The Complete Hush, Hush Saga Page 57

  I grappled to fit two loose ends together. Why was Rixon telling me this? Why did he know about my biological father? Why did he care? And then it hit me. Once, when I’d touched Patch’s scars and gone into his memory, I’d heard him talk about his Nephil vassal, Chauncey Langeais. He’d also talked about Rixon’s vassal, Barnabas . . . .

  “No,” I whispered, the word slipping out.

  “Aye.”

  I desperately wanted to run, but my legs were wooden, stiff as posts.

  “When Hank got your mum pregnant, he’d heard enough rumors about the Book of Enoch to worry that I’d come looking for the baby, especially if it was a girl. So he did the only thing he could. He hid her. You. When Hank told his mate Harrison Grey that your mum was in trouble, he agreed to marry her and pretend you were his.”

  No, no, no. “But I’m descended from Chauncey. On my father’s side. On Harrison Grey’s side. I have a mark on my wrist that proves it.”

  “Aye, you do. Many centuries ago, Chauncey entertained a naive farm girl. She had a son. Nobody thought anything particular about the boy, or his sons, or their sons, and so on through the ages, until one of the sons slept with a woman outside of wedlock. He injected the noble Nephilim blood of his ancestor, the duke of Langeais, into another line. The line that eventually produced Barnabas, or Hank, as he seems to prefer recently.” Rixon gestured impatiently for me to put two and two together. I already had.

  “You’re saying both Harrison and Hank have Chauncey’s Nephilim blood,” I said. And Hank, a purebred first-generation Nephil, was immortal, while my own dad’s Nephilim blood, diluted over centuries just like mine, was not. Hank, a man I hardly knew and respected even less, could live forever.

  While my dad was gone forever.

  “I am, love.”

  “Don’t call me love.”

  “You’d prefer Angel?”

  He was making fun of me. Toying with me, because he had me right where he wanted. I’d been through this once before, with Patch, and I knew what was coming. Hank Millar was my biological father and Rixon’s Nephil vassal. Rixon was going to sacrifice me to kill Hank Millar and get a human body.

  “Do I get any last-minute answers?” I asked, my tone edging toward challenging, in spite of my fear.

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I thought only first-generation purebred Nephilim could swear fealty. In order for Hank to be first-generation, he’d have to have a human and a fallen angel parent. But his father wasn’t a fallen angel. He was one of Chauncey’s male descendants.”

  “You’re overlooking the fact that men can have affairs with female fallen angels.”

  I shook my head. “Fallen angels don’t have human bodies. Females can’t give birth. Patch told me.”

  “But a female fallen angel, possessing a female human body during Cheshvan, can produce a baby. The human may give birth to the baby long after Cheshvan, but the baby is tainted. It was conceived by a fallen angel.”

  “That’s revolting.”

  He smiled faintly. “I agree.”

  “Out of morbid curiosity, when you sacrifice me, does your body just become human, or do you possess another human body for good?”

  “I become human.” His mouth curved slightly. “So if you come back to haunt me from the grave, just know you’ll be looking for my same handsome mug.”

  “Patch could show up any minute now and stop you,” I said, trying to be strong, but unable to stop the unbearable shaking in every limb of my body.

  His eyes laughed at me. “I had my work cut out, but I’m confident I drove the wedge between the two of you about as deep as it could go. You got the ball rolling by breaking up with him—I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Then there was the constant fighting, your jealousy over Marcie, and Patch’s card—which I drugged to toss in just one more seed of distrust. When I stole the ring from Barnabas and had it delivered to you at the bakery, I had no doubt Patch was the last person you’d run to. Swallow your pride and ask for his help? When you thought he was hooked up with Marcie? Not a chance. You played right into my hands when you asked me if he was the Black Hand. I made the evidence against him overwhelming when I answered that yes, he was. Then I took advantage of the turn in our conversation to mention the address of one of Barnabas’s Nephilim safe houses as Patch’s, knowing full well you’d go snooping around and probably find memorabilia from the Black Hand. I canceled the movie plans last night, not Patch. I didn’t want to be stuck inside a movie theater while you were all alone in the apartment. I needed to follow you. I planted the dynamite once you were inside, hoping to sacrifice you, but you got away.”

