The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 51

  I walked the mile stretch to Beech, then caught a bus to Herring Street. I walked three blocks to Keate, hopped on another bus to Clementine, then walked on foot up the winding, scenic hill leading into Marcie’s neighborhood, which was about as close to posh as Coldwater came. The smell of fresh-cut grass and hydrangeas hung in the evening air, and traffic was nonexistent. Cars were kept neatly tucked away in the garages, making the streets seem wider, cleaner. The windows of the white colonial houses reflected the blaze of the slow-setting sun, and I imagined families sitting down together for a late dinner behind the shutters. I bit my lip, startled by a sudden rush of inconsolable regret. My family would never sit down together for a meal again. Three nights a week I ate dinner alone, or at Vee’s. The other four nights, when my mom was home, we typically ate on trays in front of the TV.

  Because of Patch.

  I turned onto Brenchley, counting down houses to Marcie’s. Her red Toyota 4-Runner was parked in the drive, but I knew she wasn’t home. Patch would have picked her up for the movie in the Jeep. I was cutting across the lawn, thinking I would leave the diary on the porch, when the front door opened.

  Marcie had her handbag slung over her shoulder, keys in hand, clearly on her way out. She froze in the doorway when she saw me. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth, three full seconds ticking by before words came out. “I—I didn’t think you’d be home.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Well, I am.”

  “I thought you . . . and Patch . . .” I was barely speaking coherently. The diary was in my arms, in plain sight. Any minute Marcie would see it.

  “He canceled,” she snapped at me, like it was none of my business.

  I hardly heard her. Any moment now she was going to see the diary. Like never before, I wanted to backpedal through time. I should have thought this through before coming. I should have counted on the chance that she’d be home. I glanced nervously behind me, staring at the street as if it could somehow come to my rescue.

  Marcie gasped, a rush of air between her teeth. “What are you doing with my diary?”

  I spun around, cheeks flaming.

  She marched down the porch. She snatched the diary away and reflexively pinned it against her chest. “You—you took it?”

  My hands fell uselessly to my sides. “I took it the night of your party.” I shook my head. “It was a stupid thing to do. I’m so sorry—”

  “Did you read it?” she demanded.

  “No.”

  “You liar,” she sneered. “You read it, didn’t you? Who wouldn’t? I hate you! Is your life so boring that you have to go snooping through mine? Did you read the whole thing, or just the parts about you?”

  I was on the verge of adamantly denying even opening it, when Marcie’s words caused my thoughts to catch and rewind. “Me? What did you write about me?”

  She flung the diary onto the porch behind her, then straightened up, squaring her shoulders. “What do I care?” she said, crossing her arms and glaring at me. “Now you know the truth. How does it feel knowing your mom is screwing other people’s husbands?”

  I gave a disbelieving laugh that held more than its share of anger. “Excuse me?”

  “You really think your mom is out of town all those nights? Ha!”

  I adopted Marcie’s posture. “Actually, I do.” What was she insinuating?

  “Then how do you explain why her car is parked down the street one night a week?”

  “You have the wrong person,” I said, feeling my rage boil up. I was pretty sure I now knew exactly what Marcie was getting at. How dare she accuse my mom of having an affair. And with her dad, of all people. If he was the last man on the planet, my mom wouldn’t be caught dead with him. I hated Marcie, and my mom knew it. She wasn’t sleeping with Marcie’s father. She would never do that to me. She would never do that to my dad. Never.

  “Beige Taurus, license plate X4I24?” Marcie’s voice was arctic.

  “So you know her license plate number,” I said after a moment, trying to ignore the tightening sensation in my chest. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Wake up, Nora. Our parents knew each other in high school. Your mom and my dad. They were together.”

  I shook my head. “That’s a lie. My mom has never said anything about your dad.”

  “Because she doesn’t want you to know.” Her eyes flashed. “Because she’s still with him. He’s her dirty little secret.”

