Hush, Hush

  Becca Fitzpatrick

  … GOD SPA­RED NOT THE AN­GELS THAT SIN­NED, BUT CAST THEM DOWN TO HELL, AND DE­LI­VE­RED THEM IN­TO CHA­INS OF DARK­NESS, TO BE RE­SER­VED UN­TO JUDG­MENT…

  2 PE­TER 2:4

  PROLOGUE

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE NOVEMBER 1565

  CHA­UN­CEY WAS WITH A FAR­MER'S DA­UGH­TER ON the grassy banks of the Lo­ire Ri­ver when the storm rol­led in, and ha­ving let his gel­ding wan­der in the me­adow, was left to his own two fe­et to carry him back to the cha­te­au. He to­re a sil­ver buck­le off his shoe, pla­ced it in the girl's palm, and watc­hed her scurry away, mud slin­ging on her skirts. Then he tug­ged on his bo­ots and star­ted for ho­me.

  Ra­in she­eted down on the dar­ke­ning co­untry­si­de sur­ro­un­ding the Cha­te­au de Lan­ge­a­is. Cha­un­cey step­ped easily over the sun­ken gra­ves and hu­mus of the ce­me­tery; even in the thic­kest fog he co­uld find his way ho­me from he­re and not fe­ar get­ting lost. The­re was no fog to­night, but the dark­ness and ons­la­ught of ra­in we­re de­ce­iving eno­ugh.

  The­re was mo­ve­ment along the frin­ge of Cha­un­cey's vi­si­on, and he snap­ped his he­ad to the left. At first glan­ce what ap­pe­ared to be a lar­ge an­gel top­ping a ne­arby mo­nu­ment ro­se to full he­ight. Ne­it­her sto­ne nor marb­le, the boy had arms and legs. His tor­so was na­ked, his fe­et we­re ba­re, and pe­asant tro­users hung low on his wa­ist. He hop­ped down from the mo­nu­ment, the ends of his black ha­ir drip­ping ra­in. It slid down his fa­ce, which was dark as a Spa­ni­ard's.

  Cha­un­cey's hand crept to the hilt of his sword. "Who go­es the­re?"

  The boy's mo­uth hin­ted at a smi­le.

  "Do not play ga­mes with the Due de Lan­ge­a­is," Cha­un­cey war­ned. "I as­ked for yo­ur na­me. Gi­ve it."

  "Due?" The boy le­aned aga­inst a twis­ted wil­low tree. "Or bas­tard?"

  Cha­un­cey uns­he­at­hed his sword. "Ta­ke it back! My fat­her was the Due de Lan­ge­a­is. I'm the Due de Lan­ge­a­is now," he ad­ded clum­sily, and cur­sed him­self for it.

  The boy ga­ve a lazy sha­ke of his he­ad. "Yo­ur fat­her wasn't the old due."

  Cha­un­cey se­et­hed at the out­ra­ge­o­us in­sult. "And yo­ur fat­her?" he de­man­ded, ex­ten­ding the sword. He didn't yet know all his vas­sals, but he was le­ar­ning. He wo­uld brand the fa­mily na­me of this boy to me­mory. "I'll ask on­ce mo­re," he sa­id in a low vo­ice, wi­ping a hand down his fa­ce to cle­ar away the ra­in. "Who are you?"

  The boy wal­ked up and pus­hed the bla­de asi­de. He sud­denly lo­oked ol­der than Cha­un­cey had pre­su­med, may­be even a ye­ar or two ol­der than Cha­un­cey. "One of the De­vil's bro­od," he ans­we­red.

  Cha­un­cey felt a clench of fe­ar in his sto­mach. "You're a ra­ving lu­na­tic," he sa­id thro­ugh his te­eth. "Get out of my way."

  The gro­und be­ne­ath Cha­un­cey til­ted. Bursts of gold and red pop­ped be­hind his eyes. Hunc­hed with his fin­ger­na­ils grin­ding in­to his thighs, he lo­oked up at the boy, blin­king and gas­ping, trying to ma­ke sen­se of what was hap­pe­ning. His mind re­eled li­ke it was no lon­ger his to com­mand.

  The boy cro­uc­hed to le­vel the­ir eyes. "Lis­ten ca­re­ful­ly. I ne­ed so­met­hing from you. I won't le­ave un­til I ha­ve it. Do you un­ders­tand?"

