Silence

CHAPTER 27

IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, A WEEK LATER, AND MY MOM and Hank were in the living room, cuddled on the couch and sharing a bowl of popcorn. I’d retreated to my room, having promised Patch I could keep my cool around Hank.

Hank had been infuriatingly charming the past few days, driving my mom home from the hospital, stopping by with takeout every night promptly at dinnertime, even cleaning our roof gutters earlier this morning. I wasn’t foolish enough to lower my guard, but I was driving myself mad trying to pull apart his motives. He was planning something, but when it came down to what, I was at a loss.

My mom’s laugh carried up the stairs, and it pushed me over the edge. I punched in a text to Vee.

YO, she answered a moment later.

I HAVE TICKETS 2 SERPENTINE. WANNA?

SERPEN-WHA???

FRIEND OF THE FAMILY’S NEW BAND, I explained. OPENING GIG IS TONIGHT.

PICK U UP IN 20.

Promptly twenty minutes later, Vee screeched into the driveway. I thundered down the stairs, hoping to make it out the door before I had to endure the torture of hearing my mom make out with Hank, who, I’d learned, was a very wet kisser.

“Nora?” Mom called down the hall. “Where are you going?”

“Out with Vee. I’ll be back by eleven!” Before she could veto, I raced outside and threw myself inside Vee’s 1995 purple Dodge Neon. “Go, go, go!” I ordered her.

Vee, who’d have a bright future as a getaway driver if college didn’t pan out, took my escape into her own hands, peeling out of the drive loud enough to frighten a flock of birds out of the nearest tree.

“Whose Avalon was in the driveway?” Vee asked as she sped across town, oblivious to road signs. She’d dramatically bawled her way out of three speeding tickets since getting her license, and was firmly convinced that when it came to the law, she was invincible.

“Hank’s rental.”

“I heard from Michelle Van Tassel, who heard from Lexi Hawkins, who heard from our good friend Marcie that Hank is offering up a big ol’ reward for any police tips that lead to the arrest of the freak shows who tried to run you off the road.”

Good luck with that.

But I smirked appropriately, not wanting to tip Vee off that anything was wrong. Ideally, I knew I should tell her everything, starting with having my memory erased by Hank. But … how? How did I explain things I could hardly comprehend myself? How did I make her believe in a world teeming with the stuff of nightmares, when I had nothing but my own word to offer up as proof?

“How much is Hank offering?” I asked. “Maybe I can be coaxed into remembering something important.”

“Why bother? Lift his bank card instead. I doubt he’d notice if a few hundred walked off. And hey, if you get caught, it’s not like he can have you arrested. It would screw up any chance he has with your mom.”

If only it were that simple, I thought, a gritty smile frozen on my face. If only Hank could be taken at face value.

There was a tiny parking lot near the Devil’s Handbag, and Vee cruised through it five times, but a spot didn’t open up. She widened her search block by block. At last she parallel parked along a stretch of curb that left half the Neon hanging out in the street.

Vee got out and surveyed her parking job. She shrugged. “Five points for creativity.”

We walked the rest of the way on foot.

“So who’s this friend of the family?” Vee inquired. “Is he male? Is he hot? Is he single?”

“Yes on the first count, probably on second, I think so on the last. You want me to introduce you?”

“No siree. Just wanted to know if I should keep my evil eye trained on him. I don’t trust boys anymore, but my scary-radar goes off the charts when it comes to pretty boys.”

I gave a short laugh trying to imagine a squeaky-clean, dolledup version of Scott. “Scott Parnell is anything but pretty.”

“Whoa. Hold on. What’s this? You didn’t tell me the old family friend was Scottie the Hottie.”

I wanted to tell Vee that was because I was doing my best to keep Scott’s public appearance tonight quiet, not wanting any word of it to reach Hank’s ears, but I brushed it off with an innocent, “Sorry, I must have forgotten.”

“Our boy Scottie has a body you can’t forget. You’ve got to give him that.”

She was right. Scott wasn’t bulky, but he was very muscular and had the well-proportioned physique of a top-notch athlete. If it weren’t for the tough, almost scowl-like expression he carried everywhere, he’d probably attract throngs of girls. Possibly even Vee, who was a self-proclaimed man hater.

We rounded the final corner, and the Devil’s Handbag came into view. It was a charmless four-story brick structure with creeping ivy and blacked-out windows. On one side it neighbored a pawn shop. On the other sat a shoe repair store that I secretly suspected was the front for a thriving fake ID business. Seriously, who replaced their soles anymore?

