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  I felt Patch smile. “I’m a private contractor now. I choose my clients, not the other way around.”

  “Why did Hank hide me but not Marcie?” I turned my face into his shirt so he wouldn’t see my eyes. I didn’t care about Hank. Not at all. He was nothing to me, and yet, in a secret place in my heart, I wanted him to love me as much as Marcie. I was his daughter too. But all I saw was that he’d chosen Marcie over me. He’d sent me away and doted on her.

  “I don’t know.” It was so quiet I could hear him breathing. “Marcie doesn’t have your mark. Hank does, and Chauncey did. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, Angel.”

  My eyes traveled to the inside of my right wrist, to the dark slash that people often mistook as a scar. I’d always thought the birthmark was unique. Until I met Chauncey. And now Hank. I had a feeling the meaning behind the mark went deeper than linking me biologically to Chauncey’s bloodline, and it was a frightening thought.

  “You’re safe with me,” Patch murmured, caressing my arms.

  After a beat of silence, I said, “Where does this leave us?”

  “Together.” He lifted his eyebrows in question and crossed his fingers, as if begging for luck.

  “We fight a lot,” I said.

  “We also make up a lot.” Patch reached for my hand and pushed my dad’s ring off the tip of his finger and into my palm, curling my fingers around it. He kissed my knuckles. “I was going to give this back earlier, but it wasn’t finished.”

  I opened my palm and held the ring up. The same heart was engraved on the underside, but now there were two names carved on either side of it: NORA and JEV.

  I looked up. “Jev? That’s your real name?”

  “Nobody’s called me that in a long time.” He stroked his finger across my lip, assessing me with his soft black eyes.

  Desire melted through me, hot and urgent.

  Apparently feeling the same way, Patch shut the door and turned the lock. He flipped the main light off, and the room settled into darkness, lit only by the moonlight sifting through the drapes. At the same time, our eyes shifted to the sofa.

  “My mom’s coming home soon,” I said. “We should go to your place.”

  Patch ran a hand across the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “I have rules about who I take there.”

  I was getting really tired of that answer.

  “If you showed me, you’d have to kill me?” I guessed, fighting the urge to feel irritated. “Once I’m inside, I can never leave?”

  Patch studied me a moment. Then he reached into his pocket, twisted a key off his key chain, and slipped it into the front pocket of my pajama top.

  “Once you’ve gone inside, you have to keep coming back.”

  Forty minutes later, I discovered which door the key unlocked. Patch pulled the Jeep into Delphic amusement park’s vacant parking lot. We crossed the lot hand in hand, a cool summer breeze tangling my hair in my face. Patch creaked the gate open, holding it while I passed through.

  Delphic had a completely different feel without the barrage of noise and carnival lights. A quiet, haunted, magical place. A discarded soda can scraped the pavement as the breeze pushed it along. Sticking to the walkway, I kept my eyes fastened on the dark skeleton of the Archangel rising up against the black sky. The air smelled like rain. A distant grumble of thunder reeled overhead.

  Just north of the Archangel, Patch pulled me off the walkway. We climbed the steps to a utility shed. He unlocked the door just as a pattering of rain spilled from the sky, dancing on the pavement. The door swung shut behind me, shrouding us in stormy darkness. The park was eerily quiet, except for the steady rat-a-tat of rain splattering the roof. I felt Patch move behind me, his hands on my waist, his voice soft in my ear.

  “Delphic was built by fallen angels, and is the one place the archangels won’t go near. It’s just you and me tonight, Angel.”

  I turned, absorbing the heat of his body. Patch tipped my chin up and kissed me. The kiss was warm and sent a shiver of pleasure through me. His hair was damp from rain, and I could smell a faint trace of soap. Our mouths slipped over each other, our skin slick with rain that dripped through the low ceiling, sprinkling us with little pricks of cold. Patch’s arms enveloped me, holding me with an intensity that only made me want to sink deeper into him.

  He sucked some of the rain from my bottom lip, and I felt his mouth smile against mine. He swept my hair aside and kissed me just above the collarbone. He nibbled at my ear, then sank his teeth into my shoulder.

  I hung my fingertips on his waistband, tugging him closer.

  Patch buried his face in the curve of my shoulder, his hands flexing over my back. He gave a low groan. “I love you,” he murmured into my hair. “I’m happier right now than I ever remember being.”

  “How very touching.” A deep voice carried out of the darkest part of the shed, along the back wall. “Seize the angel.”

  A handful of overly tall young men, undoubtedly Nephilim, came out of the shadows and surrounded Patch, twisting his arms behind his back. To my confusion, Patch let them do it without resistance.

