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  "Then you're de­fi­ni­tely not hu­man," I sa­id. "You re­al­ly are a fal­len an­gel. A bad guy."

  That squ­e­ezed a smi­le out of Patch. "You think I'm a bad guy?"

  "You pos­sess ot­her pe­op­le's… bo­di­es."

  He ac­cep­ted the sta­te­ment with a nod.

  "Do you want to pos­sess my body?"

  "I want to do a lot of things to yo­ur body, but that's not one of them."

  "What's wrong with the body you ha­ve?"

  "My body is a lot li­ke glass. Re­al, but out­ward, ref­lec­ting the world aro­und me. You see and he­ar me, and I see and he­ar you. When you to­uch me, you fe­el it. I don't ex­pe­ri­en­ce you in the sa­me way. I can't fe­el you. I ex­pe­ri­en­ce everyt­hing thro­ugh a she­et of glass, and the only way I can cut thro­ugh that she­et is by pos­ses­sing a hu­man body."

  "Or part-hu­man."

  Patch's mo­uth tigh­te­ned at the cor­ners. "When you to­uc­hed my scars, you saw Cha­un­cey?" he gu­es­sed.

  "I he­ard you tal­king to Ri­xon. He sa­id you pos­sess Cha­un­cey's body for two we­eks every ye­ar du­ring Chesh­van. He sa­id Cha­un­cey isn't hu­man eit­her. He's Nep­hi­lim." The word rol­led off my ton­gue in a whis­per.

  "Cha­un­cey is a cross bet­we­en a fal­len an­gel and a hu­man. He's im­mor­tal li­ke an an­gel but has all the mor­tal sen­ses. A fal­len an­gel who wants to fe­el hu­man sen­sa­ti­ons can do it in a Nep­hil's body."

  "If you can't fe­el, why did you kiss me?"

  Patch tra­ced a fin­ger along my col­lar­bo­ne, then he­aded so­uth, stop­ping at my he­art. I felt it po­un­ding thro­ugh my skin. "Be­ca­use I fe­el it he­re, in my he­art," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "I ha­ven't lost the abi­lity to fe­el emo­ti­on." He watc­hed me clo­sely. "Let me put it this way. Our emo­ti­onal con­nec­ti­on isn't lac­king."

  Don't pa­nic, I tho­ught. But al­re­ady my bre­at­hing was fas­ter, shal­lo­wer. "You me­an you can fe­el happy or sad or-"

  "De­si­re." A ba­rely-the­re smi­le.

  Ke­ep mo­ving for­ward, I told myself. Don't gi­ve yo­ur own emo­ti­ons ti­me to catch up. De­al with them la­ter, af­ter you ha­ve ans­wers. "Why did you fall?"

  Patch's eyes held mi­ne for a co­up­le of co­unts. "Lust."

  I swal­lo­wed. "Mo­ney lust?"

  Patch stro­ked his jaw. He only did that when he wan­ted to con­ce­al what he was thin­king, the gi­ve­away to his tho­ughts be­ing his mo­uth. He was figh­ting a smi­le. "And ot­her kinds. I tho­ught if I fell, I'd be­co­me hu­man. The an­gels who'd temp­ted Eve had be­en ba­nis­hed to Earth, and the­re we­re ru­mors that they'd lost the­ir wings and be­co­me hu­man. When they left he­aven, it wasn't this big ce­re­mony we we­re all in­vi­ted to. It was pri­va­te. I didn't know the­ir wings we­re rip­ped out, or that they we­re cur­sed to ro­am Earth with a hun­ger to pos­sess hu­man bo­di­es. Back then, no­body had even he­ard of fal­len an­gels. So it ma­de sen­se in my mind, that if I fell, I'd lo­se my wings and be­co­me hu­man. At the ti­me, I was crazy abo­ut a hu­man girl, and it se­emed worth the risk."

  "Dab­ria sa­id you can get yo­ur wings back by sa­ving a hu­man li­fe. She sa­id you'll be a gu­ar­di­an an­gel. You don't want that?" I was con­fu­sed why he was so set aga­inst it.

  "It's not for me. I want to be hu­man. I want it mo­re than I've ever wan­ted anyt­hing."

  "What abo­ut Dab­ria? If the two of you aren't to­get­her any­mo­re, why is she still he­re? I tho­ught she was a re­gu­lar an­gel. Do­es she want to be hu­man too?"