  Grit­ting his te­eth, Cha­un­cey sho­ok his he­ad to exp­ress his dis­be­li­ef-his de­fi­an­ce. He tri­ed to spit at the boy, but it trick­led down his chin, his ton­gue re­fu­sing to obey him.

  The boy clas­ped his hands aro­und Cha­un­cey's; the­ir he­at scorc­hed him and he cri­ed out.

  "I ne­ed yo­ur oath of fe­alty," the boy sa­id. "Bend on one knee and swe­ar it."

  Cha­un­cey com­man­ded his thro­at to la­ugh harshly, but his thro­at const­ric­ted and he cho­ked on the so­und. His right knee buck­led as if kic­ked from be­hind, tho­ugh no one was the­re, and he stumb­led for­ward in­to the mud. He bent si­de­ways and retc­hed.

  "Swe­ar it," the boy re­pe­ated.

  He­at flus­hed Cha­un­cey's neck; it to­ok all his energy to curl his hands in­to two we­ak fists. He la­ug­hed at him­self, but the­re was no hu­mor. He had no idea how, but the boy was inf­lic­ting the na­usea and we­ak­ness in­si­de him. It wo­uld not lift un­til he to­ok the oath. He wo­uld say what he had to, but he swo­re in his he­art he wo­uld dest­roy the boy for this hu­mi­li­ati­on.

  "Lord, I be­co­me yo­ur man," Cha­un­cey sa­id ve­no­mo­usly.

  The boy ra­ised Cha­un­cey to his fe­et. "Me­et me he­re at the start of the Heb­rew month of Chesh­van. Du­ring the two we­eks bet­we­en new and full mo­ons, I'll ne­ed yo­ur ser­vi­ce."

  "A…fort­night?" Cha­un­cey's who­le fra­me tremb­led un­der the we­ight of his ra­ge. "I am the Due de Lan­ge­a­is!"

  "You are a Nep­hil," the boy sa­id on a sli­ver of a smi­le.

  Cha­un­cey had a pro­fa­ne re­tort on the tip of his ton­gue, but he swal­lo­wed it. His next words we­re spo­ken with icy ve­nom. "What did you say?"

  "You be­long to the bib­li­cal ra­ce of Nep­hi­lim. Yo­ur re­al fat­her was an an­gel who fell from he­aven. You're half mor­tal." The boy's dark eyes lif­ted, me­eting Cha­un­cey's. "Half fal­len an­gel."

  Cha­un­cey's tu­tor's vo­ice drif­ted up from the re­ces­ses of his mind, re­ading pas­sa­ges from the Bib­le, tel­ling of a de­vi­ant ra­ce cre­ated when an­gels cast from he­aven ma­ted with mor­tal wo­men. A fe­ar­so­me and po­wer­ful ra­ce. A chill that wasn't en­ti­rely re­vul­si­on crept thro­ugh Cha­un­cey. "Who are you?"

  The boy tur­ned, wal­king away, and alt­ho­ugh Cha­un­cey wan­ted to go af­ter him, he co­uldn't com­mand his legs to hold his we­ight. Kne­eling the­re, blin­king up thro­ugh the ra­in, he saw two thick scars on the back of the boy's na­ked tor­so. They nar­ro­wed to form an up­si­de-down V.

  "Are you-fal­len?" he cal­led out. "Yo­ur wings ha­ve be­en strip­ped, ha­ven't they?"

  The boy-angel-who­ever he was did not turn back. Cha­un­cey did not ne­ed the con­fir­ma­ti­on.

  "This ser­vi­ce I'm to pro­vi­de," he sho­uted. "I de­mand to know what it is!"

  The air re­so­na­ted with the boy's low la­ugh­ter.

  CHAPTER 1

  COLDWATER, MAINE PRESENT DAY

  I WAL­KED IN­TO BI­OLOGY AND MY JAW FELL OPEN. Myste­ri­o­usly ad­he­red to the chalk­bo­ard was a Bar­bie doll, with Ken at her si­de. They'd be­en for­ced to link arms and we­re na­ked ex­cept for ar­ti­fi­ci­al le­aves pla­ced in a few cho­ice lo­ca­ti­ons. Scrib­bled abo­ve the­ir he­ads in thick pink chalk was the in­vi­ta­ti­on:

  WELCOME TO HUMAN REPRODUCTION (SEX)

  At my si­de Vee Sky sa­id, "This is exactly why the scho­ol out­laws ca­me­ra pho­nes. Pic­tu­res of this in the eZi­ne wo­uld be all the evi­den­ce I'd ne­ed to get the bo­ard of edu­ca­ti­on to ax bi­ology. And then we'd ha­ve this ho­ur to do so­met­hing pro­duc­ti­ve-li­ke re­ce­ive one-on-one tu­to­ring from cu­te up­per-class guys."

