Dropping back into the Volkswagen, I drove across town. I was going fifteen over, but for once, I didn’t care. I didn’t have a destination in mind — I simply wanted to put distance between me and my mom. First Hank, and now her job. Why did I feel like she kept making decisions without consulting me?

  When the entrance to the highway appeared in the lane ahead, I hung right and followed it to the coast. I took the last exit before Delphic Amusement Park and followed signs to the public beaches. This stretch of coast saw far less traffic than the southern beaches of Maine. The coastline was rocky, and evergreens sprang up just out of reach of high tide. Instead of tourists with beach towels and picnic baskets, I saw a lone hiker and a dog chasing seagulls.

  Which was exactly what I wanted. I needed time alone to cool down.

  I jerked the Volkswagen curbside. In the rearview mirror, a red muscle car glided in behind me. I vaguely remembered seeing it on the highway, always hanging a few cars back. The driver probably wanted to squeeze in one last trip to the beach before the weather changed for the worse.

  I jumped the guardrail and climbed down the rocky embankment. The air was cooler than it had been in Coldwater, and a steady wind pummeled my back. The sky was more gray than blue, and hazy. I stayed above the reach of the waves, scaling the higher rocks. The terrain grew increasingly difficult to navigate, and I kept my concentration glued on careful foot placement rather than my latest fight with my mom.

  My boot slipped on a rock, and I went down, landing awkwardly on my side. Muttering under my breath, I regained my footing, and that was when a large shadow fell over me. Taken by surprise, I flipped around. I recognized the driver from the red muscle car. He was taller than average and had a year or two on me. His hair was cut utilitarian short, with sandy-brown eyebrows and a touch of hair at his chin. By the fit of his sweatshirt, he hit the gym regularly.

  “About time you left your house,” he said, glancing around. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for days.”

  I pushed to my feet, balancing on a rock. I searched his face for familiarity, but the lights didn’t come on. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

  “Do you think you were followed?” His eyes continued to rove the coastline. “I tried to keep tabs on all the cars, but I might have missed one. It would have helped if you’d circled the block before parking.”

  “Uh, I honestly have no idea who you are.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say to the guy who bought the car you drove here in.”

  A moment ticked by before I wrapped my head around his words. “Wait. You’re — Scott Parnell?” Even though it had been years, the similarities were there. The same dimple in his cheek. The same hazel eyes. More recent additions included the scar across his cheekbone, the five o’clock shadow, and the juxtaposition of a full, sensuous mouth with sculpted, symmetrical features.

  “I heard about your amnesia. Rumors are true, then? Looks like it’s as bad as they say.”

  My, my, wasn’t he optimistic. I crossed my arms over my chest and said coolly, “While we’re on the subject, maybe now’s a good time to tell me why you ditched the Volkswagen at my house the night I disappeared. If you know about my amnesia, surely you’ve heard I was kidnapped.”

  “The car was an apology for being a jerk.” His eyes still flicked over the trees. Who was he so worried had followed us?

  “Let’s talk about that night,” I stated. Out here all alone didn’t seem like the best place to have this conversation, but my determination to get answers won out. “It seems we were both shot by Rixon earlier that night. That’s what I told the police. You, me, and Rixon alone in the fun house. If Rixon even exists. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but I’m starting to think you invented him. I’m starting to think you shot me and needed someone else to blame. Did you force me to give Rixon’s name to the police? And next question, did you shoot me, Scott?”

  “Rixon’s in hell now, Nora.”

  I flinched. He’d said it without any hesitation and with just the right amount of melancholy. If he was lying, he deserved an award.

  “Rixon’s dead?”

  “He’s burning in hell, but yeah, same basic idea. Dead works, as far as I’m concerned.”

  I scrutinized his face, watching for the slightest false movement. I wasn’t going to argue specifics of the afterlife with him, but I needed confirmation that Rixon was gone for good. “How do you know? Have you told the police? Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know who we get to thank, but I know he’s gone. Word travels fast, trust me.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that. You might have the rest of the world fooled, but I’m not bought that easily. You dumped a car in my driveway the night I was kidnapped. Then you ran off into hiding — New Hampshire, was it? Forgive me if the last word that comes to mind when I see you is ‘innocent.’ I think it goes without saying: I don’t trust you.”

