­king me see what you want!"

  His fa­ce was ca­re­ful­ly exp­res­si­on­less. "I put the words and ima­ges the­re, but it's up to you if you be­li­eve them. It's a rid­dle.

  The ima­ges over­lap re­ality, and you ha­ve to fi­gu­re out which is re­al."

  "Is this a spe­ci­al an­gel po­wer?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "Fal­len an­gel po­wer. Any ot­her kind of an­gel wo­uldn't in­va­de yo­ur pri­vacy, even tho­ugh they can."

  Be­ca­use ot­her an­gels we­re go­od. And Patch was not.

  Patch bra­ced his hands aga­inst the wall be­hind me, one on eit­her si­de of my he­ad. "I put a tho­ught in Co­ach's mind to re­do the se­ating chart be­ca­use I ne­eded to get clo­se to you. I ma­de you think you fell off the Arc­han­gel be­ca­use I wan­ted to kill you, but I co­uldn't go thro­ugh with it. I al­most did, but I stop­ped. I set­tled for sca­ring you ins­te­ad. Then I ma­de you think yo­ur cell was de­ad be­ca­use I wan­ted to gi­ve you a ri­de ho­me. When I ca­me in­si­de yo­ur ho­use, I pic­ked up a kni­fe. I was go­ing to kill you then." His vo­ice sof­te­ned. "You chan­ged my mind."

  I suc­ked in a de­ep bre­ath. "I don't un­ders­tand you. When I told you my dad was mur­de­red, you so­un­ded ge­nu­inely sorry. When you met my mom, you we­re ni­ce."

  "Ni­ce," Patch re­pe­ated. "Let's ke­ep that bet­we­en you and me."

  My he­ad spun fas­ter, and I co­uld fe­el my pul­se be­ating in my temp­les. Pd felt this he­art-po­un­ding pa­nic be­fo­re. I ne­eded my iron pills. Eit­her that, or Patch was ma­king me think I did.

  I til­ted my chin up and nar­ro­wed my eyes. "Get out of my mind. Right now!"

  "I'm not in yo­ur mind, No­ra."

  I bent for­ward, bra­cing my hands on my kne­es, suc­king air. "Yes, you are. I fe­el you. So this is how you're go­ing to do it? Suf­fo­ca­te me?"

  Soft pop­ping so­unds ec­ho­ed in my ears, and a blurry black fra­med my vi­si­on. I tri­ed to fill my lungs, but it was li­ke the air had di­sap­pe­ared. The world til­ted, and Patch slip­ped si­de­ways in my vi­si­on. I flat­te­ned my hand to the wall to ste­ady my ba­lan­ce. The de­eper I tri­ed to in­ha­le, the tigh­ter my thro­at const­ric­ted.

  Patch mo­ved to­ward me, but I flung my hand out. "Get away!"

  He le­aned a sho­ul­der on the wall and fa­ced me, his mo­uth set with con­cern.

  "Get-away-from-me," I gas­ped.

  He didn't.

  "I-can't-bre­at­he!" I cho­ked, cla­wing at the wall with one hand, clutc­hing my thro­at with the ot­her.

  Sud­denly Patch sco­oped me up and car­ri­ed me to the cha­ir ac­ross the ro­om. "Put yo­ur he­ad bet­we­en yo­ur kne­es," he sa­id, gu­iding my he­ad down.

  I had my he­ad down, bre­at­hing ra­pidly, trying to for­ce air in­si­de my lungs. Very slowly I felt the oxy­gen cre­ep back in­to my body.

  "Bet­ter?" Patch as­ked af­ter a mi­nu­te.

  I nod­ded, on­ce.

  "Do you ha­ve iron pills with you?"

  I sho­ok my he­ad.

  "Ke­ep yo­ur he­ad down and ta­ke long, de­ep bre­aths."

  I fol­lo­wed his inst­ruc­ti­ons, fe­eling a clamp lo­osen aro­und my chest. "Thank you," I sa­id qu­i­etly.

  "Still don't trust my mo­ti­ves?"

  "If you
want me to trust you, let me to­uch yo­ur scars aga­in."

