Authors: Becca Fitzpatrick
Tags: #Paranormal, #Legends; Myths; Fables, #Dating & Sex, #Angels & Spirit Guides, #Body; Mind & Spirit, #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #General, #Love & Romance
Silence (42 page)
“Easy, man. They’re cool. They can be trusted,” Scott said.
Patch’s laugh was low and predatory. “Reassuring news coming from a known liar.”
A muscle in Scott’s cheek contracted. “Sure you want to play this game? You’ve got just as many skeletons in your closet.”
Oh boy.
“Hank’s dead,” I told Scott, not seeing any reason to put it gently, or give Patch and Scott further time to swap testosterone-fueled insults.
Scott nodded. “We know. Show her the sign, Dante.”
Dante stepped forward. He was over six and a half feet tall and swarthy, and his Latin looks lived up to his name. He extended his hand. A ring identical to the one Scott had tossed into the ocean fit his index finger snugly. It glowed blue and wild, and the light seemed to skitter behind my eyes even after I’d shut them. “The Black Hand told me this would happen if he died,” Dante explained. “Scott’s right. It’s a sign.”
Scott said, “That’s why I was released. The army is in pandemonium. Nobody knows what to do. Cheshvan is almost here and the Black Hand had plans for war, but his men are restless. They’ve lost their leader. They’re starting to panic.”
I waded through this information. A thought struck me. “They released you because you knew how to find me—Hank’s next in line?” I guessed, eyeing Dante and Tono warily. Scott might trust them, but I had yet to make up my own mind.
“Like I said, these guys are clean. They’ve already confessed loyalty to you. We have to get as many Nephilim behind you as possible before this falls apart. The last thing we need right now is a coup.”
I felt light-headed. Actually, a coup sounded pretty appealing. Someone else wanted this job? Fine by me.
Dante spoke again. “Prior to his death, the Black Hand notified me that you agreed to take on the role of commander upon his death.”
I swallowed, not having expected this moment to arrive so quickly. I knew what had to be done, but I’d hoped for more time. To say I’d been dreading this moment was an understatement.
I looked all three of them in the eye in turn. “Yes, I swore a vow to lead Hank’s army. Here’s what’s going to happen. There isn’t going to be a war. Go back to the men and tell them to disband. All Nephilim who’ve sworn an oath of fealty are bound by a law that no army, no matter how great, can overthrow. To go into battle at this point would be suicide. Fallen angels are already planning retribution, and our only hope is to make it clear we
aren’t
going to fight them. Not this way. It’s over—and you can tell your men that’s an order.”
Dante smiled, but his expression held an edge. “I’d rather not discuss this with a fallen angel hanging around.” He leveled his eyes at Patch. “Give us a minute?”
I said, “I think it’s pretty obvious that asking Patch to leave is
pointless. I’m going to tell him everything.” At Dante’s sore expression, I added, “When I swore the oath to Hank, I never said anything about breaking up with Patch. That’s right. Your new Nephil leader is dating a fallen angel.”
Let the talk begin.
Dante’s curt nod was anything but accepting. “Then let’s get one thing straight. This isn’t over. Stalled, maybe, but not over. The Black Hand stirred up a revolution, and calling it off isn’t going to be enough to settle the dust.”
“I’m not worried about settling the dust. I’m worried about the Nephilim race as a whole. I’m thinking about what’s best for everyone.”
Scott, Dante, and Tono shared a silent look. At last Dante seemed to speak for all three. “Then we have a bigger problem. Because Nephilim think rebellion is best for them.”
“How many Nephilim?” Patch asked.
“Thousands. Enough to fill a city.” Dante’s eyes cut toward mine. “If you don’t lead them to freedom, you’ll break your vow. In short, your head’s on the line, Nora.”
I stared at Patch.
Stand your ground,
he spoke calmly to my thoughts.
Tell them the war is off and there’s no room for negotiation.
“I swore an oath to lead Hank’s army,” I told Dante. “I never promised freedom.”
“If you don’t declare war on fallen angels, you’re going to instantly make enemies with thousands of Nephilim,” he responded.
And if I do,
I thought weakly,
I might as well declare war on the archangels.
They’d allowed Hank to die because Patch promised them I’d quell the uprising.
I returned my attention to Patch, and I knew we were sharing the same grisly thought. Either way, war was coming.
All I had to do now was decide my opponent.
This is always the most humbling part of writing a book.
First and foremost, a big shout of appreciation to my family for offering up support, encouragement, and most of all patience 365 days a year. Justin, I’m sure calling you my biggest cheerleader isn’t the manliest of endearments, but very fitting.
You
are
my
better half.
