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  And then, thro­ugh the fe­ar and pa­nic, I he­ard Patch's vo­ice. Block him out Ke­ep clim­bing. The lad­der's in­tact.

  "I can't," I sob­bed. "I'll fall!"

  Block him out. Clo­se yo­ur eyes. Lis­ten to my vo­ice.

  Swal­lo­wing, I for­ced my eyes shut. I clung to Patch's vo­ice and felt a sturdy sur­fa­ce ta­ke sha­pe be­ne­ath me. My fe­et we­re no lon­ger han­ging in air. I felt one of the lad­der rungs dig­ging in­to the balls of my fe­et. Fo­cu­sing with re­sol­ve on Patch's vo­ice, I wa­ited un­til the world crept back in­to pla­ce. Patch was right. I was on the lad­der. It was up­right, se­cu­red to the wall. I re­ga­ined a me­asu­re of de­ter­mi­na­ti­on and con­ti­nu­ed clim­bing.

  At the top I eased myself pre­ca­ri­o­usly on­to the clo­sest raf­ter. I got my arms aro­und it, then swung my right leg up and over. I was fa­cing the wall, with my back to the air shaft, but the­re was not­hing I co­uld do now. Very ca­re­ful­ly, I ro­se up on my kne­es. Using all my con­cent­ra­ti­on, I star­ting inc­hing back­ward ac­ross the ex­pan­se of the gym.

  But it was too la­te.

  Jules had clim­bed qu­ickly, and was now less than fif­te­en fe­et away from me. He clim­bed on­to the raf­ter. Hand over hand, he drag­ged him­self to­ward me. A dark slash on the in­si­de of his wrist ca­ught my eye. It in­ter­sec­ted his ve­ins at a ni­nety-deg­ree ang­le and was ne­arly black in co­lor. To an­yo­ne el­se, it might ha­ve lo­oked li­ke a scar. To me, it me­ant so much mo­re. The fa­mily con­nec­ti­on was ob­vi­o­us. We sha­red the sa­me blo­od, and it sho­wed in our iden­ti­cal marks.

  We we­re both strad­dling the raf­ter, sit­ting fa­ce-to-fa­ce, ten fe­et apart.

  "Any last words?" Jules sa­id.

  I lo­oked down, even tho­ugh it ma­de me dizzy. Patch was far be­low on the gym flo­or, still as de­ath. Right then, I wan­ted to go back in ti­me and re­li­ve ever) mo­ment with him. One mo­re sec­ret smi­le, one mo­re sha­red la­ugh. One mo­re elect­ric kiss. Fin­ding him was li­ke fin­ding so­me­one I didn't know I was se­arc­hing for. He'd co­me in­to my li­fe too la­te, and now was le­aving too so­on. I re­mem­be­red him tel­ling me he'd gi­ve up everyt­hing for me. He al­re­ady had. He'd gi­ven up a hu­man body of his own so I co­uld li­ve.

  I wob­bled ac­ci­den­tal­ly, and ins­tinc­ti­vely drop­ped lo­wer to ba­lan­ce myself.

  Jules's eyes we­re de­vo­id of light. They we­re tra­ined on me, ab­sor­bing every word I spo­ke. I co­uld tell by his exp­res­si­on that he was we­ig­hing my words. A flush ro­se in his fa­ce, and I knew he be­li­eved me. "You-," he sput­te­red.

  He slid to­ward me with fran­tic spe­ed, si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly re­ac­hing in­to his wa­ist­band to draw the gun.

  Te­ars stung my eyes. With no ti­me for se­cond tho­ughts, I threw myself off the raf­ter.

  Jules's la­ugh­ter car­ri­ed li­ke a cold whis­per. "It ma­kes no dif­fe­ren­ce to me whet­her I sho­ot you or you fall to yo­ur de­ath."

  "It do­es ma­ke a dif­fe­ren­ce," I sa­id, my vo­ice small but con­fi­dent. "You and I sha­re the sa­me blo­od." I lif­ted my hand pre­ca­ri­o­usly, sho­wing him my birth­mark. "I'm yo­ur des­cen­dant. If I sac­ri­fi­ce my blo­od, Patch will be­co­me hu­man and you'll die. It's writ­ten in The Bo­ok of Enoch"

  CHAPTER 30

  A DO­OR OPE­NED AND CLO­SED. I WA­ITED TO HE­AR fo­ots­teps ap­pro­ach, but the only so­und ca­me from the tic­king of a clock: a rhythmic, ste­ady po­un­ding thro­ugh the si­len­ce.