“Are we going to get tagged?” Vee asked.

“Not tonight. They aren’t serving alcohol at the bar, since half the band is underage. Scott told me we’d only need tickets.”

We stepped into line, and five minutes later cleared the doors. The spacious layout inside consisted of a stage on one side of the room, and a bar on the other. Booth seating close to the bar, cafe tables near the stage. There was a decent crowd, with more coming in by the minute, and I experienced a squeeze of nervous anticipation for Scott. I tried to pick out Nephilim faces in the audience, but I wasn’t experienced enough to trust myself to do a thorough job. Not that I had a reason to believe the Devil’s Handbag made a likely hangout for nonhumans, particularly those with allegiance to Hank. I was simply going on the belief that it didn’t hurt to be cautious.

Vee and I went right to the bar.

“Something to drink?” the bartender, a redhead who hadn’t skimped on eyeliner or nose rings, asked us.

“Suicide,” Vee told her. “You know, when you put a little shot of everything into the glass?”

I leaned sideways. “How old are we?”

“Childhood only comes once. Live it up.”

“Cherry Coke,” I told the bartender.

As Vee and I sipped our drinks, sitting back and taking in the preshow excitement, a slender blonde with her hair stuffed into a messy — and sexy — bun sashayed over. She leaned her elbows back on the bar, giving me a cursory glance. She wore a long bohemian dress, pulling off hippie-chic flawlessly. Other than a swipe of siren-red lipstick, she was sans makeup, which drew my attention to her full, pouty mouth. Fixing her gaze on the stage, she said, “Haven’t seen you girls around before. First time?”

“What’s it to you?” Vee said.

The girl laughed, and while the sound was soft and tinkling, it made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“High schoolers?” she guessed.

Vee narrowed her eyes. “Maybe, maybe not. And you are …?”

The blonde flashed a smile. “Dabria.” Her eyes pinned mine. “I heard about the amnesia. Pity.”

I gagged on my cherry Coke.

Vee said, “You look familiar. But your name isn’t ringing a bell.” She pursed her lips in evaluation.

In response, Dabria cast cool eyes on Vee, and just like that, all suspicion dissipated from Vee’s expression, leaving her as blank as placid water. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. This is the first time we’ve met,” Vee said in a monotone.

I glared at Dabria. “Can we talk? Alone?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she answered breezily.

I pushed my way over to the hallway leading to the restrooms. When we were out of the crowd, I spun on Dabria. “First, quit mind-tricking my best friend. Second, what are you doing here? And third, you’re a lot prettier than Patch led me to believe.” Probably didn’t need to throw in that last bit, but now that I had Dabria alone, I wasn’t in the mood to dance around. Best to get straight to the point.

Her mouth curled into a satisfied smirk. “And you’re quite a bit more plain than I remember.”

Suddenly I wished I’d pulled on something more sophisticated than boyfriend jeans, a graphic tee, and a military-style hat. I said, “He’s over you, just so we’re clear.”

Dabria examined her manicure before looking up at me through lowered lashes. With unmistakable regret she said, “I wish I could say I was over him.”

I told you so! I thought angrily at Patch.

“Unrequited love sucks,” I stated simply.

“Is he here?” Dabria craned her neck to search the crowd.

“No. But I’m sure you already knew that, since you’ve taken it upon yourself to stalk him.”

Something mischievous danced in her eyes. “Oh? He noticed?”

“Hard not to when you’ve clearly made it your life’s purpose to throw yourself at him.”

Her pouty smirk adopted a hardened edge. “Just so you know, if it weren’t for my feather Jev keeps tucked in his pants, I wouldn’t think twice about dragging you out to the street and giving you a front-row seat with an oncoming car. Jev might be here for you now, but I wouldn’t breathe easy. He’s made quite a few enemies over the years, and I can’t tell you how many of them would love to chain him in hell. You don’t treat people the way he has and sleep with both eyes closed,” she said, cold-blooded warning creeping into her tone. “If he wants to stay on Earth, he can’t be distracted by some”—her gaze raked over me—“childish little girl. He needs an ally. Someone who can watch his back and be useful to him.”

“And you think you’re just the girl for the job?” I seethed.

“I think you should stick to your own kind. Jev doesn’t like to be tied down. One glance at you, and I can tell you’ve got your hands full with him.”