Thanks to the many friends who’ve helped out in immeasurable ways, from babysitting to reading early drafts of
Silence
to reminding me that laughter really is the best medicine. Sandra Roberts, Mary Louise Fitzpatrick, Shanna Butler, Lindsey Leavitt, Rachel Hawkins, Emily Wing Smith, Lisa Schroeder, Laura Andersen, Ginger Churchill, Patty Esden, Nicole Wright, and Meg Garvin—I am blessed to know you.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t say how grateful I am to Jenn Martin and Rebecca Sutton, the dynamic duo behind FallenArchangel.com. Thank you for keeping my fans in the know, and in a much more timely manner than I’d ever hope to accomplish. Your dedication truly astounds.
Thanks to James Porto, the creative genius behind my books’ stunning cover art.
Buckets of gratitude to Lyndsey Blessing, my foreign-rights agent, who has helped get my books into the hands of readers across the globe. Thanks to my agent, Catherine Drayton, for … everything
(including talking me into buying that particularly stunning pair of shoes in Bologna).
As always, I am so very fortunate to have a devoted team behind me at Simon & Schuster BFYR. Thanks to Courtney Bongiolatti, Julia Maguire, and Venetia Gosling for your editorial prowess. Many thanks to Justin Chanda, Anne Zafian, Jenica Nasworthy, Lucy Ruth Cummins, Lucille Rettino, Elke Villa, Chrissy Noh, and Anna McKean for bringing so much excitement into my life. I truly feel that I have the easy job in all this.
A nod of appreciation to Valerie Shea, copyeditor extraordinaire. Without you, this book would be far more humorous. And not in a good way!
A big thank-you to Dayana Gomes Marques and Valentine Bulgakov for christening
Silence
characters Dante Matterazzi and Tono Grantham.
Last but never least, thank you to my readers, near and far. Writing for you has been immeasurably thrilling and satisfying. I’ve loved sharing Patch and Nora’s story with you.
AND NOW … A NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN LOOK AT
THE REAL FIRST TIME PATCH AND NORA MET …
FROM PATCH’S POINT OF VIEW!
P
atch rocked his chair back on two legs, stretched out his arms, and folded them behind his neck. His gaze was nailed to the doors leading inside Enzo’s Bistro. He’d asked for a table at the back, in a shadowy corner where the light didn’t quite reach. A votive candle flickered on every other table, but Patch had snuffed his between his fingers upon sitting. Across the table, Rixon was sprawled in his chair, eyes tracing the ceiling in overdone boredom.
“I’ll wait for you till I turn blue,”
Rixon sang in a mutter.
“There’s nothing more a man can do. Ya drank with demons straight from”
—he broke off and, arching a suggestive eyebrow, pointed beneath his feet—
“hell. They almost nearly won as weeeell.”
Patch smiled. “Warming up for your
American Idol
audition?”
Rixon kicked him under the table. “When are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”
A waitress swept past, dropping off two coffees.
Patch took a drink. “Up to?”
“We’ve been coming here—Enzo’s, is it?—every Thursday night round eight. Five weeks in a row. And you thought I didn’t notice.”
“Four weeks.”
Rixon gave a theatrical eye roll. “The lad
can
count.”
“They have good coffee.”
“Right, then. Trouble with that is, you can’t taste it,” Rixon pointed out. “Moving on to lie number two, then?”
“I like the atmosphere.”
Rixon’s eyes bugged with astonishment. “Every girl in this place is under twenty. What do you say we scam up some birds a little closer to our own age … seven hundred, at least.”
“I’m not here for the girls.”
Just one of them.
His eyes flicked to his watch, then back to the doors.
Any minute now.
“Not here for the girls,” Rixon echoed. “Not here for the gambling, the drinking, the fighting. By all accounts, we’re blowing a perfectly good night in a
reputable
establishment. Either you’ve started listening to the wee little angel on your shoulder, or that
iniquitous brain of yours is tossing around some scheme.”
“And?”
“And I’m betting on the latter. What I want to know is what worthwhile scheme involves a squeaky-clean high school hangout?” he asked, casting a baleful eye about the place.
Outside, a familiar silhouette jogged past the bank of rain-splattered windows. The girl had her arms crossed over her head, doing an amusing job of trying to shield the rain. She hurried inside, giving the door an extra shove to allow her blond companion time to squeeze in before it slammed shut. They stood in the entrance a moment, shaking off rain and stamping their feet dry.
Rixon was still poking around for answers, but Patch had tuned him out. He was immensely conscious of the shorter of the two girls, a slim redhead with straight shoulders and a chin she held slightly raised in a gesture that could be mistaken for conceit. He’d watched her long enough to know it was something else. He toyed with words like “cagey,” “unassuming” … “prudent.” She’d raked her hair up into a stringent bun, but a few rogue pieces had fallen loose, and the effect brought the slightest curve to his mouth.