  The so­und be­gan to fa­de, win­ding down. I won­de­red if I wo­uld he­ar it stop comp­le­tely. I sud­denly fe­ared that mo­ment, un­su­re of what ca­me af­ter.

  A much mo­re vib­rant so­und ec­lip­sed the clock. It was a re­as­su­ring, et­he­re­al so­und, a me­lo­dic dan­ce on air. Wings, I tho­ught. Co­ming to ta­ke me away.

  I held my bre­ath, wa­iting, wa­iting, wa­iting. And then the clock be­gan to go in re­ver­se. Ins­te­ad of slo­wing, the be­at be­ca­me mo­re cer­ta­in. A spi­ral-li­ke li­qu­id for­med in­si­de me, co­iling de­eper and de­eper. I felt myself pul­led in­to the cur­rent. I was sli­ding down thro­ugh myself, in­to a dark, warm pla­ce.

  My eyes flic­ke­red open to fa­mi­li­ar oak pa­ne­ling on the slo­ped ce­iling abo­ve me. My bed­ro­om. A sen­se of re­as­su­ran­ce flo­oded over me, and then I re­mem­be­red whe­re I'd be­en. In the gym with Jules.

  A shi­ver slid over my skin.

  "Patch?" I sa­id, my vo­ice ho­ar­se from di­su­se. I tri­ed to sit up, then ga­ve a muf­fled cry. So­met­hing was wrong with my body. Every musc­le, bo­ne, cell was so­re. I felt li­ke one gi­ant bru­ise.

  The­re was mo­ve­ment ne­ar the do­or­way. Patch le­aned aga­inst the do­orj­amb. His mo­ut­hed was pres­sed tight and lac­ked its usu­al twin­ge of hu­mor. His eyes held mo­re depth than I'd ever se­en be­fo­re. They we­re shar­pe­ned by a pro­tec­ti­ve ed­ge.

  "That was a go­od fight back in the gym," he sa­id. "But I think you co­uld be­ne­fit from a few mo­re bo­xing les­sons."

  On a wa­ve, everyt­hing ca­me back to me. Te­ars rol­led up from de­ep in­si­de me. "What hap­pe­ned? Whe­re is Jules? How did I get he­re?" My vo­ice crac­ked with pa­nic. "I threw myself off the raf­ter."

  "That to­ok a lot of co­ura­ge." Patch's vo­ice tur­ned husky, and he step­ped all the way in­si­de my bed­ro­om. He clo­sed the do­or be­hind him, and I knew it was his way of trying to lock out all the bad. He was put­ting a di­vi­de bet­we­en me and everyt­hing that had hap­pe­ned.

  He wal­ked over and sat on the bed be­si­de me. "What el­se do you re­mem­ber?"

  I tri­ed to pi­ece my me­mo­ri­es to­get­her, wor­king back­ward. I re­mem­be­red the be­ating wings I'd he­ard shortly af­ter I flung myself off the raf­ter. Wit­ho­ut any do­ubt, I knew I'd di­ed. I knew an an­gel had co­me to carry my so­ul away.

  "I'm de­ad, aren't I?" I sa­id qu­i­etly, re­eling with fright. "Am I a ghost?"

  "When you jum­ped, the sac­ri­fi­ce kil­led Jules. Tech­ni­cal­ly, when you ca­me back, he sho­uld ha­ve too. But sin­ce he didn't ha­ve a so­ul, he had not­hing to re­vi­ve his body."

  "I ca­me back?" I sa­id, ho­ping I wasn't fil­ling myself with fal­se ho­pe.

  "I didn't ac­cept yo­ur sac­ri­fi­ce. I tur­ned it down."

  I felt a small Oh form at my mo­uth, but it ne­ver qu­ite ma­de it past my lips. "Are you sa­ying you ga­ve up get­ting a hu­man body for me?"

  He lif­ted my ban­da­ged hand. Un­der­ne­ath all the ga­uze, my knuck­les throb­bed from punc­hing Jules. Patch kis­sed each fin­ger, ta­king his ti­me, ke­eping his eyes glu­ed to mi­ne. "What go­od is a body if I can't ha­ve you?"

  He­avi­er te­ard­rops rol­led down my che­eks, and Patch pul­led me to him, tuc­king my he­ad aga­inst his chest. Very slowly the pa­nic ed­ged away, and I knew it was all over. I was go­ing to be all right.