  Patch went de­athly still, all the musc­les up his arm go­ing ri­gid. "Dab­ria's still on Earth?"

  "She got a job at scho­ol. She's the new scho­ol psycho­lo­gist, Miss Gre­ene. I've met with her a co­up­le ti­mes." My sto­mach ga­ve a hard twist. "After what I saw in yo­ur me­mory,1 tho­ught she to­ok the job to be clo­ser to you."

  "What exactly did she tell you when you met with her?"

  "To stay away from you. She hin­ted at yo­ur dark and dan­ge­ro­us past." I pa­used. "So­met­hing abo­ut this is off, isn't it?" I as­ked, fe­eling an omi­no­us prick­le ma­ke its way down my spi­ne.

  "I ne­ed to ta­ke you ho­me. Then I'm go­ing to the high scho­ol to lo­ok thro­ugh her fi­les and see if I can find so­met­hing use­ful. I'll fe­el bet­ter when I know what she's plan­ning." Patch strip­ped the bed ba­re. "Wrap yo­ur­self in the­se," he sa­id, han­ding me the bund­le of dry she­ets.

  My mind was wor­king hard to ma­ke sen­se of the frag­ments of in­for­ma­ti­on. Sud­denly my mo­uth went a lit­tle dry and stick). "She still has fe­elings for you. May­be she wants me out of the pic­tu­re."

  Our eyes loc­ked. "It cros­sed my mind," Patch sa­id.

  An icy, dis­tur­bing tho­ught had be­en ban­ging aro­und in­si­de my he­ad the past few mi­nu­tes, trying to get my at­ten­ti­on. It prac­ti­cal­ly sho­uted at me now, tel­ling me Dab­ria co­uld be the guy in the ski mask. All along I tho­ught the per­son I hit with the Ne­on was ma­le, just li­ke Vee tho­ught her at­tac­ker was ma­le. At this po­int, I wo­uldn't put it past Dab­ria to de­ce­ive us both.

  After a qu­ick trip to the bath­ro­om, Patch emer­ged we­aring his wet tee. "I'll go get the Je­ep," he sa­id. "I'll pull aro­und to the back exit in twenty. Stay in the mo­tel un­til then."

  CHAPTER 25

  AFTER PATCH LEFT, I PUT THE CHA­IN ON THE DO­OR. I drag­ged the cha­ir ac­ross the ro­om and ram­med it un­der the do­or hand­le. I chec­ked to ma­ke su­re the win­dow locks we­re in pla­ce. I didn't know if locks wo­uld work aga­inst Dab­ria-I didn't even know if she was af­ter me-but I fi­gu­red it was bet­ter to play it sa­fe. Af­ter pa­cing aro­und the ro­om for a few mi­nu­tes, I tri­ed the pho­ne on the nights­tand. Still no di­al to­ne.

  My mom was go­ing to kill me.

  I'd sne­aked be­hind her back and go­ne to Port­land. And how was I sup­po­sed to exp­la­in the who­le "I chec­ked in­to a mo­tel with Patch" si­tu­ati­on? I'd be luck) if she didn't gro­und me thro­ugh the end of the ye­ar. No. I'd be luck) if she didn't qu­it her job and apply to subs­ti­tu­te te­ach un­til she fo­und a full-ti­me job lo­cal­ly. We'd ha­ve to sell the farm­ho­use, and I'd lo­se the only con­nec­ti­on to my dad I had left.

  Appro­xi­ma­tely fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter I pe­ered thro­ugh the pe­ep­ho­le. Not­hing but black­ness. I un­bar­red the do­or, and just as I was abo­ut to tug it open, lights flic­ke­red on be­hind me. I whir­led aro­und, half ex­pec­ting to see Dab­ria. The ro­om was still and empty, but the elect­ri­city was back.

  The do­or ope­ned with a lo­ud click and I step­ped in­to the hall. The car­pet was blo­od­red, worn bald down the cen­ter of the hal­lway, and sta­ined with uni­den­ti­fi­ab­le dark marks. The walls we­re pa­in­ted ne­ut­ral, but the pa­int job was sloppy and chip­ping.