  I shook my head harder, feeling like a broken doll. “Maybe my mom knew your dad in high school, but that was a long time ago, before she met my dad. You have the wrong person. You saw someone else’s car parked down the street. When she’s not home, she’s out of town, working.”

  “I saw them together, Nora. It was your mom, so don’t even try to make excuses for her. I went to school that day and spray-painted your locker with a message to your mom. Don’t you get it?” Her voice was a revolted hiss. “They were sleeping together. All these years they’ve been doing it. Which means my dad could be your dad. And you could be my—sister.”

  Marcie’s words dropped like a blade between us.

  I hugged my arms around my middle and turned away, feeling like I might be sick. Tears choked up my throat, burning the back of my nose. Without a word, I walked stiffly down Marcie’s walk. I thought she might shout something worse at my back, but there was nothing worse she could say.

  I didn’t go to Patch’s.

  I must have walked all the way back to Clementine, past the bus stop, the park, and the city swimming pool, because the next thing I remembered, I was sitting on a bench on the lawn in front of the public library. A cone of streetlight fell over me. It was a warm night, but I hugged my knees against my chest, my body wracked with tremors. My thoughts were a jumble of haunting theories.

  I stared into the darkness settling around me. Headlights swung down the street, grew closer, moved on. Sporadic sitcom laughter carried out an open window across the street. Pockets of cool air flushed goose bumps across my arms. The heady smell of grass, musky and humid from the earlier sun, suffocated me.

  I lay back on the bench, shutting my eyes against the dusting of stars. I laced my quivering hands on my stomach, my fingers feeling like frozen twigs. I wondered why life had to suck so hard sometimes, wondered why it was the people I loved the most who could disappoint me the hardest, wondered who I wanted to direct my hate at more—Marcie, her dad, or my mom.

  Deep inside, I clung to the hope that Marcie was wrong. I hoped I’d get to fling this back in her face. But the sinking sensation that seemed to tug me inside out told me I was only setting myself up for disappointment.

  I couldn’t pinpoint the memory, but it was within the last year or so. Maybe shortly before my dad died . . . no. After. It had been a warm day—spring. The funeral was over, my grace period of grieving had ended, and I was back in school. Vee had talked me into ditching class, and in those days, I didn’t offer much resistance to anything. I floated along. I got by. On the thought that my mom would be at work, we’d walked to my house. It must have taken us all of seventh hour to get there.

  As the farmhouse came into view, Vee yanked me off the road.

  “There’s a car in your driveway,” she said.

  “Whose could it be? Looks like a Land Cruiser.”

  “Your mom doesn’t drive one of those.”

  “Do you think it’s a detective?” It wasn’t likely that a detective would be driving a sixty- thousand-dollar SUV, but I was so used to detectives stopping by, it was the first thought that came to mind.

  “Let’s get closer.”

  We were almost to the driveway when the front door opened and voices carried out. My mom’s . . . and a deeper voice. A man’s.

  Vee lugged me to the side of the house, out of sight.

  We watched as Hank Millar climbed into the Land Cruiser and drove away.

  “Holy freakshow,” Vee said. “Normally I’d suspect foul play,
but your mom is as straightlaced as they come. I bet he was trying to sell her a car.”

  “He came all this way for that?”

  “Heck yeah, babe. Car salesmen don’t know where to draw the line.”

  “She already has a car.”

  “A Ford. That’s like Toyota’s worst enemy. Marcie’s dad won’t be happy until the whole town is driving a Toyota . . . .”

  I strayed out of the memory. But what if he hadn’t been selling her a car? What if they’d—I swallowed involuntarily—been having an affair?

  Where was I supposed to go now? Home? The farmhouse no longer felt like home. It no longer felt safe and secure. It felt like a box of lies. My parents had sold me a story about love, togetherness, and family. But if Marcie was telling the truth—and my greatest fear was that she was—my family was a joke. A big lie I’d never even seen coming. Shouldn’t there have been warning signs? Shouldn’t I have been hit with the realization that I’d secretly suspected this all along, but had chosen denial over the painful truth? This was my punishment for trusting others. This was my punishment for looking for the good in people. As much as I hated Patch right now, I envied the cold detachment that separated him from everyone else. He suspected the worst in people; no matter how low they sank, he always saw it coming. He was hardened and worldly, but people respected him for it.