  “I’m touched, Rixon. A bomb. How elaborate. Why didn’t you keep things simple and just march inside my bedroom one night and put a bullet between my eyes?”

  He spread his hands in front of him. “This is a big moment for me, Nora. Can you blame me for wanting a little flourish? I tried posing as Harrison’s ghost to lure you close, thinking how fantastic it would be to send you to the grave thinking your own father had killed you, but you didn’t trust me. You kept running away.” He frowned a little.

  “You’re a psychopath.”

  “I prefer creative.”

  “What else was a lie? At the beach, did you tell me Patch was still my guardian angel—”

  “To lull you into a false sense of security? Yes.”

  “And the blood oath?”

  “A spur-of-the-moment lie. Just to keep things interesting.”

  “So basically you’re telling me nothing you’ve ever said to me was true.”

  “Except the part about sacrificing you. I was dead serious about that. Enough talking. Let’s get on with this.” Using the gun, he shoved me deeper into the fun house. The rough prod tipped me off balance, and I stepped sideways to catch my footing, landing on a section of floor that began undulating up and down. I felt Rixon grab for my wrist to steady me, only something went wrong. His hand slipped down over mine. I heard the soft thud of his body landing. The sound seemed to come from directly below. A thought brushed my mind—that he’d fallen down one of the many trapdoors rumored to be scattered throughout the fun house—but I didn’t stay around long enough to see if I’d guessed right.

  I bolted back the way we’d come, searching for the clown head. A figure sprang out in front of me, a light flashing overhead to illuminate a blood-soaked ax wedged in a bearded pirate’s head. He leered at me a moment before his eyes rolled back in his head and the light faded.

  I drew several sharp breaths, telling myself it was pretend, but unable to steady myself as the floor quaked and shifted under my shoes. I went down on my knees, crawling over the grime and grit pressing into my palms, trying to calm my head, which seemed to tilt with the floors. I crawled for several feet, not wanting to stop moving long enough to let Rixon find a way out of the trapdoor.

  “Nora!” Rixon’s rough bark carried up behind me.

  I pulled myself up, using the walls to support me, but the walls were coated in slime that oozed onto my hands. Somewhere overhead, laughter boomed, tapering off to a cackle. I shook my hands hard to slough off the slime. Then I fished my way into the sheer blackness that lay ahead. I was lost. Lost, lost, lost.

  I jogged a few steps forward, rounded a turn, and squinted at the faint glow of orange light several yards down the path. It wasn’t the clown’s head, but I was drawn to the promise of light like a moth. When I reached the lantern, the tacky Halloweenish light illuminated the words TUNNEL OF DOOM. I was standing on a boat dock. Small plastic boats were parked nose-to-bumper, water from the canal lapping their sides.

  I heard footsteps on the path behind me. With no time to second-guess, I stepped into the boat closest to me. I’d just found my balance when the boat lurched into motion, jerking me down onto the slat of wood that served as a seat. The boats were moving in a single-file line, the tracks below clacking as they steered the boats into the tunnel ahead. A pair of saloon-style doors flung o
pen, swallowing my boat into the tunnel.

  Feeling my way to the front of the boat, I climbed over the safety bar and onto the bow. I stayed there a moment, one hand anchoring me to the boat, while my other hand reached ahead, trying to grab the rear bar of the boat one up. I was a few inches short. I would have to jump. I scooted up the bow as far as I dared. I tucked my legs under me, then leaped, managing to skid onto the back of the next boat up.

  I allowed myself one moment of relief, then went back to work. Once again, I moved up the bow, with the intention of jumping boats all the way to the end of the ride. Rixon was bigger and faster, and he had a gun. My only hope of survival was to keep moving, to keep drawing out the time it took for him to catch me.