  He sighed. “Before Rixon shot us, you convinced me that I really am Nephilim. You’re the one who told me I can’t die. You’re part of the reason I ran away. You were right. I was never going to end up like the Black Hand. No way was I going to help him recruit more Nephilim to his army.”

  The wind pierced my clothes, breathing like frost against my skin. Nephilim. That word again. Following me everywhere. “I told you that you’re Nephilim?” I asked nervously. I closed my eyes briefly, praying he would correct himself. Praying that he’d been using the words “can’t die” figuratively. Praying this was where he explained that he was the final stop in an elaborate hoax that had started last night, with Gabe. A big hoax, and the joke was on me.

  But the truth was there, stirring in that murky place where my memory had once been intact. I couldn’t rationalize it in my head, but I could feel it. Inside me. Burning in my chest. Scott wasn’t making this up.

  “What I want to know is why you can’t remember any of this,” he said. “I thought amnesia wasn’t permanent. What gives?”

  “I don’t know why I can’t remember!” I snapped. “Okay? I don’t know. I woke up a few nights ago in the cemetery with nothing. I couldn’t even remember how I’d gotten there.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the sudden urge to spill everything to Scott, but there it was. My nose began to run, and I could feel tears forming behind my eyes. “The police found me and took me to the hospital. They said I’d been missing for nearly three months. They said I have amnesia because my mind is blocking the trauma to protect myself. But you want to know what’s crazy? I’m starting to think I’m not blocking anything. I got a note. Someone broke into my house and left it on my pillow. It said even though I’m home, I’m not safe. Someone is behind this. They know what I don’t. They know what happened to me.”

  Right then, I realized I’d divulged too much. I had no evidence the note existed. Worse, logic proved it didn’t. But if the note was a figment of my imagination, why did the thought of it refuse to fade? Why couldn’t I accept that I’d invented, contrived, or hallucinated it?

  Scott studied me with a deepening frown. “They?”

  I threw my hands up. “Forget it.”

  “Did the note say anything else?”

  “I said drop it. Do you have a Kleenex?” I could feel the skin under my eyes growing puffy, and I was past the point where sniffling was helping to keep my nose dry. As if that weren’t bad enough, two tears tumbled down my cheek.

  “Hey,” Scott said gently, grasping me by the shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. Don’t cry, all right? I’m on your side. I’ll help you figure out this mess.” When I didn’t resist, he pulled me against his chest and patted my back. Awkwardly at first, and then he settled into a soothing rhythm. “The night you went missing, I went into hiding. It’s not safe for me here, but when I saw on the news you were back and couldn’t remember anything, I had to come out of hiding. I had to find you. I owe you that much.”

  I knew I should pull away. Just because I wanted to believe Scott didn’t mean I should trust him completely. Or let down my guard. But I was tired of throwing up walls, and I let my defenses slip. I couldn’t remember the last time it had felt so good just to be held. In his embrace, I could almost make myself believe I wasn’t in this alone. Scott had promised we’d get through this together, and I wanted to believe him on that count as well.

  Plus, he knew me. He was a link to my past, and that meant more to me than I could put into words. After so many discouraging attempts at remembering any fragment my memory saw fit to throw at me, he’d appeared without any effort on my part. It was more than I could have asked for.

  Wiping my eyes on the back of my arm, I said, “Why isn’t it safe for you here?”

  “The Black Hand is here.” As if remembering that the name meant nothing to me, he said, “Just to make sure we’re clear, you remember nothing of this? I mean, nothing as in nothing?”

  “Nothing.” With that one word, I felt as though I were standing at the opening of a forbidding labyrinth that stretched to the horizon.