  They respected him, and they lied to me.

  I swung upright on the bench and punched my mom’s number into my cell. I didn’t know what I’d say when she answered; I’d let my anger and betrayal guide me. While her phone rang, hot tears tumbled down my cheeks. I slapped them away. My chin trembled, and every muscle in my body was drawn taut. Angry, spiteful words sprang to mind. I envisioned shouting them at her, cutting her off every time she tried to defend herself with more lies. And if she cried . . . I wouldn’t feel sorry. She deserved to feel every last ounce of pain from the choices she’d made. Her voice mail picked up, and it was all I could do to keep from flinging the phone into the darkness.

  I dialed Vee next.

  “Yo, babe. Is this important? I’m with Rixon—”

  “I’m leaving home,” I said, not caring that my voice sounded thick from crying. “Can I stay at your house for a while? Until I figure out where I’m going.”

  Vee’s breathing filled my ear. “Say what?”

  “My mom gets home on Saturday. I want to be gone by then. Can I stay with you the rest of the week?”

  “Um, can I ask—”

  “No.”

  “Okay, sure,” Vee said, trying to hide her shock. “You can stay, no problem. No problem at all. You’ll tell me what’s up when you’re ready.”

  I felt fresh tears well up inside me. Right now, Vee was the only person I could count on. She could be obnoxious, annoying, and lazy, but she never lied to me.

  I got to the farmhouse around nine, and slipped into a pair of cotton pj’s. It wasn’t a cold night, but the air was humid, and the moisture seemed to slip beneath my skin, chilling me to the bone. After making myself a cup of steamed milk, I sank into bed. It was too early for sleep, but I couldn’t have slept if I’d tried; my thoughts were still dashing themselves to pieces. I stared at the ceiling, trying to erase the last sixteen years and start fresh. Hard as I might, I couldn’t envision Hank Millar as my father.

  I swung out of bed and marched down the hall to my mom’s bedroom. I flung open her hope chest, searching for her high school yearbook. I didn’t even know if she owned one, but if she did, the hope chest was the only place I could think to look. If she and Hank Millar went to school together, there would be pictures. If they’d been in love, he would have signed her yearbook in some special way that would signify it. Five minutes later, I’d thoroughly searched the chest and come up empty-handed.

  I padded to the kitchen, looked through the cupboards for something to eat, but found my appetite gone. I couldn’t eat, thinking about the big lie my family had turned out to be. I found my eyes traveling to the front door, but where would I go? I felt lost in the house, restless to leave, but with nowhere to run. After standing in the hallway for several minutes, I climbed back to my bedroom. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, I shut my eyes and watched a reel of pictures slide across my mind. Pictures of Marcie; of Hank Millar, whom I barely knew, and whose face I could conjure up only with difficulty; of my parents. Faster and faster the images came, until they blended together in a strange collage of madness.

  The images seemed to lurch into reverse suddenly, traveling backward through time. All color drained from the reel, until there was nothing but fuzzy black and white. It was then that I knew I’d slipped into the other realm.

  I was dreaming.

  I was standing in the front yard. A rowdy wind swept dead leaves across the driveway, around my ankles. An odd funnel cloud swirled in the sky overhead but made no move to touch down, as if it was content to bide its time before striking. Patch was sitting on the porch rail, head bowed, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

  “Get out of my dream,” I hollered at him over the wind.

  He shook his head. “Not until I tell you what’s going on.”

  I pulled my pajama top tighter. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

  “The archangels can’t hear us here.”

  I gave an accusatory laugh. “It wasn’t enough manipulating me in real life—now you have to do it here, too?”

  He lifted his head. “Manipulating? I’m trying to tell you what’s going on.”