  Abo­ve me, a ne­on gre­en sign spel­led the way to the exit. I fol­lo­wed the ar­row down the hall and aro­und the cor­ner. The Je­ep rol­led to a stop on the ot­her si­de of the back do­or, and I das­hed out and hop­ped in on the pas­sen­ger si­de.

  No lights we­re on when Patch pul­led up to the farm­ho­use. I ex­pe­ri­en­ced a gu­ilty squ­e­eze in my sto­mach and won­de­red if my mom was dri­ving aro­und, lo­oking for me. The ra­in had di­ed, and fog pres­sed aga­inst the si­ding and hung on the shrubs li­ke Christ­mas tin­sel. The tre­es dot­ting the dri­ve­way we­re per­ma­nently twis­ted and mis­sha­pen from cons­tant nort­hern winds. All ho­uses lo­ok unin­vi­ting with the lights off af­ter dark, but the farm­ho­use with its small slits for win­dows, bo­wed ro­of, ca­ved-in porch, and wild bramb­les lo­oked ha­un­ted.

  "I'm go­ing to walk thro­ugh," Patch sa­id, swin­ging out.

  "Do you think Dab­ria's in­si­de?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "But it do­esn't hurt to check."

  I wa­ited in the Je­ep, and a few mi­nu­tes la­ter Patch wal­ked out the front do­or. "All cle­ar," he told me. "I'll dri­ve to the high scho­ol and co­me back he­re as so­on as I swe­ep her of­fi­ce. May­be she left so­met­hing use­ful be­hind." He didn't so­und li­ke he was co­un­ting on it.

  I un­buck­led my se­at belt and or­de­red my legs to carry me qu­ickly up the walk. As I tur­ned the do­ork­nob, I he­ard Patch back down the dri­ve­way. The porch bo­ards cre­aked un­der my fe­et and I sud­denly felt very alo­ne.

  Ke­eping the lights off, I crept thro­ugh the ho­use ro­om by ro­om, star­ting with the first flo­or, then wor­king my way ups­ta­irs. Patch had al­re­ady cle­ared the ho­use, but I didn't think an ext­ra pa­ir of eyes wo­uld hurt. Af­ter I was su­re no one was hi­ding un­der the fur­ni­tu­re, be­hind the sho­wer cur­ta­ins, or in the clo­sets, I tug­ged on Le­vi's and a black V-neck swe­ater. I fo­und the emer­gency cell pho­ne my mom kept in a first-aid kit un­der the bath­ro­om sink and di­aled her cell.

  She pic­ked up on the first ring. "Hel­lo? No­ra? Is that you? Whe­re are you? I've be­en wor­ri­ed sick!"

  I drew a de­ep bre­ath, pra­ying the right words wo­uld co­me to me and help me talk my way out of this.

  "He­re's the de­al-," I be­gan in my most sin­ce­re and apo­lo­ge­tic vo­ice. "Cas­ca­de Ro­ad flo­oded and they clo­sed it. I had to turn back and get a ro­om in Mil­li­ken Mil­ls-that's whe­re I am now. I tri­ed cal­ling ho­me, but ap­pa­rently the li­nes are down. I tri­ed yo­ur cell, but you didn't pick up."

  "Wa­it. You've be­en in Mil­li­ken Mills this who­le ti­me?"

  "Whe­re did y
ou think I was?"

  I ga­ve an ina­udib­le sigh of re­li­ef and lo­we­red myself on­to the ed­ge of the bath­tub. "I didn't know," I sa­id. "I co­uldn't get ahold of you, eit­her."

  "What num­ber are you cal­ling from?" Mom as­ked. "I don't re­cog­ni­ze this num­ber."

  "The emer­gency cell."

  "Whe­re's yo­ur pho­ne?"

  "I lost it."

  "What! Whe­re?"

  I ca­me to the rocky conc­lu­si­on that a lie of omis­si­on was the only way to go. I didn't want to alarm her. I al­so didn't want to be gro­un­ded for an in­ter­mi­nab­le length of ti­me. "It's mo­re li­ke I misp­la­ced it. I'm su­re it will pop up so­mew­he­re." On a de­ad wo­man's body.

  "I'll call you as so­on as they open the ro­ads," she sa­id.

  Next I cal­led Vee's cell. Af­ter fi­ve rings I was sent to vo­ice ma­il.