  “Sucks to be you,” he said, and despite his word choice, I believed he sincerely meant he was sorry. “The Black Hand is the nickname of a powerful Nephil. He’s building an underground army, and I used to be one of his soldiers, for lack of a better word. Now I’m a deserter, and if he catches me, it won’t be pretty.”

  “Back up. What is a Nephil?”

  Scott’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Get ready to feel your mind blow, Grey. A Nephil,” he explained patiently, “is an immortal.” His smile tipped even higher at my dubious expression. “I can’t die. None of us can.”

  “What’s the catch?” I asked. He couldn’t really mean immortal as in immortal.

  He gestured to the ocean shattering itself against the rocks far below. “If I jump, I’ll live.”

  Okay, so maybe he’d been stupid enough to make the jump before. And survived. That didn’t prove anything. He wasn’t immortal. He simply believed he was because he was a typical teenage guy who’d done a few reckless things, lived to talk about them, and now he believed he was invincible.

  Scott arched his eyebrows in mock offense. “You don’t believe me. Last night I spent a good two hours in the ocean, diving for fish, and I didn’t freeze to death. I can hold my breath down there for eight, nine minutes. Sometimes I pass out, but when I come around, I’ve always floated to the surface, and all my vital signs are up and working.”

  I opened my mouth, but it took a minute for words to form. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It makes sense if I’m immortal.”

  Before I could stop him, Scott whipped out a Swiss Army knife and drove it into his thigh. I gave a strangled scream and leaped for him, unsure if I should pull out the knife or stabilize it. Before I’d made up my mind, he yanked it out himself. He swore in pain, his jeans seeping blood.

  “Scott!” I shrieked.

  “Come back tomorrow,” he said in a more subdued voice. “It will be like it never happened.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I snapped, still worked up. Was he completely out of his mind? Why would he do such a stupid thing?

  “It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I’ve tried to burn myself alive. My skin was torched — gone. A couple days later, I was as good as new.”

  Even now I could see the blood on his jeans drying. The wound had stopped bleeding. He was … healing. In seconds rather than weeks. I didn’t want to trust my eyes, but seeing was believing.

  All of a sudden, I remembered Gabe. More clearly than I wanted to, I summoned up a visual of a tire iron projecting from his back. Jev had sworn the injury wouldn’t kill Gabe….

  Just like Scott swore his wound would heal without so much as a scratch.

  “Okay, then,” I whispered, even though I was anything but okay.

  “You sure you’re convinced? I could always throw myself in front of a car if you need more proof.”

  “I think I believe you,” I said, failing to keep the dazed bewilderment out of my tone.

  I forced myself to snap out of my stupor. For now, I was going to go with the flow as much as I could. Focus on one thing at a time, I told myself. Scott is immortal. Okay. What’s next?

  “Do we know who the Black Hand is?” I asked, suddenly hungry to get my hands on any information Scott might have. What else was I missing? How many more of my beliefs could he send spinning on their heads? And highest priority: Could he help mend my memory?

  “Last we spoke, we both wanted to know. I spent the summer following leads, which wasn’t easy, given that I’m living on the run, clean out of cash, working solo, and the Black Hand isn’t what you’d call careless. But I’ve narrowed it down to one man.” His eyes swept to mine. “You ready for this? The Black Hand is Hank Millar.”

  “Hank is what?”

  We were sitting on two tree stumps in a cave, about a quarter mile up the coast, tucked around a jutting cliff, and far out of view of the road. The cave was semi-dark with a low ceiling, but it offered protection from the wind and, as Scott had insisted, concealed us from any potential spies of the Black Hand. He’d refused to say another word until he was certain we were alone.

  Scott struck a match on the bottom of his shoe and lit a fire in a pit of rocks. Light glinted off the jagged walls, and I got my first good look around. There was a backpack and a sleeping bag against the back wall. A cracked mirror was propped against a rock that jutted out like a shelf, along with a razor, a can of shaving cream, and a stick of deodorant. Closer to the mouth of the cave was a large toolbox. On it rested a few dishes, silverware, and a frying pan. Beside it lay a fishing pole and an animal trap. The cave both impressed and saddened me. Scott was anything but helpless, clearly able to survive on his own knowledge and fortitude. But what kind of life did he have, hiding and running from one place to the next?