  “You’re forcing your way inside my dreams,” I challenged. “You did it after the Devil’s Handbag, and you’re doing it now.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew between us, causing me to take a step back. The tree branches creaked and moaned. I untangled my hair from my face.

  Patch said, “After the Z, in the Jeep, you told me you’d had a dream about Marcie’s dad. The night you had the dream, I was thinking about him. I was remembering the exact memory you dreamed about, wishing there was some way I could tell you the truth. I didn’t know I was communicating with you.”

  “You made me have that dream?”

  “Not a dream. A memory.”

  I tried to digest this. If the dream was real, Hank Millar had been living in England hundreds of years ago. My memory spun back to the dream. Tell the barkeep to send help, Hank had said. Tell him there is no man. Tell him it is one of the devil’s angels, come to possess my body and cast away my soul.

  Was Hank Millar—Nephilim?

  “I don’t know how I overlapped your dreams,” Patch said, “but I’ve been trying to communicate with you the same way ever since. I got through the night I kissed you after the Devil’s Handbag, but now I keep hitting walls. I’m lucky I’m here now. I think it’s you. You’re not letting me in.”

  “Because I don’t want you inside my head!”

  He slid off the railing, coming down to meet me in the yard. “I need you to let me in.”

  I turned away.

  “I was reassigned to Marcie,” he said.

  Five seconds passed before everything fell into place. The sick, hot feeling that had churned in my stomach since leaving Marcie’s spread to my extremities. “You’re Marcie’s guardian angel?”

  “It hasn’t been a pleasure cruise.”

  “Did the archangels do this?”

  “When they assigned me as your guardian, they made it clear I was supposed to have your best interests in mind. Getting involved with you wasn’t in your best interest. I knew it, but I didn’t like the idea of the archangels telling me what to do with my personal life. They were watching us the night you gave me your ring.”

  In the Jeep. The night before we broke up. I remembered.

  “As soon as I realized they were watching us, I took off. But the damage was done. They told me I’d be out as soon as they found a replacement. Then they assigned me to Marcie. I went to her house that night to force myself to face what I’d done.”

  �
��Why Marcie?” I asked bitterly. “To punish me?”

  He dragged a hand down over his mouth. “Marcie’s dad is a first-generation Nephilim, a purebred. Now that Marcie is sixteen, she’s in danger of being sacrificed. Two months ago, when I tried to sacrifice you to get a human body, but ended up saving your life, there weren’t many fallen angels who believed they could change what they were. I’m a guardian now. They all know it, and they all know it’s because I saved you from dying. Suddenly a lot more of them believe they can cheat fate too. Either by saving a human and getting their wings back”—he exhaled—“or by killing their Nephil vassal and transforming their body from fallen angel to human.”

  I reviewed in my mind everything I knew about fallen angels and Nephilim. The Book of Enoch told of a fallen angel who became human after killing his Nephil vassal—by sacrificing one of the vassal’s female descendants. Two months ago, Patch had attempted this very thing by intending to use me to kill Chauncey. Now, if the fallen angel who’d forced Hank Millar to swear fealty wanted to become human, well, he’d have to . . .

  Sacrifice Marcie.

  I said, “You mean it’s your job to make sure the fallen angel who forced Hank Millar to swear fealty doesn’t sacrifice Marcie to get a human body.”

  As if he thought he knew me well enough to guess my next question, he said, “Marcie doesn’t know. She’s completely in the dark.”

  I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want Patch here. He’d killed my dad. He’d ripped away, forever, someone I loved. Patch was a monster. Nothing he could say could make me feel otherwise.

  “Chauncey formed the Nephilim blood society,” Patch said.

  My attention snapped back. “What? How do you know?”

  He looked reluctant to answer. “I’ve accessed a few memories. Other people’s memories.”

  “Other people’s memories?” I was shocked when I shouldn’t have been. How could he justify all the horrible things he’d done? How could he come here and tell me he’d secretly examined people’s most private and intimate thoughts, and expect me to admire him for it? Or even expect me to listen to him?