  "Whe­re are you?" I sa­id. "Call me back at this num­ber ASAP." I snap­ped the pho­ne shut and tuc­ked it in­to my poc­ket, trying to con­vin­ce myself Vee was fi­ne. But I knew it was a lie. The in­vi­sib­le thre­ad tying us to­get­her had be­en war­ning me for ho­urs now that she was in dan­ger. If anyt­hing, the fe­eling was he­igh­te­ning with each pas­sing mi­nu­te.

  In the kitc­hen I saw my bot­tle of iron pills on the co­un­ter, and I im­me­di­ately went for them, pop­ping the cap and swal­lo­wing two with a glass of cho­co­la­te milk. I sto­od in pla­ce a mo­ment, let­ting the iron work in­to my system, fe­eling my bre­at­hing de­epen and slow. I was wal­king the milk car­ton back to the frid­ge when I saw her stan­ding in the do­or­way bet­we­en the kitc­hen and la­undry ro­om.

  A cold, wet subs­tan­ce po­oled at my fe­et, and I re­ali­zed I'd drop­ped the milk. "Dab­ria?" I sa­id.

  She til­ted her he­ad to one si­de, sho­wing mild surp­ri­se. "You know my na­me?" She pa­used. "Ah, Patch."

  I bac­ked up to the sink, put­ting mo­re dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us. Dab­ria didn't lo­ok anyt­hing li­ke she did at scho­ol as Miss Gre­ene. To­night her ha­ir was tang­led, not smo­oth, and her lips we­re brigh­ter, a cer­ta­in hun­ger ref­lec­ted the­re. Her eyes we­re shar­per, a smud­ge of black rin­ging them.

  "What do you want?" I as­ked.

  She la­ug­hed, and it so­un­ded li­ke ice cu­bes tink­ling in a glass. "I want Patch."

  "Patch isn't he­re."

  She nod­ded. "I know. I wa­ited down the stre­et for him to le­ave be­fo­re I ca­me in. But that's not what I me­ant when I sa­id I want Patch."

  The blo­od po­un­ding thro­ugh my legs circ­led back to my he­art with a diz­zying ef­fect. I put one hand on the co­un­ter to ste­ady myself. "I know you we­re spying on me du­ring the co­un­se­ling ses­si­ons."

  "Is that all you know abo­ut me?" she as­ked, her eyes se­arc­hing mi­ne.

  I re­mem­be­red the night I was su­re so­me­one had lo­oked in my bed­ro­om win­dow. "You've be­en spying on me he­re, too," I sa­id.

  "This is the first ti­me I've be­en to yo­ur ho­use." She drag­ged her fin­ger along the ed­ge of the kitc­hen is­land and perc­hed her­self on a sto­ol. "Ni­ce pla­ce."

  "Let me ref­resh yo­ur me­mory," I sa­id, ho­ping I so­un­ded bra­ve. "You lo­oked in my bed­ro­om win­dow whi­le I was sle­eping."

  Her smi­le cur­ved high. "No, but I did fol­low you shop­ping. I at­tac­ked yo­ur fri­end and plan­ted lit­tle hints in her mind, ma­king her think Patch hurt her. It wasn't a far stretch. He's not exactly harm­less to be­gin with. It was in my best in­te­rest to ma­ke you as frigh­te­ned of him as pos­sib­le."

  "So I'd stay away from him."

  "But you didn't. You're still stan­ding in our way."

  "In yo­ur way of what?"

  "Co­me on, No­ra. If you know who I am, then you know how this works. I want him to get his wings back. He do­esn't be­long on Earth. He be­longs with me. He ma­de a mis­ta­ke, and I'm go­ing to cor­rect it." The­re was ab­so­lu­tely no comp­ro­mi­se in her vo­ice. She got off the sto­ol and wal­ked aro­und the is­land to­ward me.

  I bac­ked along the ed­ge of the outer co­un­ter, ke­eping spa­ce bet­we­en us. Rac­king my bra­in, I tri­ed to think of a way to dist­ract her. Or es­ca­pe. I'd li­ved in the ho­use six­te­en ye­ars. I knew the flo­or plan. I knew every sec­ret cre­vi­ce and the best hi­ding pla­ces. I com­man­ded my bra­in to co­me up with a plan: so­met­hing spur-of-the-mo­ment and bril­li­ant. My back met with the si­de­bo­ard.

  "As long as you're aro­und, Patch won't re­turn with me," Dab­ria sa­id.