  When I start fighting, run, Patch spoke to my thoughts, and I realized he’d stalled fighting to speak to me, to help me find a way out. I’ll distract them. You run. Take the Jeep. Do you remember how to hot-wire it? Don’t go home. Stay in the Jeep until I find you—

  The man who lingered at the back of the shed, commanding the others, stepped forward into a hazy ray of light slicing through one of the shed’s many cracks. He was tall, lean, handsome, unnaturally young-looking for his age, and dressed impeccably in a white country-club polo and cotton twill pants.

  “Mr. Millar,” I whispered. I couldn’t think of anything else to call him. Hank seemed too informal; Dad seemed revoltingly intimate.

  “Let me introduce myself properly,” he said. “I’m the Black Hand. I knew your father Harrison well. I’m glad he’s not here now to see you debasing yourself with one of the devil’s brood.” He wagged his head. “You’re not the girl I thought you’d grow up to be, Nora. Fraternizing with the enemy, making a mockery of your heritage. I believe you even blew up one of my Nephilim safe houses last night. But no matter. I can forgive that.” He paused with significance. “Tell me, Nora. Was it you who killed my dear friend Chauncey Langeais?”

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Becca Fitzpatrick

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Also available in a hardcover edition

  Book design by Lucy Ruth Cummins

  The text for this book is set in Seria.

  First paperback edition January 2012

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Fitzpatrick, Becca.

  Crescendo / Becca Fitzpatrick. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: Hush, hush.

  Summary: Sixteen-year-old Nora Grey struggles to face the truth while coping with having a fallen angel boyfriend named Patch and unraveling the mystery surrounding her father’s death.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-8943-1 (hardcover)

  [1. Good and evil—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Angels—Fiction. 4. Fathers and daughters—

 
Fiction. 5. Secrets—Fiction. 6. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F5777Cr 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010017984

  ISBN 978-1-4169-8944-8 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-4424-0962-0 (eBook)

  To Riley and Jace

  xoxo

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  COLDWATER, MAINE THREE MONTHS AGO

  THE SLEEK BLACK AUDI ROLLED TO A STOP IN THE parking lot overlooking the cemetery, but none of the three men inside had any intention of paying respects to the dead. The hour burned past midnight, and the grounds were officially closed. A strange summer fog hung thin and dreary, like a string of rising ghosts. Even the moon, a slender waxing crescent, resembled a drooping eyelid. Before the road dust settled, the driver leaped out, promptly opening the two rear car doors.

  Blakely exited first. He stood tall with graying hair and a hard, rectangular face—nearly thirty in human years, though markedly older by Nephilim count. He was followed by a second Nephil named Hank Millar. Hank, too, was uncommonly tall with blond hair, snapping blue eyes, and charismatic good looks. His creed was “Justice over mercy,” and that, combined with his quick rise to power in the Nephilim underworld during the last few years, had earned him the nicknames the Fist of Justice, Iron Fist, and most famously, the Black Hand. He was hailed among his people as a visionary leader, a savior. But in smaller backroom circles, he was quietly referred to as the Blood Hand. Hushed voices murmured not of a redeemer, but of a ruthless dictator. Hank found their nervous chatter amusing; a true dictator had absolute power and no opposition. Hopefully, someday he could live up to their expectations.

  Hank stepped out and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. “Are my men assembled?”

  “Ten men in the woods above us,” Blakely answered. “Another ten in cars at both exits. Five are hiding at various points within the cemetery; three just inside the doors of the mausoleum, and two along the fence. Any more, and we’d give ourselves away. Undoubtedly, the man you are meeting tonight will come with his own backup.”

  Hank smiled in the darkness. “Oh, I rather doubt that.”

  Blakely blinked. “You brought twenty-five of your best Nephilim fighters to go against one man?”

  “Not a man,” Hank reminded him. “I don’t want anything to go wrong tonight.”

  “We have Nora. If he gives you trouble, put him on the phone with her. They say angels can’t feel touch, but emotions are fair game. I’m certain he’ll feel it when she screams. Dagger is standing by, at the ready.”

  Hank turned to Blakely, giving him a slow, appraising smile. “Dagger is watching her? He’s hardly sane.”

  “You said you wanted to break her spirit.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” Hank mused. It had been four short days since he’d taken her captive, dragging her out of a maintenance shed inside Delphic Amusement Park, but he’d already determined precisely which lessons she needed to learn. First, never to undermine his authority in front of his men. Second, devotion to her Nephilim bloodline. And perhaps most important, to show her own father respect.

  Blakely handed Hank a small mechanical device with a button at the center that glowed an unearthly shade of blue. “Put this in your pocket. Press the blue button and your men will swarm in from every direction.”

  “Has it been enhanced with devilcraft?” Hank asked.

  A nod. “Upon activation, it is designed to temporarily immobilize the angel. I can’t say for how long. This is a prototype, and I haven’t thoroughly tested it.”

  “Have you spoken of this to anyone?”

  “You ordered me not to, sir.”

  Satisfied, Hank pocketed the device. “Wish me luck, Blakely.”