  Sud­denly I pul­led away. If Patch had tur­ned down the sac­ri­fi­ce, then-

  "You sa­ved my li­fe. Turn aro­und," I or­de­red so­lemnly.

  Patch ga­ve a sly smi­le and in­dul­ged my re­qu­est. I tuc­ked his T-shirt up to his sho­ul­ders. His back was smo­oth, de­fi­ned musc­le. The scars we­re go­ne.

  "You can't see my wings," he sa­id. "They're ma­de of spi­ri­tu­al mat­ter."

  "You're a gu­ar­di­an an­gel now." I was still too much in awe to wrap my mind aro­und it, but at the sa­me ti­me I felt ama­ze­ment, cu­ri­osity… hap­pi­ness.

  "I'm yo­ur gu­ar­di­an an­gel," he sa­id.

  "I get my very own gu­ar­di­an an­gel? What, exactly, is yo­ur job desc­rip­ti­on?"

  "Gu­ard yo­ur body." His smi­le tip­ped hig­her. "I ta­ke my job se­ri­o­usly, which
me­ans I'm go­ing to ne­ed to get ac­qu­a­in­ted with the su­bj­ect mat­ter on a per­so­nal le­vel."

  My sto­mach went all flut­tery. "Do­es this me­an you can fe­el now?"

  Patch watc­hed me in si­len­ce for a mo­ment. "No, but it do­es me­an I'm not black­lis­ted."

  Downs­ta­irs, I he­ard the qu­i­et rumb­le of the ga­ra­ge do­or gli­ding open.

  "My mom!" I gas­ped. I fo­und the clock on the nights­tand. It was just af­ter two in the mor­ning. "They must ha­ve ope­ned the brid­ge.

  How do­es this who­le gu­ar­di­an an­gel bu­si­ness work? Am I the only per­son who can see you? I me­an, are you in­vi­sib­le to ever­yo­ne el­se?"

  Patch sta­red at me li­ke he ho­ped I wasn't se­ri­o­us.

  "You're not in­vi­sib­le?" I squ­e­aked. "You ha­ve to get out of he­re!" I ma­de a mo­ve­ment to push Patch off the bed but was cut short by a se­aring jab in my ribs. "She'll kill me if she finds you in he­re. Can you climb tre­es? Tell me you can climb a tree!"

  Patch grin­ned. "I can fly."

  Oh. Right. Well, okay.

  "The po­li­ce and fi­re de­part­ment we­re he­re ear­li­er," Patch sa­id. "The mas­ter bed­ro­om will ne­ed to be gut­ted, but they stop­ped the fi­re from spre­ading. The po­li­ce will be back. They're go­ing to ha­ve a few qu­es­ti­ons. If I had to gu­ess, they al­re­ady tri­ed re­ac­hing you on the cell you cal­led 911 on."

  "Jules to­ok it."

  He nod­ded. "I fi­gu­red. I don't ca­re what you tell the po­li­ce, but I'd ap­pre­ci­ate it if you left me out of it." He slid my bed­ro­om win­dow open. "Last thing. Vee got to the po­li­ce in ti­me. Pa­ra­me­dics sa­ved El­li­ot. He's in the hos­pi­tal, but he'll be all right."

  Down the hall, at the bot­tom of the sta­irs, I he­ard the ho­use do­or shut. My mom was in­si­de.

  "No­ra?" she cal­led. She tos­sed her pur­se and keys on the entry tab­le. Her high he­els clic­ked ac­ross the wo­od flo­ors, al­most at a run­ning pa­ce. "No­ra! The­re's po­li­ce ta­pe on the front do­or! What is go­ing on?"

  I lo­oked to the win­dow. Patch was go­ne, but a sing­le black fe­at­her was pres­sed to the outer pa­ne, held in pla­ce by last night's ra­in. Or an­gel ma­gic.

  Downs­ta­irs, my mom flic­ked on the hall light, a fa­int ray of it stretc­hing all the way un­der the crack at the bot­tom of my do­or. I held my bre­ath and co­un­ted se­conds, as­su­ming I had abo­ut two mo­re be­fo­re-

  She shri­eked. "No­ra! What hap­pe­ned to the ba­nis­ter!

  Go­od thing she hadn't se­en her bed­ro­om yet.