“He’s changed,” I said. “He’s not the same person he was when you knew him.”

Her laughter rang off the walls. “I can’t decide if your naïveté is adorable, or if I want to smack some sense into you. Jev will never change, and he doesn’t love you. He’s using you to get to the Black Hand. Do you know how high the price on Hank Millar’s head is? Millions. Jev wants that money as much as the next fallen angel, maybe more, because he can use it to pay off his enemies, and trust me when I say they’re snapping at his heels. He’s ahead of the game because he has you, the Black Hand’s heir. You can get close to the Black Hand in a way most fallen angels can only dream of.”

I didn’t bat an eye. “I don’t believe you.”

“I know you want the Black Hand, sweetie. Just like I know you want to be the one to destroy him. Not an easy feat, considering he’s Nephilim, but pretend for a minute it’s possible. Do you really think Jev will hand Hank over to you when he can deliver him to the right people and receive a ten-million-dollar paycheck? Think about it.”

On that note, Dabria raised a shrewd eyebrow and merged into the crowd.

When I returned to the bar, Vee said, “Don’t know about you, but I didn’t like that chick. She rivals Marcie for the number one spot on my skank-detecting meter.”

She’s worse, I thought grimly. Much worse.

“Speaking of instincts, I haven’t made up my mind yet how I feel about this particular Romeo,” Vee said, sitting a little higher on her stool.

I followed her gaze, finding Scott at the end of it.

A good head taller than the crowd, he waded toward us. His sun-streaked brown hair hugged his head like a cap, and paired with bedraggled jeans and a fitted T-shirt, he looked every bit the bass player in an up-and-coming rock band.

“You came,” he said with a hitch of his mouth, and I knew right away he was pleased.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, trying to squash down any uneasiness I felt over Scott’s obstinate refusal to stay in hiding a little longer. One brief glance at his hand revealed that he hadn’t removed the Black Hand’s ring. “Scott, this is my best friend, Vee Sky. I don’t know if you two have officially met.”

Vee shook Scott’s hand and said, “I’m happy to see there’s at least one person in this room taller than me.”

“Yeah, I get my height from my dad’s side,” Scott said, clearly not in a hurry to elaborate. Then to me, “About homecoming. I’m sending a limo over to your place tomorrow at nine. The driver will take you to the dance, and I’ll meet you there. Was I supposed to get one of those flower things for your wrist? I totally forgot about that.”

“You two are going to homecoming together?” Vee asked, eyebrows vaulted, fingers pointing between us in a puzzled manner.

I could have kicked myself for not remembering to tell her. In my defense, I’d had a lot on my mind.

“As friends,” I reassured Vee. “If you want to come, the more the merrier.”

“Yeah, but now I don’t have time to buy a dress,” Vee said, sounding genuinely discouraged.

Thinking on my feet, I said, “We’ll go to Silk Garden first thing tomorrow. Plenty of time. Didn’t you like that purple sequin gown, the one on the mannequin?”

Scott jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go warm up. If you can hang around after the show, find me backstage and I’ll give you a private tour.”

Vee and I exchanged a look, and I knew her estimation of Scott had just risen several notches. I, on the other hand, prayed he’d last long enough to give us a tour. Surreptitiously casting my eyes about, I hunted for signs of Hank, his men, or anything else troublesome.

Serpentine came on stage, testing and tuning the various guitars and drums. Scott jumped onstage with them, flinging his guitar strap across his shoulder. He strummed a few notes, biting the guitar pick between his teeth as he nodded to his own beat. Looking sideways, I found Vee tapping her foot in rhythm.

I nudged her elbow. “Anything you want to tell me?”

She bit back a smile. “He’s nice.”

“I thought you were in boy detox.”

Vee nudged me back, harder. “Don’t be a Debbie Downer.”

“Just getting my facts straight.”

“If we hooked up, he could write me ballads and stuff. You gotta admit, nothing’s sexier than a guy who writes music.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said.

“Mm-hmm, yourself.”

Onstage, a crew from the Devil’s Handbag helped adjust the microphones and amps. One of the crew members was on his knees, taping down cords, when he paused to wipe sweat off his brow. My eyes fell on his arm, and I was hit by a flash of recognition so strong it seemed to rock me back. Three words were tattooed like a mantra on his forearm. COLD. PAIN. HARD.