  "Why, Vee," I sa­id, "I co­uld've sworn you've be­en lo­oking for­ward to this unit all se­mes­ter."

  Vee lo­we­red her las­hes and smi­led wic­kedly. "This class isn't go­ing to te­ach me anyt­hing I don't al­re­ady know."

  "Vee? As in vir­gin?"

  "Not so lo­ud." She win­ked just as the bell rang, sen­ding us both to our se­ats, which we­re si­de by si­de at our sha­red tab­le.

  Co­ach McCo­na­ughy grab­bed the whist­le swin­ging from a cha­in aro­und his neck and blew it. "Se­ats, te­am!" Co­ach con­si­de­red te­ac­hing tenth-gra­de bi­ology a si­de as­sign­ment to his job as var­sity bas­ket­ball co­ach, and we all knew it.

  "It may not ha­ve oc­cur­red to you kids that sex is mo­re than a fif­te­en-mi­nu­te trip to the back­se­at of a car. It's sci­en­ce. And what is sci­en­ce?"

  'Bo­ring," so­me kid in the back of the ro­om cal­led out.

  "The only class I'm fa­iling," sa­id anot­her.

  Co­ach's eyes trac­ked down the front row, stop­ping at me. "No­ra?"

  "The study of so­met­hing," I sa­id.

  He wal­ked over and jab­bed his in­dex fin­ger on the tab­le in front of me. "What el­se?"

  "Know­led­ge ga­ined thro­ugh ex­pe­ri­men­ta­ti­on and ob­ser­va­ti­on." Lo­vely. I so­un­ded li­ke I was audi­ti­oning for the audi­obo­ok of our text.

  "In yo­ur own words."

  I to­uc­hed the tip of my ton­gue to my up­per lip and tri­ed for a synonym. "Sci­en­ce is an in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on." It so­un­ded li­ke a qu­es­ti­on.

  "Sci­en­ce is an in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on," Co­ach sa­id, san­ding his hands to­get­her. "Sci­en­ce re­qu­ires us to trans­form in­to spi­es."

  Put that way, sci­en­ce al­most so­un­ded fun. But I'd be­en in Co­ach's class long eno­ugh not to get my ho­pes up.

  "Go­od sle­ut­hing ta­kes prac­ti­ce," he con­ti­nu­ed.

  "So do­es sex," ca­me anot­her back-of-the-ro­om com­ment. We all bit back la­ugh­ter whi­le Co­ach po­in­ted a war­ning fin­ger at the of­fen­der.

  "That won't be part of to­night's ho­me­work." Co­ach tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on back to me. "No­ra, you've be­en sit­ting be­si­de Vee sin­ce the be­gin­ni

ng of the ye­ar." I nod­ded but had a bad fe­eling abo­ut whe­re this was go­ing. "Both of you are on the scho­ol eZi­ne to­get­her." Aga­in I nod­ded. "I bet you know qu­ite a bit abo­ut each ot­her."

  Vee kic­ked my leg un­der our tab­le. I knew what she was thin­king. That he had no idea how much we knew abo­ut each ot­her. And I don't just me­an the sec­rets we en­tomb in our di­ari­es. Vee is my un-twin. She's gre­en-eyed, minky blond, and a few po­unds over curvy. I'm a smoky-eyed bru­net­te with vo­lu­mes of curly ha­ir that holds its own aga­inst even the best fla­ti­ron. And I'm all legs, li­ke a bar sto­ol. But the­re is an in­vi­sib­le thre­ad that ti­es us to­get­her; both of us swe­ar that tie be­gan long be­fo­re birth. Both of us swe­ar it will con­ti­nue to hold for the rest of our li­ves.