  "I think you're ove­res­ti­ma­ting his fe­elings for me." It se­emed li­ke a go­od idea to downp­lay our re­la­ti­ons­hip. Dab­ria's pos­ses­si­ve­ness ap­pe­ared to be the ma­in for­ce dri­ving her to act.

  An inc­re­du­lo­us smi­le daw­ned on her fa­ce. "You think he has tho­se fe­elings for you? All this ti­me you tho­ught-" She bro­ke off, la­ug­hing. "He's not sta­ying be­ca­use he lo­ves you. He wants to kill you."

  I sho­ok my he­ad. "He's not go­ing to kill me."

  Dab­ria's smi­le har­de­ned at the ed­ges. "If that's what you be­li­eve, you're just anot­her girl he's se­du­ced to get what he wants. He has a ta­lent for it," she ad­ded shrewdly. "He se­du­ced yo­ur na­me right out of me, af­ter all. One soft to­uch from Patch was all it to­ok. I fell un­der his spell and told him de­ath was co­ming for you."

  I knew what she was tal­king abo­ut. I'd wit­nes­sed the exact mo­ment she was re­fer­ring to in­si­de Patch's me­mory.

  "And now he's do­ing the sa­me thing to you," she sa­id. "Bet­ra­yal hurts, do­esn't it?"

  I sho­ok my he­ad slowly. "No-"

  "He's plan­ning to use you as a sac­ri­fi­ce!" she erup­ted. "See that mark?" She thrust her fin­ger at my wrist. "It me­ans you're a fe­ma­le des­cen­dant of a Nep­hil. And not just any Nep­hil, but Cha­un­cey Lan­ge­a­is, Patch's vas­sal."

  I glan­ced at my scar, and for one he­art-stop­ping mo­ment, I ac­tu­al­ly be­li­eved her. But I knew bet­ter than to trust her.

  "The­re's a sac­red bo­ok, The Bo­ok of Enoch" she sa­id. "In it, a fal­len an­gel kills his Nep­hil vas­sal by sac­ri­fi­cing one of the Nep­hil's fe­ma­le des­cen­dants. You don't think Patch wants to kill you? What's the one thing he wants most? On­ce he sac­ri­fi­ces you, he'll be hu­man. He'll ha­ve everyt­hing he wants. And he won't co­me ho­me with me."

  She uns­he­at­hed a lar­ge kni­fe from the wo­od block on the co­un­ter. "And that's why I ha­ve to get rid of you. It ap­pe­ars that one way or anot­her, my pre­mo­ni­ti­ons we­re right. De­ath is co­ming for you."

  "Patch is co­ming back," I sa­id, my in­si­des sic­ke­ning. "Don't you want to talk this over with him?"

  "I'll ma­ke it qu­ick," she con­ti­nu­ed. "I'm an an­gel of de­ath. I carry so­uls to the af­ter­li­fe. As so­on as I fi­nish, I'll carry yo­ur so­ul thro­ugh the ve­il. You ha­ve not­hing to be af­ra­id of."

  I wan­ted to scre­am out, but my vo­ice was trap­ped at the back of my thro­at. I ed­ged aro­und the si­de­bo­ard, put­ting the kitc­hen tab­le bet­we­en us. "If you're an an­gel, whe­re are yo­ur wings?"

  "No mo­re qu­es­ti­ons." Her vo­ice had grown im­pa­ti­ent, and she be­gan clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us in ear­nest.

  "How long has it be­en sin­ce you left he­aven?" I as­ked, stal­ling. "You've be­en down he­re for se­ve­ral months, right? Don't you think the ot­her an­gels ha­ve no­ti­ced you're mis­sing?"

  "Not anot­her step," she snap­ped, ra­ising the kni­fe, scat­te­ring light off the bla­de.

  "You're go­ing to a lot of tro­ub­le for Patch," I sa­id, my vo­ice not ne­arly as de­vo­id of pa­nic as I wan­ted. "I'm surp­ri­sed you don't re­sent him for using you when it su­its his pur­po­se. I'm surp­ri­sed you want him to get his wings back at all. Af­ter what he did to you, aren't you happy he's ba­nis­hed he­re?"

  "He left me for a worth­less hu­man girl!" she spat, her eyes a fi­ery blue.

  "He didn't le­ave you. Not re­al­ly. He fell-"