I didn’t know the significance of the combination of words, but I knew I’d seen them before. A pair of curtains drew back, revealing my memory long enough for me to remember seeing the tattoo right after I’d been hurled from Hank’s Land Cruiser. COLD. PAIN. HARD. I hadn’t remembered it before, but now I was positive. The man onstage had been there. Directly following the crash. He’d grabbed my wrists as I’d drifted into unconsciousness, dragging my body through the dirt. He had to have been one of the fallen angels riding in the El Camino.

As I came to this startling conclusion, the fallen angel dusted his hands and jumped offstage, wandering the perimeter of the crowd. He made brief conversation with a few people, slowly progressing toward the back of the room. Abruptly, he turned down the same hall where Dabria and I had talked.

I called into Vee’s ear, “I’m going to run to the restroom. Save my spot.”

Edging through the crowd, huddled three and four deep around the bar, I followed the fallen angel into the hallway. He stood at the far end of it, bent slightly forward. He shifted, revealing his profile, holding a lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips. Exhaling a plume of spoke, he stepped outside.

I gave him a few seconds’ head start, then cracked the door and stuck my head out. A handful of smokers loitered in the alley, but other than a flick of eyes, no one paid me any attention. I stepped all the way out, searching for the fallen angel. He was halfway down the alley, walking toward the street. Maybe he wanted to smoke alone, but I had a feeling he was leaving for good.

I ran down my options. I could hurry back inside and enlist Vee’s help, but I didn’t want to risk involving her if I could help it. I could call Patch for backup, but if I waited for him to arrive, I’d risk losing the fallen angel. Or I could take Patch’s advice and immobilize the fallen angel, taking advantage of his wing scars, and then call for backup.

I decided to give Patch as much of a heads-up as I could and pray that he hurried. We’d agreed to reserve calls and texts for emergencies only, not wanting to leave any unwanted evidence lying around for Hank to find. If this didn’t constitute an emergency, I didn’t know what did.

IN ALLEY BEHIND DEVIL’S HANDBAG, I texted in a hurry. SAW FALLEN ANGEL FROM CAR CRASH. WILL AIM FOR WING SCARS.

There was a snow shovel propped against the back door of the shoe repair store, and I picked it up without thinking. I didn’t have a plan, but if I was going to immobilize the fallen angel, I’d need a weapon. Keeping an unsuspecting distance behind, I followed him to the end of the alley. He turned onto the street, flicked his cigarette into the gutter, and dialed on his cell phone.

Hidden in shadow, I picked up bits and pieces of his conversation.

“Finished the job. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him.”

He hung up and scratched his neck. He let go of a sigh that sounded conflicted. Or maybe resigned.

Taking advantage of his quiet contemplation, I crept up behind him and swung the shovel sideways in a vicious sweep. It smashed into his back with more power than I ever thought I possessed, right where his wing scars should be.

The fallen angel staggered forward, taking a knee.

I brought the shovel down a second time with more confidence. Then a third, fourth, fifth time. Knowing I couldn’t kill him, I slammed a fierce blow to his head.

He wobbled off balance, then slumped to the ground.

I nudged him with my shoe, but he was out cold.

Hurried footsteps rang out behind me and I flipped around, still clutching the shovel. Patch emerged from the darkness, breathless from running. He looked between me and the fallen angel.

“I — got him,” I said, still in shock that it had been so easy.

Patch gently pried the shovel from my hands and set it aside. A faint smile twitched his lips. “Angel, this man isn’t a fallen angel.”

I blinked. “What?”

Patch crouched beside the man, took his shirt in his hands, and ripped the fabric. I stared at the man’s back, smooth and muscular. And not a wing scar in sight.

“I was sure,” I stammered. “I thought it was him. I recognized his tattoo—”

Patch peered up at me. “He’s Nephilim.”

A Nephil? I’d just bludgeoned a Nephil unconscious?

Rolling the Nephil’s body over, Patch unbuttoned his shirt, inspecting his torso. At the same time, our eyes traveled to the brand just below his clavicle. The clenched fist was all too familiar.

“The Black Hand’s mark,” I said with astonishment. “The men who attacked us that day, and nearly drove us off the road, were Hank’s men?” What did it mean? And how could Hank have made such a grave error in judgment? He’d claimed they were fallen angels. He’d sounded so certain—

“Are you sure this was one of the men in the El Camino?” Patch asked.

Rage leaped inside me as I realized I’d been played. “Oh, I’m sure.”