The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 18

  “Nora’s referring to Bo’s Arcade,” Patch explained. “But that’s not where I’m headed. I’ve got a few errands to run.”

  “I’ve never been to Bo’s,” she said.

  “It’s not all that exciting,” I said. “You’re not missing anything.”

  “Wait,” said Mom, sounding a lot like a red flag had just sprung up in her memory. “Is it out on the coast? Close to Delphic Seaport? Wasn’t there a shootout at Bo’s several years ago?”

  “It’s tamer than it used to be,” Patch said. I narrowed my eyes at him. He’d beaten me to the punch. I’d planned on outright lying about Bo’s having any history of violence.

  “Would you like to come in for ice cream?” Mom asked, sounding flustered, caught between doing the polite thing and acting on the impulse to drag me inside and bolt the door. “We only have vanilla,” she added to sour the deal. “It’s a few weeks old.”

  Patch shook his head. “I’ve got to get going. Maybe next time. It was nice meeting you, Blythe.”

  I took the break in conversation as my cue and pulled my mom toward the front door, relieved that the conversation hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. Suddenly Mom turned back.

  “What did you and Nora do tonight?” she asked Patch.

  Patch looked at me and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

  “We grabbed dinner in Topsham,” I answered quickly. “Sandwiches and sodas. Purely harmless night.”

  The trouble was, my feelings for Patch weren’t harmless.

  CHAPTER

  19

  I LEFT THE SNOW GLOBE IN ITS BOX AND TUCKED it inside my closet behind a stack of argyle sweaters I’d poached from my dad. When I’d opened the present in front of Patch, Delphic had looked shimmery and beautiful, light swirling rainbows from the wires. But alone in my bedroom, the amusement park looked haunted. A camp ideal for disembodied spirits. And I wasn’t entirely sure there wasn’t a hidden camera inside.

  After changing into a stretchy camisole and floral pj pants, I called Vee.

  “Well?” she said. “How’d it go? Obviously he didn’t kill you, so that’s a good start.”

  “We played pool.”

  “You hate pool.”

  “He gave me a few pointers. Now that I know what I’m doing, it’s not so bad.”

  “I bet he could give you pointers in a few other areas of your life.”

  “Hmm.” Normally, her comment might have incited at least a flush from me, but my mood was too serious. I was hard at work, thinking.

  “I know I’ve said this before, but Patch doesn’t instill a deep sense of comfort in me,” Vee said. “I still have nightmares about the guy in the ski mask. In one of my nightmares, he ripped off his mask, and guess who was hiding under it? Patch. Personally, I think you should treat him like a loaded gun. Something about him isn’t normal.”

  This was exactly what I wanted to talk about.

  “What would cause someone to have a V-shaped scar on their back?” I asked her.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Freak,” Vee choked. “You saw him naked? Where did it happen? His Jeep? His house? Your bedroom?”

  “I did not see him naked! It was sort of an accident.”

  “Uh-huh, I’ve heard that excuse before,” said Vee.

  “He had a huge, upside down V-shaped scar on his back. Isn’t that a little weird?”

  “Of course it’s weird. But this is Patch we’re talking about. He has a few screws loose. I’m going to take a wild guess and say . . . gang fight? Prison scars? Skid marks from a hit-and-run?”

  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 on
ly 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 fortysomething 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 possession,” 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 evidenc
e 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?”