Even if he hadn’t memorized her schedule, the black span-dex running pants and wide-necked sweatshirt that she seemed engaged in a battle of tug-of-war with—one moment it would slide off her shoulder and the next she’d hitch it back into place—would have told him she’d come from the gym. Among the growing list of things he was discovering about her: She was a fair-weather
exerciser. Once a week at most. And only when the blonde, a yo-yo dieter, dragged her along.
The hostess led the girls in Patch’s direction. Patch slouched, discreetly angling his baseball cap to shield his face. Every other week he’d watched the redhead from across the restaurant, making sure she never had reason to glance his way. She typically sat with her chin propped on laced fingers, listening attentively as the blonde went off on guys, miracle diets, celebrity breakups, or her horoscope.
The hostess weaved to the side suddenly, seating the girls a few tables down. A slippery feeling of anxiety tumbled inside Patch, and the sensation almost made him laugh. When was the last time he’d felt boyish nervousness over being caught in a reprobate act?
But he
had
to play this safe. When he finally introduced himself to the redhead, creating the illusion of meeting for the first time, it had to appear random. Only after he knew her inside and out would he nail down a strategy to gain her trust.
Then he’d drop the proverbial ax.
Rixon was wrong. The angel on his shoulder had long ago been bound and silenced. Patch was driven by his own highest good, his moral compass a function of utility. He had a plan in everything, but the end result was always the same: to satisfy his wants.
After all this time, he was going to get a human body. Because he wanted it, and he had a plan. And the very heart of that plan sat feet away, stabbing at her ice water with a straw.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking we need to start sopho-more year off with a bang,” the blonde announced loudly to the
redhead. “No more ho-hum. This year is gonna be epic. No holds barred. And nothing could make this year more epic than snagging Luke Messersmith as my boyfriend. I already jump-started my this-is-how-I’m-gonna-get-him plan. I Sharpied my phone number on his garage door. All that’s left now is to sit back and wait.”
“For the restraining order?” The redhead was full-on grinning, lighting up her whole face. Clearly she didn’t know the effect it had, Patch thought, or she’d do it more often.
“What, you don’t like obvious?” the blonde argued.
“His parents are going to blacklist you. Any way you look at it, seven digits Sharpied on a garage door doesn’t make for the best icebreaker.”
Patch couldn’t take his eyes off her. This week more so than the last. Come to think of it, that had been the pattern from the start. It was inconvenient that she didn’t resemble Chauncey’s long-lost descendant; killing her would have brought him significantly more enjoyment. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but not this. Long legs, but a cautious, reserved stride. Prim features. A laugh that wasn’t too loud or too soft. Everything in its place.
Another near smile crept to his mouth. He was seized by the urge to put a crack in her. To make her carefully constructed world topple. One line was all it would take to make her blush. He’d bet money on it.
“Maybe next time go with a text,” the redhead suggested. “‘Hey, Luke, here are my digits.’ Works for the rest of the population.”
The blonde blew out a sigh and plunked her chin on her fist. “Fudge it. Snagging Luke Messersmith was a crapshoot anyway.
What we need is to set our sights elsewhere. Road trip to Portland. Man, that would make Marcie blow steam out her ears. You and me hanging out with college guys while she models slutty swimsuits at J.C. Penney in front of drooling, prepubescent freshmen.”
Rixon’s chair scraped forward. “I give up,” he said, drawing Patch’s attention. “I. Give. Up. What are you after?”
Patch took another sip of coffee. “Quality time with you.”
“See, when you lie to me it hurts,” Rixon said, swiping an imaginary tear. “I thought we had something special. I thought our joint eternal sentences of damnation were our bond. I know you’re up to something and if I have to, I’ll beat it out of you.”
“Give it a rest.”
“I’d like to. Problem is, I’m not stupid.”
“You act stupid.”
“Right. Thanks for that. For your information, there’s a difference between acting stupid and being stupid.”
“It’s a fine line, but someone has to draw it.”
Rixon flattened his hands to the table with a resounding thud. “What are we doing here other than taking an honest stab at death by boredom? And if you don’t come clean in the next three seconds, I’ll make good on my threat to make a punching bag out of your arrogant smirk.”
Patience. When I bring it up, this is what I’m talking about,
Patch spoke to his friend’s mind.
Digging up each other’s flaws, are we? Tsk, tsk. That’s no way to kindle a friendship. As for your flaws, you’ve forgotten how to have fun. Why don’t
we go find a group of Nephilim to terrorize?
Rixon started to stand.
Patch began to rise as well, but the conversation three tables over penetrated his conscious thought, momentarily diverting his attention.
“Why can’t any of the guys at school look like … those two guys over there.