  Patch stu­di­ed me si­lently for a long mo­ment. "That's not a go­od idea."

  "Why not?"

  "I can't cont­rol what you see."

  "That's kind of the po­int."

  He wa­ited a few co­unts be­fo­re ans­we­ring. His vo­ice was low, emo­ti­ons unt­ra­ce­ab­le. "You know I'm hi­ding things." The­re was a qu­es­ti­on at­tac­hed to it.

  I knew Patch li­ved a li­fe of clo­sed do­ors and har­bo­red sec­rets. I wasn't pre­sump­tu­o­us eno­ugh to think even half of them re­vol­ved aro­und me. Patch li­ved a dif­fe­rent li­fe out­si­de the one he sha­red with me. Mo­re than on­ce I'd spe­cu­la­ted what his ot­her li­fe might be li­ke. I al­ways got the fe­eling that the less I knew abo­ut it, the bet­ter.

  My lip wob­bled. "Gi­ve me a re­ason to trust you."

  Patch sat on the cor­ner of the bed, the mat­tress sin­king un­der his we­ight. He bent for­ward, res­ting his fo­re­arms on his kne­es. His scars we­re in full vi­ew, the cand­le­light dan­cing eerie sha­dows ac­ross the­ir sur­fa­ce. The musc­les in his back he­igh­te­ned, then re­la­xed. "Go ahe­ad," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "Ke­ep in mind that pe­op­le chan­ge, but the past do­esn't."

  Sud­denly I wasn't so su­re I wan­ted this. On al­most every le­vel, Patch ter­ri­fi­ed me. But de­ep down, I didn't think he was go­ing to kill me. If that was what he wan­ted, he wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it al­re­ady. I glan­ced at his gru­eso­me scars. Trus­ting Patch felt a lot mo­re com­for­tab­le than slip­ping in­to his past aga­in and ha­ving no idea what I might find.

  But if I bac­ked out now, Patch wo­uld know I was ter­ri­fi­ed of him. He was ope­ning one of the clo­sed do­ors just for me and only be­ca­use I'd as­ked for it. I co­uldn't ma­ke a re­qu­est this he­avy, then chan­ge my mind.

  "I won't get trap­ped in the­re fo­re­ver, will I?" I as­ked.

  Patch ga­ve a short la­ugh. "No."

  Sum­mo­ning my co­ura­ge, I sat on the bed be­si­de him. For the se­cond ti­me to­night, my fin­ger brus­hed the pe­aked rid­ge of his scar. A hazy gray crow­ded my vi­si­on, wor­king from the ed­ges in. The Hants went out.

  CHAPTER 24

  I WAS ON MY BACK, MY CA­MI SPON­GING UP MO­IS­TU­RE be­ne­ath me, bla­des of grass po­king the ba­re skin on my arms. The mo­on over­he­ad was not­hing mo­re than a sli­ver, a grin tip­ped on its si­de. Ot­her than the rumb­le of dis­tant thun­der, all was qu­i­et.

  I blin­ked se­ve­ral ti­mes in suc­ces­si­on, hel­ping my eyes hurry and adapt to the scant light. When I rol­led my he­ad si­de­ways, a symmet­ri­cal ar­ran­ge­ment of cur­ved twigs po­king up from the grass so­li­di­fi­ed in my vi­si­on. Very slowly I pul­led myself up. I co­uldn't te­ar my eyes away from the two black orbs sta­ring at me from just abo­ve the cur­ved twigs. My mind wor­ked to pla­ce the fa­mi­li­ar ima­ge. And then, with a hor­ri­fic flash of re­cog­ni­ti­on, I knew. I was lying next to a hu­man ske­le­ton.

  I craw­led back­ward un­til I ca­me up aga­inst an iron fen­ce. I pus­hed thro­ugh the mud­dled mo­ment and re­cap­tu­red my last me­mory. I'd to­uc­hed Patch's scars. Whe­re­ver I was, it was so­mew­he­re in­si­de his me­mory.

  A vo­ice, ma­le and va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar, car­ri­ed thro­ugh the dark­ness, sin­ging a low tu­ne. Tur­ning to­ward it, I saw a laby­rinth of he­ads­to­nes stretc­hing li­ke do­mi­no­es in­to the mist. Patch was cro­uc­hed on top of one. He wo­re only Le­vi's and a navy T-shirt, even tho­ugh the night wasn't warm.