  I was on the next bow, preparing to jump, when a siren blasted and the sudden illumination of a red light overhead blinded me. A skeleton dropped from the ceiling of the tunnel, smacking into me. I lost my footing and felt a wash of vertigo as I skidded sideways, overboard. Frigid water rushed through my clothes, closing over my head. Instantly I put my feet down, broke the water’s surface, and waded through the chest-deep water back to the boat. Gritting my teeth against the cold, I clamped my hands around the boat’s safety bar and hauled myself back inside.

  Several loud shots ricocheted through the tunnel, one of the bullets whizzing past my ear. I dropped low in the boat, while Rixon’s laugh carried from a few boats back. “A matter of time,” he called.

  More lights were flashing overhead, and between the pulses of light, I could see Rixon making his way across the boats toward me.

  A faint roar sounded somewhere ahead. My stomach slid out from beneath me. I felt my concentration peel away from Rixon and shift to the spray of moisture in the air. My heart stopped for a half moment, then started pounding much too hard.

  Grabbing hold of the metal bar, I braced myself for the fall. The front of the boat tipped, then plunged over the waterfall. The boat splashed at the bottom, sending water spraying over the sides. The water might have felt cold, had I not already been drenched and shivering. I wiped my eyes dry, and that was when I saw a small maintenance platform carved out of the tunnel wall to my right. A door marked DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE sat just back from the platform.

  I looked back at the waterfall. Rixon’s boat hadn’t fallen yet, and with only seconds to spare, I made a risky decision. Jumping over the side of the boat, I waded as quickly as I could to the platform, hoisted myself up, and tried the door. It opened, letting out the loud hissing and clanking of machines, hundreds of gears churning and grinding. I’d found the mechanical heart of the fun house, and the entrance to the underground tunnels.

  I closed the door most of the way behind me, leaving a thin crack to see out.

  With one eye pressed to the crack, I watched the next boat fly down the waterfall. Rixon was in the boat. He was leaning over the metal sidebar, searching the water. Had he seen me jump out? Was he looking for me? His boat continued down the track, and he eased himself overboard, landing feetfirst in the water. Using his hands to hold his wet hair out of his face, he searched the murky surface of the water. It was then that I realized his hands were empty. He wasn’t looking for me—he’d dropped the gun in the fall, and he was looking for it.

  The tunnel was dark, and I found it impossible to believe Rixon could see all the way to the bottom of the canal. Which meant he was going to have to feel his way to the gun. That would take time. Of course, I needed more than time. I needed a stroke of impossible luck. The police had to be combing the park by now, but would they think to look in the underbelly of the fun house before it was too late?

  I shut the door softly, hoping to find a lock on the inside, but there was none. Suddenly I wished I’d risked my chances making it out of the tunnel before Rixon, rather than circling back to hide. If Rixon came inside the service room, I was trapped.

  Ragged breathing came from my left, behind an electrical box.

  I swung around, eyes darting through the blackness. “Who’s there?”

  “Who do you think?”

  I blinked against the shadows. “Scott?” I took several nervous steps backward.

  “I got lost in the tunnels. I took a door, and came out in here.”

  “Are you still bleeding?”

  “Yeah. Surprisingly, I’m not completely drained yet.” His words were choppy, and I could tell it took a lot of energy for him to speak.

  “You need a doctor.”

  He gave a spent laugh. “I need the ring.”

  At this point, I didn’t know how serious Scott was about getting the ring back. He was exhausted with pain, and I was pretty sure we both knew he wasn’t going to drag me out of here to hold as a hostage. He was weakened by the shot, but he was Nephilim. He would survive this. Working together, we had a chance at getting out. But before I could convince him to help me escape Rixon, I needed him to trust me.

  I walked over to the electrical box and knelt down beside him. He had one hand pressed against his side, just below his rib cage, stopping the flow of blood. His face was the color of cornstarch, and the wasted look in his eyes proved what I already knew: He was in a lot of pain. “I don’t believe you’re going to use the ring to recruit new members,” I said quietly. “You aren’t going to force other people into the society.”