  The sky was a per­fect, rin­sed blue. The sun was just star­ting to fan out ac­ross the ho­ri­zon. It was Mon­day, a brand-new day, the hor­rors of the past twenty-fo­ur ho­urs far be­hind. I had fi­ve ho­urs of sle­ep un­der my belt, and ot­her than the all-over body pa­in that ca­me from be­ing suc­ked in­to de­ath, then spat back out, I felt re­mar­kably ref­res­hed. I didn't want to hang a black clo­ud over the mo­ment by re­min­ding myself that the po­li­ce we­re ex­pec­ted to ar­ri­ve any mi­nu­te to ta­ke my sta­te­ment on the night's events. I still hadn't ma­de up my mind what I was go­ing to tell them.

  I pad­ded to the bath­ro­om in my nights­hirt-men­tal­ly bloc­king the qu­es­ti­on of how I'd chan­ged in­to it, sin­ce I'd pre­su­mably be­en we­aring clot­hes when Patch bro­ught me ho­me-and sped thro­ugh my mor­ning ro­uti­ne. I splas­hed cold wa­ter on my fa­ce, scrub­bed my te­eth, and ta­med my ha­ir back in­to a rub­ber band. In my bed­ro­om, I pul­led on a cle­an shirt, cle­an je­ans.

  I cal­led Vee.

  "How are you do­ing?" I as­ked.

  "Go­od. How are you?"

  "Go­od."

  Si­len­ce.

  "Okay," Vee sa­id in a rush, "I am still to­tal­ly fre­aked out. You?"

  "To­tal­ly."

  "Patch cal­led me in the mid­dle of the night. He sa­id Jules ro­ug­hed you up pretty bad, but that you we­re okay."

  "Re­al­ly? Patch cal­led you?"

  "He cal­led from the Je­ep. He sa­id you we­re as­le­ep in the back­se­at and he was dri­ving you ho­me. He sa­id he just hap­pe­ned to be dri­ving past the high scho­ol when he he­ard a scre­am. He sa­id he fo­und you in the gym, but that you'd fa­in­ted from pa­in. The next thing he knew, he lo­oked up and saw Jules jump off the raf­ter. He sa­id Jules must ha­ve snap­ped, a si­de ef­fect from all the bur­den­so­me gu­ilt he felt over ter­ro­ri­zing you."

  I didn't re­ali­ze I was hol­ding my bre­ath un­til I let go of it. Ob­vi­o­usly, Patch had ma­ni­pu­la­ted a few de­ta­ils.

  "You know I'm not bu­ying it," Vee con­ti­nu­ed. "You know I think Patch kil­led Jules."

  In Vee's po­si­ti­on, I'd pro­bably think si­mi­larly. I sa­id, "What do the po­li­ce think?"

  'Turn on the TV. The­re's li­ve co­ve­ra­ge right now, Chan­nel Fi­ve. They're sa­ying Jules bro­ke in­to the scho­ol and jum­ped. They're ru­ling it a tra­gic te­en su­ici­de. They're as­king pe­op­le with in­for­ma­ti­on to call the hot­li­ne lis­ted at the bot­tom of the scre­en."

  "What did you tell the po­li­ce when you first cal­led it in?"

  "I was sca­red. I didn't want to get bus­ted for B and E. So I cal­led in anony­mo­usly from a pay pho­ne."

  "Well," I sa­id at last, "if the po­li­ce are ru­ling it a su­ici­de, I gu­ess that's what hap­pe­ned. Af­ter all, this is mo­dern-day Ame­ri­ca. We ha­ve the be­ne­fit of fo­ren­sics."

  "You're ke­eping so­met­hing from me," sa­id Vee. "What re­al­ly hap­pe­ned af­ter I left?"

  This is whe­re it got stick). Vee was my best fri­end, and we li­ved by the mot­to No Sec­rets. But so­me things are just im­pos­sib­le to exp­la­in. The fact that Patch was a fal­len-tur­ned-gu­ar­di­an an­gel top­ped the list. Di­rectly be­low it was the fact that I'd jum­ped off a raf­ter and di­ed, but was still ali­ve to­day.

  "I re­mem­ber Jules cor­ne­ring me in the gym," I sa­id. "He told me all the pa­in and fe­ar he was go­ing to inf­lict. Af­ter that, the de­ta­ils get hazy."