  Co­ach lo­oked out at the class. "In fact, I'll bet each of you knows the per­son sit­ting be­si­de you well eno­ugh. You pic­ked the se­ats you did for a re­ason, right? Fa­mi­li­arity. Too bad the best sle­uths avo­id fa­mi­li­arity. It dulls the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve ins­tinct. Which is why, to­day, we're cre­ating a new se­ating chart."

  I ope­ned my mo­uth to pro­test, but Vee be­at me to it. "What the crap? It's Ap­ril. As in, it's al­most the end of the ye­ar. You can't pull this kind of stuff now."

  Co­ach hin­ted at a smi­le. "I can pull this stuff cle­ar up to the last day of the se­mes­ter. And if you fa­il my class, you'll be right back he­re next ye­ar, whe­re I'll be pul­ling this kind of stuff all over aga­in."

  Vee scow­led at him. She is fa­mo­us for that scowl. It's a lo­ok that do­es everyt­hing but audibly hiss. Ap­pa­rently im­mu­ne to it, Co­ach bro­ught his whist­le to his lips, and we got the idea.

  "Every part­ner sit­ting on the left-hand si­de of the tab­le-that's yo­ur left-mo­ve up one se­at. Tho­se in the front row-yes, inc­lu­ding you, Vee-mo­ve to the back."

  Vee sho­ved her no­te­bo­ok in­si­de her back­pack and rip­ped the zip­per shut. I bit my lip and wa­ved a small fa­re­well. Then I tur­ned slightly, chec­king out the ro­om be­hind me. I knew the na­mes of all my clas­sma­tes… ex­cept one. The trans­fer. Co­ach ne­ver cal­led on him, and he se­emed to pre­fer it that way. He sat slo­uc­hed one tab­le back, co­ol black eyes hol­ding a ste­ady ga­ze for­ward. Just li­ke al­ways. I didn't for one mo­ment be­li­eve he just sat the­re, day af­ter day, sta­ring in­to spa­ce. He was thin­king so­met­hing, but ins­tinct told me I pro­bably didn't want to know what.

  He set his bio text down on the tab­le and slid in­to Vee's old cha­ir.

  I smi­led. "Hi. I'm No­ra."

  His black eyes sli­ced in­to me, and the cor­ners of his mo­uth til­ted up. My he­art fumb­led a be­at and in that pa­use, a fe­eling of glo­omy dark­ness se­emed to sli­de li­ke a sha­dow over me. It va­nis­hed in an ins­tant, but I was still sta­ring at him. His smi­le wasn't fri­endly. It was a smi­le that spel­led tro­ub­le. With a pro­mi­se.

  I fo­cu­sed on the chalk­bo­ard. Bar­bie and Ken sta­red back with stran­gely che­er­ful smi­les.

  Co­ach sa­id, "Hu­man rep­ro­duc­ti­on can be a sticky su­bj­ect-"

  "Ewww!" gro­aned a cho­rus of stu­dents.

  "It re­qu­ires ma­tu­re hand­ling. And li­ke all sci­en­ce, the best ap­pro­ach is to le­arn by sle­ut­hing. For the rest of class, prac­ti­ce this tech­ni­que by fin­ding out as much as you can abo­ut yo­ur new part­ner. To­mor­row, bring a wri­te-up of yo­ur dis­co­ve­ri­es, and be­li­eve me, I'm go­ing to check for aut­hen­ti­city. This is bi­ology, not Eng­lish, so don't even think abo­ut fic­ti­ona­li­zing yo­ur ans­wers. I want to see re­al in­te­rac­ti­on and te­am­work." The­re was an imp­li­ed Or el­se.

  I sat per­fectly still. The ball was in his co­urt-I'd smi­led, and lo­ok how well that tur­ned out. I wrink­led my no­se, trying to fi­gu­re out what he smel­led li­ke. Not ci­ga­ret­tes. So­met­hing ric­her, fo­uler.

  Ci­gars.

  I fo­und the clock on the wall and tap­ped my pen­cil in ti­me to the se­cond hand. I plan­ted my el­bow on the tab­le and prop­ped my chin on my fist. I blew out a sigh.

  Gre­at. At this ra­te I wo­uld fa­il.

  I had my eyes pin­ned for­ward, but I he­ard the soft gli­de of his pen. He was wri­ting, and I wan­ted to know what. Ten mi­nu­tes of sit­ting to­get­her didn't qu­alify him to ma­ke any as­sump­ti­ons abo­ut me. Flit­ting a lo­ok si­de­ways, I saw that his pa­per was se­ve­ral li­nes de­ep and gro­wing.