  His friend patted his shoulder. “You don’t need it.”

  Flicking aside his cigarette, Hank descended the stone steps leading to the cemetery, a rather foggy patch of land that made his vantage point useless. He’d hoped to see the angel first, from above, but was comforted by the knowledge that he was backed by his own handpicked and highly trained militia.

  At the base of the steps, Hank peered through the shadows warily. It had started to drizzle, washing out the fog. He could make out towering gravestones and trees that twisted wildly. The cemetery was overgrown and almost mazelike. No wonder Blakely had suggested the spot. The likelihood of human eyes accidentally witnessing tonight’s events was negligible.

  There. Ahead. The angel leaned on a gravestone, but at the sight of Hank, he straightened. Dressed strictly in black, including a leather motorcycle jacket, he was difficult to distinguish from the shadows. He hadn’t shaved in days, his hair was unruly and unkempt, and there were lines of worry around his mouth. Mourning the disappearance of his girlfriend, then? All the better.

  “You look a little worse for wear … Patch, is it?” Hank said, stopping a few feet away.

  The angel smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. “And here I thought maybe you’d had a few sleepless nights yourself. After all, she’s your own flesh and blood. From the looks of it, you’ve been getting your beauty sleep. Rixon always said you were a pretty boy.”

  Hank let the insult roll off. Rixon was the fallen angel who used to possess his body every year during the month of Cheshvan, and he was as good as dead. With him gone, there was nothing left in the world that frightened Hank. “Well? What do you have for me? It had better be good.”

  “I paid a visit to your house, but you’d skulked off into hiding with your tail between your legs and taken your family with you,” the angel said in a low voice resonating with something Hank couldn’t quite interpret. It was halfway between contempt and … mockery.

  “Yes, I thought you might try something rash. An eye for an eye, isn’t that the creed of fallen angels?” Hank couldn’t tell if he was impressed by the angel’s cool demeanor, or irritated. He’d expected to find the angel frantic and desperate. At the very least, he’d hoped to provoke him to violence. Any excuse to bring his men running. Nothing like a bloodbath to instill camaraderie. “Let’s cut the pleasantries. Tell me you brought me something useful.”

  The angel shrugged. “Playing your rat seemed unimportant next to finding where you’ve stashed your daughter.”

  The muscles in Hank’s jaw tightened. “This wasn’t the deal.”

  “I’ll get you the information you need,” the angel answered, almost conversationally if it weren’t for that chilling gleam in his eyes. “But first release Nora. Get your men on the phone now.”

  “I need insurance you’ll cooperate long-term. I’m keeping her until you make good on your side of the deal.”

  The corners of the angel’s mouth tipped up, but it was hardly a smile. There was something truly menacing in the result. “I’m not here to negotiate.”

  “You aren’t in a position to.” Hank reached into his breast pocket and retrieved his phone. “I’m out of patience. If you’ve wasted my time tonight, it’s going to be an unpleasant night for your girlfriend. One call, and she goes hungry
—”

  Before he had time to carry out his threat, Hank felt himself tripping backward. The angel’s arms flashed out, and all air escaped Hank in a rush. His head hit something solid, and waves of black rolled across his vision.

  “This is how it’s going to work,” the angel hissed. Hank tried to muster a shout, but the angel’s hand was clenched at his throat. Hank kicked his feet, but the gesture was pointless; the angel was too strong. He scratched for the panic button in his pocket, but his fingers fumbled uselessly. The angel had cut off his oxygen. Red lights popped behind his eyes and his chest felt as though a stone had rolled on top of it.

  In a burst of inspiration, Hank invaded the angel’s mind, teasing apart the threads that formed his thoughts, focusing fixedly on redirecting the angel’s intentions, weakening his motivation, all the while whispering a hypnotic, Release Hank Millar, release him now—

  “A mind-trick?” the angel scorned. “Don’t bother. Make the call,” he commanded. “If she walks free in the next two minutes, I’ll kill you quickly. Anything longer than that, and I will rip you apart, one piece at a time. And trust me when I say I will enjoy every last scream you utter.”

  “Can’t—kill—me!” Hank sputtered.

  He felt a searing pain erupt across his cheek. He howled, but the sound never made it past his lips. His windpipe was crushed, vised in the angel’s grip. The raw, burning pain intensified, and all around, Hank could smell blood mixed with his own perspiration.

  “One piece at a time,” the angel hissed, dangling something papery and drenched in dark liquid over Hank’s whirling vision.

  Hank felt his eyes widen. His skin!

  “Call your men,” the angel ordered, sounding infinitely less patient.

  “Can’t—talk!” Hank gurgled. If he could only reach the panic button …

  Swear an oath to release her now, and I’ll let you talk. The angel’s threat slipped easily into Hank’s head.

  You’re making a big mistake, boy, Hank fired back. His fingers brushed his pocket, slipping inside. He clenched the panic device.