  Scott shook his head, agreeing with me. “There’s something I need to tell you. Remember when I told you I was working the night your dad was shot?”

  I vaguely remembered him telling me he’d been at work when he got the call about my dad’s murder. “Where’s this going?” I asked hesitantly.

  “I worked at a convenience store called Quickies that was only a few blocks away.” He paused, as if waiting for me to come to some grand conclusion. “I was supposed to follow your dad that night. The Black Hand told me to. He said your dad was on his way to a meeting, and I had to keep him safe.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked in a voice as dry as chalk.

  “I didn’t follow him.” Scott bowed his face into his hands. “I wanted to show the Black Hand he couldn’t order me around. I wanted to show him I wouldn’t be part of his society. So I stayed at work. I didn’t leave. I didn’t follow your dad. And he died. He died because of me.”

  I slid my back down the wall until I was seated beside him. I couldn’t speak. The right words weren’t there.

  “You hate me, don’t you?” he asked.

  “You didn’t kill my dad,” I said numbly. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I knew he was in trouble. Why else would the Black Hand want to make sure he made it to the meeting safe? I should have gone. If I’d followed the Black Hand’s orders, your dad would be alive.”

  “It’s in the past,” I whispered, trying not to let this information cause me to blame Scott. I needed his help. Together, we could get out of here. I couldn’t allow myself to hate him. I had to work with him. I needed to trust him, and I needed him to trust me.

  “Just because it’s in the past doesn’t mean it’s easy to forget. Less than an hour after I was supposed to follow your dad, my dad called with the news.”

  Without meaning to, I made a small whimpering noise.

  “Then the Black Hand came into the convenience store. He was wearing a mask, but I recognized his voice.” Scott shuddered. “I’ll never forget that voice. He gave me a gun and told me to make sure it never surfaced again. It was your dad’s gun. He said he wanted the police report to say your dad died an innocent and unarmed man. He didn’t want to put your family through the pain and confusion of knowing what really happened that night. He didn’t want anyone to suspect your dad was involved with criminals like himself. He wanted it to look like a random mugging.

  “I was supposed to toss the gun in the river, but I kept it. I wanted out of the society. The only way I saw that happening was if I had something I could use to blackmail the Black Hand. So I kept the gun. When my mom and I moved here, I left a message behind for the Black Hand. I told him if he c
ame looking for me, I’d make sure the police got their hands on Harrison Grey’s gun. I’d make sure the whole world knew he had ties to the Black Hand. I swore I’d drag your dad’s name through the mud as many times as it took, if it meant I got my life back. I still have the gun.” He opened his hands, and it dropped between his knees, clattering on the cement. “I still have it.”

  A dull and furious pain ricocheted through me.

  “It was so hard to be around you,” Scott said, his voice brittle. “I wanted to make you hate me. God knows I hated myself. Every time I saw you, all I could think about was that I chickened out. I could have saved your dad’s life. I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “It’s okay.” I said it as much for myself as Scott. “Everything’s going to be okay.” But it felt like the worst lie yet.

  Scott picked up the gun, fingering it. Before the whole moment made sense to me, I saw him raise it to his head. “I don’t deserve to live,” he said.

  A veil of ice choked my heart. “Scott—,” I began.

  “Your family deserves this. I can’t face you anymore. I can’t face myself.” His finger slid to the trigger.

  There was no time to think. “You didn’t kill my dad,” I said. “Rixon did—Vee’s boyfriend. He’s a fallen angel. It’s real, all of it. You’re Nephilim, Scott. You can’t kill yourself. Not this way. You’re immortal. You’re never going to die. If you want to make amends for any guilt you feel over my dad’s death, help me get out of here. Rixon is on the other side of that door, and he’s going to kill me. The only way I’m going to survive is if you help me.”

  Scott stared back wordlessly. Before he could answer, the service room door scraped open. Rixon appeared in the opening. He raked his hair off his forehead and cast his eyes around the small utility room. On an impulse of self-protection, I drew closer to Scott.

  Rixon’s gaze shifted from me to Scott.