  "What are you wri­ting?" I as­ked.

  "And she spe­aks Eng­lish," he sa­id whi­le scraw­ling it down, each stro­ke of his hand both smo­oth and lazy at on­ce.

  I le­aned as clo­se to him as I da­red, trying to re­ad what el­se he'd writ­ten, but he fol­ded the pa­per in half, con­ce­aling the list.

  "What did you wri­te?" I de­man­ded.

  He re­ac­hed for my unu­sed pa­per, sli­ding it ac­ross the tab­le to­ward him. He crump­led it in­to a ball. Be­fo­re I co­uld pro­test, he tos­sed it at the trash can be­si­de Co­ach's desk. The shot drop­ped in.

  I sta­red at the trash can a mo­ment, loc­ked bet­we­en dis­be­li­ef and an­ger. Then I flip­ped open my no­te­bo­ok to a cle­an pa­ge. "What is yo­ur na­me?" I as­ked, pen­cil po­ised to wri­te.

  I glan­ced up in ti­me to catch anot­her dark grin. This one se­emed to da­re me to pry anyt­hing out of him.

  "Yo­ur na­me?" I re­pe­ated, ho­ping it was my ima­gi­na­ti­on that my vo­ice fal­te­red.

  "Call me Patch. I me­an it. Call me."

  He win­ked when he sa­id it, and I was pretty su­re he was ma­king fun of me.

  "What do you do in yo­ur le­isu­re ti­me?" I as­ked.

  "I don't ha­ve free ti­me."

  "I'm as­su­ming this as­sign­ment is gra­ded, so do me a fa­vor?"

  He le­aned back in his se­at, fol­ding his arms be­hind his he­ad. "What kind of fa­vor?"

  I was pretty su­re it was an in­nu­en­do, and I grap­pled for a way to chan­ge the su­bj­ect.

  "Free ti­me," he re­pe­ated tho­ught­ful­ly. "I ta­ke pic­tu­res."

  I prin­ted Pho­tog­raphy on my pa­per.

  "I wasn't fi­nis­hed," he sa­id. "I've got qu­ite a col­lec­ti­on go­ing of an eZi­ne co­lum­nist who be­li­eves the­re's truth in eating or­ga­nic, who wri­tes po­etry in sec­ret, and who shud­ders at the tho­ught of ha­ving to cho­ose bet­we­en Stan­ford, Ya­le, and… what's that big one with the #?"

  I sta­red at him a mo­ment, sha­ken by how de­ad on he was. I didn't get the fe­eling it was a luck) gu­ess. He knew. And I wan­ted to know how-right now.

  "But you won't end up go­ing to any of them."

  "I won't?" I as­ked wit­ho­ut thin­king.

  He ho­oked his fin­gers un­der the se­at of my cha­ir, drag­ging me clo­ser to him. Not su­re if I sho­uld sco­ot away and show fe­ar, or do not­hing and fe­ign bo­re­dom, I cho­se the lat­ter.

  He sa­id, "Even tho­ugh you'd thri­ve at all three scho­ols, you scorn them for be­ing a clichй of ac­hi­eve­ment. Pas­sing judg­ment is yo­ur third big­gest we­ak­ness."

  "And my se­cond?" I sa­id with qu­i­et ra­ge. Who was this guy? Was this so­me kind of dis­tur­bing joke?

  "You don't know how to trust. I ta­ke that back. You trust-just all the wrong pe­op­le."

  "And my first?" I de­man­ded.

  "You ke­ep li­fe on a short le­ash."

  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?"

  "You're sca­red of what you can't cont­rol."

  The ha­ir at the na­pe of my neck sto­od on end, and the tem­pe­ra­tu­re in the ro­om se­emed to chill. Or­di­na­rily I wo­uld ha­ve go­ne stra­ight to Co­ach's desk and re­qu­es­ted a new se­ating chart. But I re­fu­sed to let Patch think he co­uld in­ti­mi­da­te or sca­re me. I felt an ir­ra­ti­onal ne­ed to de­fend myself and de­ci­ded right then and the­re I wo­uldn't back down un­til he did.

  "Do you sle­ep na­ked?" he as­ked.

  My mo­uth thre­ate­ned to drop, but I held it in check. "You're hardly the per­son I'd tell."