  "Is it too la­te to apo­lo­gi­ze?" Vee sa­id, so­un­ding mo­re sin­ce­re than she had in our who­le fri­ends­hip. "You we­re right abo­ut Jules and El­li­ot."

  "Apo­logy ac­cep­ted."

  "We sho­uld go to the mall," she sa­id. "I fe­el this overw­hel­ming ne­ed to buy sho­es. Lots of them. What we ne­ed is so­me go­od old-fas­hi­oned shoe-shop­ping the­rapy."

  The do­or­bell rang, and I glan­ced at the clock. "I ha­ve to gi­ve the po­li­ce my sta­te­ment abo­ut what hap­pe­ned last night, but I'll call you af­ter that."

  "Last night?" Vee's to­ne shot up with pa­nic. "They know you we­re at the scho­ol? You didn't gi­ve them my na­me, did you?"

  "Actu­al­ly, so­met­hing hap­pe­ned ear­li­er in the night." So­met­hing na­med Dab­ria. "I'll call you so­on," I sa­id, han­ging up be­fo­re I had to lie my way thro­ugh anot­her exp­la­na­ti­on.

  Lim­ping down the hall, I'd ma­de it as far as the top of the sta­irs when I saw who my mom had in­vi­ted in­si­de.

  De­tec­ti­ves Bas­so and Hols­ti­j­ic.

  She led them in­to the li­ving ro­om, and alt­ho­ugh De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic col­lap­sed on­to the so­fa, De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so re­ma­ined stan­ding. He had his back to me, but a step cre­aked half­way thro­ugh my des­cent, and he tur­ned aro­und.

  "No­ra Grey," he sa­id in his to­ugh cop vo­ice. "We me­et aga­in."

  My mom blin­ked. "You've met be­fo­re?"

  "Yo­ur da­ugh­ter has an ex­ci­ting li­fe. Se­ems li­ke we're he­re every we­ek."

  My mom aimed a qu­es­ti­oning glan­ce at me and I shrug­ged, clu­eless, as if to gu­ess, Cop hu­mor?

  "Why don't you ha­ve a se­at,
No­ra, and tell us what hap­pe­ned," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id.

  I lo­we­red myself in­to one of the plush armc­ha­irs op­po­si­te the so­fa. "Just be­fo­re ni­ne last night I was in the kitc­hen drin­king a glass of cho­co­la­te milk when Miss Gre­ene, my scho­ol psycho­lo­gist-appe­ared."

  "She just wal­ked in­to yo­ur ho­use?" De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so as­ked.

  "She told me I had so­met­hing she wan­ted, and that's when I ran ups­ta­irs and loc­ked myself in the mas­ter bed­ro­om."

  "Back up," sa­id De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so. "What was this thing she wan­ted?"

  "She didn't say. But she did men­ti­on she's not a re­al psycho­lo­gist. She sa­id she was using the job to spy on stu­dents." I di­vi­ded a glan­ce among ever­yo­ne. "She's crazy, right?"

  The de­tec­ti­ves sha­red a lo­ok.

  "I'll run her na­me, see what I can find," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id, pul­ling him­self back to his fe­et.

  "Let me get this stra­ight," De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sa­id to me. "She ac­cu­sed you of ste­aling so­met­hing that be­lon­ged to her, but she ne­ver sa­id what?"

  Anot­her sticky qu­es­ti­on. "She was hyste­ri­cal. I only un­ders­to­od half of what she was sa­ying. I ran and loc­ked myself in­si­de the mas­ter bed­ro­om, but she bro­ke down the do­or. I was hi­ding in­si­de the flue of the fi­rep­la­ce, and she sa­id she'd burn the ho­use down ro­om by ro­om to find me. Then she star­ted a fi­re. Right the­re in the mid­dle of the ro­om."

  "How did she start the fi­re?" my mom as­ked.

  "I co­uldn't see. I was in the flue."

  "This is crazy," De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sa­id, sha­king his he­ad. "I've ne­ver se­en anyt­hing li­ke this."

  "Is she go­ing to co­me back?" my mom as­ked the de­tec­ti­ves, co­ming over to stand be­hind me and pla­cing her hands pro­tec­ti­vely on my sho­ul­ders. "Is No­ra sa­fe?"

  "Might want to see abo­ut get­ting a se­cu­rity system ins­tal­led." De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so ope­ned his wal­let and held out a card to Mom. "I vo­uch for the­se guys. Tell them I sent you, and they'll gi­ve you a dis­co­unt."