Yowza.
”
The blonde’s voice hung in the air. Patch barely had time to glance sideways and see that both she and the redhead had their eyes pinned on him, definitely and fully aware of him—when Rixon shoved his fist into his jaw. Patch’s head snapped sideways, giving him a direct but swimming picture of the redhead’s mouth forming a perfect and astonished O.
Well, this was inconvenient.
“Told you I’d beat it out of you,” Rixon cackled, dodging lithely around the table.
Patch was on his feet in an instant.
Rixon barreled into him, slamming him back against the wall and into a picture frame. It hit the ground, glass shattering.
From the edge of his vision, Patch saw the redhead blink in stunned confusion and, if he wasn’t mistaken, just enough alarm to bring him a certain satisfaction … and encourage him on.
Patch reflexively dipped, and Rixon’s next jab passed over his shoulder. With an upward swipe, Patch drilled his fist into the underside of Rixon’s chin. He attacked the core of Rixon’s body, aiming repeatedly for the ribs and flesh around his stomach, but the moment his friend dropped his arms to protect himself, he
went for his head. Once, twice. Twice more. After five direct blows Rixon staggered out of range and flipped his palms up.
“You want me to scream uncle, that it?” Rixon panted, wearing a grin that said he was enjoying himself for the first time all night.
The blonde wedged her way through the tables to Rixon. She held out her napkin, gesturing at his face. “You’ve got a little blood …”
“Thanks, love.” Rixon dabbed the napkin to his mouth, then cast a sly wink at Patch. His voice slipped easily into Patch’s mind.
Said I wanted a girl closer to seven hundred, did I ? I meant seven hundred … give or take.
Patch settled grim eyes on the blonde, wishing he could mind-trick her into obediently going back to her table, but Rixon would pick up on it and ask questions. He let out a slow breath. Twenty-four hours from now, Rixon wouldn’t remember her name. She, however, had a slightly longer attention span. A complication.
“So tell me, love,” Rixon drawled to the blonde. “Ever ridden on a Ducati Streetfighter? I’m parked out back.”
The blonde was already throwing her purse strap over her shoulder. “Does your friend have a bike too? He could take my friend, Nora.” To Patch’s surprise, she waved at him.
“Vee,”
the redhead said with exasperation and warning.
The blonde didn’t bother listening. She turned to Rixon. “First things first. Someone should clean you up. I took a babysitting CPR course this summer. When it comes to nosebleeds, I’m your girl.” She grabbed Rixon by the sleeve and hauled him toward the unisex restroom.
True to form, Rixon slung an arm around her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek. “Lead the way, Nurse … Vee, was it?”
Patch found himself standing in disbelief beside the redhead. Two minutes ago he’d had things under control. He raked his hands through his hair. He might as well have plowed a Mack truck down the middle of his plan.
The redhead shifted her weight. She stole a look up at him, only to immediately swing her eyes away. She was frightened by him. He wondered if he had this effect on her naturally or if she sensed on some subconscious level what he wanted from her.
A strange war of desires battled inside him, pulling him in opposite directions. He wanted to make her uneasy. Ironically, he was also frightened of scaring her off. Now that he had her close, he wanted to keep her there.
She cleared her throat. “Think you could tell your friend to cut back on the slickness factor? If he gets any oilier, third world countries are going to start looking to him as a supplier.”
Patch smiled down at her. She was prettier up close. Cautious but expressive eyes, an aristocratic nose, a few freckles she probably hated, and that hair. Wild and rebellious. He had the urge to snap the rubber band and send her hair cascading around her shoulders. Other than his Nephilim mark on her wrist, Chauncey’s genes had done her the favor of sparing her any similarities.
“So,” he said. “You’re from around here?”
She craned her neck, searching the restaurant, clearly bent on
appearing absorbed in anything but talking to him. “It would seem so. And you are … ?”
“Jev.” He could tell by the slight downturn of her mouth she thought it was an odd name. Most humans did.
“And you?” she asked. “Are you from around here? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I keep a low profile.”
“Why’s that?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She flinched. He’d meant to kill the conversation and it worked. He knew he looked like a jerk, but given what he had in store for her, he could do a lot worse. He realized he should leave it alone, but now that he had her talking, he found himself drawn to her. The banter between them felt natural. And she was responding. Scared of him, sure, but equally curious. He could see it well enough in her eyes.
With conscious effort, Patch turned his body toward her, displaying interest. He smiled politely. “I’m in town on business.”
“What kind of business?” she asked after a minute.
“Genealogy. Tracking down long-lost family members.”
“Which family are you researching?”
“Langeais.”
“I’m not aware of any Langeaises in Coldwater.”
He rubbed his thumb across his mouth to quell a smile. “Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out.”