  "Mo­on­ligh­ting with the de­ad?" cal­led the fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice. It was ro­ugh, rich, and Irish. Ri­xon. He slo­uc­hed aga­inst a he­ads­to­ne op­po­si­te Patch, watc­hing him. He stro­ked his thumb ac­ross his bot­tom lip. "Let me gu­ess. You've got it in yo­ur mind to pos­sess the de­ad? I don't know," he sa­id, wag­ging his he­ad. "Mag­gots squ­ir­ming in yo­ur eye­ho­les… and yo­ur ot­her ori­fi­ces, might be car­rying things a bit too far."

  "This is why I ke­ep you aro­und, Ri­xon. Al­ways se­e­ing things from the bright si­de."

  "Chesh­van starts to­night," Ri­xon sa­id. "What are you do­ing ar­sing aro­und in a gra­ve­yard?"

  "Thin­king."

  "Thin­king?"

  "A pro­cess by which I use my bra­in to ma­ke a ra­ti­onal de­ci­si­on." The cor­ners of Ri­xon's mo­uth pul­led down. "I'm star­ting to worry abo­ut you. Co­me on. Ti­me to go. Cha­un­cey Lan­ge­a­is and Bar­na­bas awa­it. The mo­on turns at mid­night. I con­fess I've got my eye on a betty in town." He ga­ve a cat­li­ke purr. "I know you li­ke them red, but I li­ke 'em fa­ir, and on­ce I get in­to a body, I in­tend to ta­ke ca­re of un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness with a blon­de who was ma­king eyes at me ear­li­er."

  When Patch didn't mo­ve, Ri­xon sa­id, "Are you daft? We've got to go. Cha­un­cey's oath of fe­alty. Not rin­ging a bell? How abo­ut this. You're a fal­len an­gel. You can't fe­el a thing. Un­til to­night, that is. The next two we­eks are Cha­un­cey's gift to you. Gi­ven un­wil­lingly, mind you," he ad­ded on a cons­pi­ra­tor's grin.

  Patch ga­ve Ri­xon a si­de­long glan­ce. "What do you know abo­ut The Bo­ok of Enoch?"

  "Abo­ut as much as any fal­len an­gel: slim to no­ne."

  "I was told the­re's a story in The Bo­ok of Enoch abo­ut a fal­len an­gel who be­co­mes hu­man."

  Ri­xon do­ub­led over with la­ugh­ter. "You lost yo­ur mind, ma­te?" He wel­ded the outer ed­ges of his palms to­get­her, ma­king an open bo­ok with his hands. "The Bo­ok of Enoch is a bed­ti­me story. And a go­od one, by the lo­oks of it. Sent you stra­ight to dre­am­land."

  "I want a hu­man body."

  "You'd best be happy with two we­eks and a Nep­hi's body. Half-hu­man is bet­ter than not­hing. Cha­un­cey can't un­do what's be­en do­ne. He swo­re an oath, and he has to li­ve up to it. Just li­ke last ye­ar. And the ye­ar be­fo­re that-"

  "Two we­eks isn't eno­ugh. I want to be hu­man. Per­ma­nently." Patch's eyes cut in­to Ri­xon's, da­ring him to la­ugh aga­in.

  Ri­xon ra­ked his hands thro­ugh his ha­ir. "The Bo­ok of Enoch is a fa­ir) ta­le. We're fal­len an­gels, not hu­mans. We ne­ver we­re hu­man, and we ne­ver will be. End of story. Now, qu­it ar­sing aro­und and help me fi­gu­re out which is the way to Port­land." He cra­ned his neck back and ob­ser­ved the ink) sky.

  Patch swung down off the he­ads­to­ne. "I'm go­ing to be­co­me hu­man."

  "Su­re, ma­te, su­re you can."

  "The Bo­ok of Enoch says I ha­ve to kill my Nep­hil vas­sal. I ha­ve to kill Cha­un­cey."