  “I’ve been watching Hank for months,” Scott said. “This isn’t a stab in the dark.”

  “Are you sure Hank is the Black Hand? No offense, but he doesn’t fit my picture of an underground militarist or—” An immortal man. The thought seemed unreal. No, absurd. “He runs the most successful car dealership in town, he’s a member of the yacht club, and he single-handedly supports the booster club. Why would he care what’s going on in the world of Nephilim? He already has everything he could possibly want.”

  “Because he’s Nephilim too,” Scott explained. “And he doesn’t have everything he wants. During the Jewish month of Cheshvan, all Nephilim who’ve sworn an oath of fealty have to give up their body for two weeks. They don’t have a choice. They give it up and someone else possesses it — a fallen angel. Rixon was the fallen angel who used to possess the Black Hand, and that’s how I came to hear he’s burning in hell. The Black Hand might be free, but he hasn’t forgotten and he’s not about to forgive. That’s what the army is for. He’s going to try to overthrow the fallen angels.”

  “Back up. Who are the fallen angels?” A gang? That’s what it sounded like. I was increasingly doubtful. Hank Millar was the last person in Coldwater who’d lower himself to associate with gangs. “And what do you mean ‘possesses’?”

  Scott’s mouth twitched with a disparaging smile, but to his credit, he answered with patience. “Definition of a fallen angel: heaven’s rejects and a Nephil’s worst nightmare. They force us to swear fealty, and then possess our bodies during Cheshvan. They’re parasites. They can’t feel anything in their own bodies, so they invade ours. Yeah, Grey,” he said at the look of abhorrence I was sure was frozen on my face. “I mean they literally come inside us and use our bodies like their own. A Nephil is mentally there while they do it, but doesn’t have any control.”

  I tried to swallow Scott’s explanation. More than once, I imagined the theme song of The Twilight Zone playing in the background, but the truth of the matter was, I knew he wasn’t lying. It was all coming back. The memories were splintered and damaged, but they were there. I’d learned this all before. When or how, I didn’t know. But I knew this — all of it. I said, “The other night I saw three guys beating up a Nephil. That’s what they were doing? Trying to force him to give up his body for two weeks? That’s inhumane. It’s — repulsive!”

  Scott had dropped his eyes, stirring the fire with a stick. My mistake hit me too late. Shame swept through me and I whispered, “Oh, Scott. I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry you have to go through that. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to give up your body.”

  “I haven’t sworn fealty. And I’m not going to.” He tossed the stick on the fire, and gold sparks showered into the dark, smoky air of the cave. “If nothing else, that’s what the Black Hand taught me. Fallen angels can try any mind-trick on me they want. They can chop my head off, cut out my tongue, and burn me to ash. But I’ll never swear that oath. I can handle pain. But I can’t handle the consequences of that oath.”

  “Mind-trick?” The skin at the back of my neck tingled, and my thoughts turned once more to Gabe.

  “A perk of being a fallen angel,” he said bitterly. “You get to mess with people’s minds. Make them see things that aren’t real. Nephilim inherited the trick from fallen angels.”

  It seemed I’d been right about Gabe after all. But he hadn’t used a magician’s sleight of hand to create the illusion of turning himself into a bear, as Jev had let me believe. He’d used a Nephilim weapon — mind control.

  “Show me how it’s done. I want to know exactly how it works.”

  “I’m out of practice,” was all he said, rocking back on his stump and lacing his hands behind his head.

  “Can’t you at least try?” I said with a playful shot to his knee, hoping to lighten the mood. “Show me what we’re up against. Come on. Surprise me. Make me see something I’m not expecting. Then teach me how it’s done.”

  When Scott continued to stare at the fire, the light illuminating the hard edges of his features, the smile slipped from my face. This was anything but a joke to him.