  "No, you don't," Ri­xon sa­id with a no­te of im­pa­ti­en­ce. "You've got to pos­sess him. A pro­cess by which you ta­ke his body and use it as yo­ur own. Not to put a dam­per on things, but you can't kill Cha­un­cey. Nep­hi­lim can't die. And ha­ve you tho­ught of this? If you co­uld kill him, you co­uldn't pos­sess him."

  "If I kill him, I'll be­co­me hu­man and I won't ne­ed to pos­sess him."

  Ri­xon squ­e­ezed the in­ner cor­ners of his eyes as if he knew his ar­gu­ment was fal­ling on de­af ears and it was gi­ving him a he­adac­he. "If we co­uld kill Nep­hi­lim, we wo­uld ha­ve fo­und a way by now. I'm sorry to tell you, lad, but if I don't get in­to the arms of that blond betty so­on, my bra­ins will ba­ke. And a few ot­her parts of my-"

  'Two cho­ices," sa­id Patch.

  "Eh?"

  "Sa­ve a hu­man li­fe and be­co­me a gu­ar­di­an an­gel, or kill yo­ur Nep­hil vas­sal and be­co­me hu­man. Ta­ke yo­ur pick."

  "Is this mo­re Bo­ok of Enoch rub­bish?"

  "Dab­ria pa­id me a vi­sit."

  Ri­xon's eyes wi­de­ned, and he snor­ted a la­ugh. "Yo­ur psycho­tic ex? What's she do­ing down he­re? Did she fall? Lost her wings, did she?" r />
  "She ca­me down to tell me I can get my wings back if I sa­ve a hu­man li­fe."

  Ri­xon's eyes got wi­der. "If you trust her, I say go for it. Not­hing wrong with be­ing a gu­ar­di­an. Spen­ding yo­ur days ke­eping mor­tals out of dan­ger… co­uld be fun, de­pen­ding on the mor­tal you're as­sig­ned."

  "But if you had a cho­ice?" Patch as­ked.

  "Aye, well, my ans­wer de­pends on one very im­por­tant dis­tinc­ti­on. Am I ro­aring drunk… or ha­ve I comp­le­tely lost my mind?" When Patch didn't la­ugh, Ri­xon sa­id so­berly, "The­re's no cho­ice. And he­re's why. I don't be­li­eve in The Bo­ok of Enoch. If I we­re you, I'd aim for gu­ar­di­ans­hip. I'm half con­si­de­ring the de­al myself. Too bad I don't know any hu­mans on the brink of de­ath."

  The­re was a mo­ment's si­len­ce, then Patch se­emed to sha­ke off his tho­ughts. He sa­id, "How much mo­ney can we ma­ke be­fo­re mid­night?"

  "Pla­ying cards or bo­xing?"

  "Cards."

  Ri­xon's eyes spark­led. "What do we ha­ve he­re? A pretty boy? Co­me he­re and let me gi­ve you a pro­per clat­ter." He ho­oked Patch aro­und the neck, pin­ning him in the cro­ok of his el­bow, but Patch got him aro­und the wa­ist and drag­ged Ri­xon to the grass, whe­re they to­ok turns thro­wing clob­be­ring punc­hes.

  "All right, all right!" Ri­xon bel­lo­wed, thro­wing his hands up in sur­ren­der. "Just 'ca­use I can't fe­el a blo­ody lip do­esn't me­an I want to spend the rest of the night wal­king aro­und with one." He win­ked. "Won't inc­re­ase my chan­ces with the la­di­es."

  "And a black eye will?"

  Ri­xon lif­ted his fin­gers to his eyes, pro­bing. "You didn't!" he sa­id, swin­ging a fist at Patch.

  I pul­led my fin­ger away from Patch's scars. The skin on the back of my neck prick­led, and my he­art pum­ped much too fast. Patch lo­oked at me, a sha­dow of un­cer­ta­inty in his eyes.

  I was for­ced to ac­cept that may­be now wasn't the ti­me to rely on the lo­gi­cal half of my bra­in. May­be this was one of tho­se ti­mes when I ne­eded to step out of bo­unds. Stop pla­ying by the ru­les. Ac­cept the im­pos­sib­le.