"You're a bad li­ar," he sa­id, still smi­ling. "The worst I've se­en."

  I put my hands on my hips and com­mu­ni­ca­ted a si­lent Ex­cu­se me?

  "Co­me he­re," he sa­id, pul­ling me to my fe­et. I felt my ear­li­er pro­mi­se of re­sis­tan­ce mel­ting away. Anot­her ten se­conds of stan­ding this clo­se to Patch and my de­fen­se wo­uld be blown to smit­he­re­ens.

  A mir­ror hung on the wall be­hind him, and over his sho­ul­der I saw the up­si­de-down V scars gle­aming black on his skin.

  My who­le body went ri­gid. I tri­ed to blink the scars away, but they we­re the­re for go­od.

  Wit­ho­ut thin­king, I slid my hands up his chest and aro­und to his back. A fin­ger­tip brus­hed his right scar.

  Patch ten­sed un­der my to­uch. I fro­ze, the tip of my fin­ger qu­ive­ring on his scar. It to­ok me a mo­ment to re­ali­ze it wasn't ac­tu­al­ly my fin­ger mo­ving, but me. All of me.

  I was suc­ked in­to a soft, dark chu­te and everyt­hing went black.

  CHAPTER 23

  I WAS STAN­DING IN THE LO­WER LE­VEL OF BO'S AR­CA­DE WITH my back to the wall, fa­cing se­ve­ral ga­mes of po­ol. The win­dows we­re bo­ar­ded, and I co­uldn't tell if it was day or night. Ste­vie Nicks was co­ming thro­ugh the spe­akers; the song abo­ut the whi­te-win­ged do­ve and be­ing on the ed­ge of se­ven­te­en. No­body se­emed surp­ri­sed by my sud­den ap­pe­aran­ce out of thin air.

  And then I re­mem­be­red I was we­aring not­hing but a ca­mi and pan­ti­es. I'm not all that va­in, but stan­ding in a crowd com­po­sed en­ti­rely of the op­po­si­te sex, my es­sen­ti­als ba­rely co­ve­red, and no­body even lo­oked at me? So­met­hing was… off.

  I pinc­hed myself. Per­fectly ali­ve, as far as I co­uld tell.

  Wa­ving a hand to cle­ar away the hazy clo­ud of ci­gar smo­ke, I spot­ted Patch ac­ross the ro­om. He was sit­ting at a po­ker tab­le, kic­ked back, hol­ding a hand of cards clo­se to his chest.

  I pad­ded ba­re­fo­ot ac­ross the ro­om, cros­sing my arms over my chest, ma­king su­re to ke­ep myself co­ve­red. "Can we talk?" I his­sed in his ear. The­re was an un­ner­ved qu­ality to my vo­ice. Un­ders­tan­dab­le, sin­ce I had no idea how I'd co­me to find myself at Bo's. One mo­ment I was at the mo­tel, and the next I was he­re.

  Patch pus­hed a short stack of po­ker chips in­to the pi­le at the cen­ter of the tab­le.

  "Li­ke may­be wow?" I sa­id. "It's kind of ur­gent…" I tra­iled off when the ca­len­dar on the wall ca­ught my eye. It was eight months be­hind, sho­wing August of last ye­ar. Right be­fo­re I star­ted sop­ho­mo­re ye­ar. Months be­fo­re I met Patch. I told myself it was a mis­ta­ke, that who­ever was in char­ge of rip­ping off the old months had fal­len be­hind, but at the sa­me ti­me I bri­efly and un­wil­lingly con­si­de­red the pos­si­bi­lity that the ca­len­dar was right whe­re it was sup­po­sed to be. And I was not.

  I drag­ged a cha­ir over from the next tab­le and pul­led up be­si­de Patch. "He's hol­ding a fi­ve of spa­des, a ni­ne of spa­des, the ace of he­arts…" I stop­ped when I re­ali­zed that no one was pa­ying at­ten­ti­on. No, it wasn't that. No one co­uld see me.

  Fo­ots­teps lum­be­red down the sta­irs ac­ross the ro­om, and the sa­me cas­hi­er who'd thre­ate­ned to throw me out the first ti­me I'd co­me to the ar­ca­de ap­pe­ared at the bot­tom of the sta­ir­well.

  "So­me­one ups­ta­irs wants a word with you," he told Patch.

  Patch ra­ised his eyeb­rows, trans­mit­ting a si­lent qu­es­ti­on.

  "She wo­uldn't gi­ve her na­me," the cas­hi­er sa­id apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly. "I as­ked a co­up­le of ti­mes. I told her you we­re in a pri­va­te ga­me, but she wo­uldn't le­ave. I can throw her out if you want."

  "No. Send her down."

  Patch pla­yed out his hand, gat­he­red his chips, and pus­hed out of his cha­ir. "I'm out." He wal­ked to the po­ol tab­le clo­sest to the sta­irs, res­ted aga­inst it, and slid his hands in­si­de his poc­kets.

  I fol­lo­wed him ac­ross the ro­om. I snap­ped my fin­gers in front of his fa­ce. I kic­ked his bo­ots. I flat-out smac­ked his chest. He didn't flinch, didn't mo­ve.

  Light fo­ots­teps so­un­ded on the sta­irs, gro­wing clo­ser, and when Miss Gre­ene step­ped out of the dar­ke­ned sta­ir­well, I ex­pe­ri­en­ced a mo­ment of con­fu­si­on. Her blond ha­ir was down to her wa­ist and to­oth­pick stra­ight. She was we­aring pa­in­ted-on je­ans and a pink tank top, and she was ba­re­fo­ot. Dres­sed this way, she lo­oked even clo­ser to my age. She was suc­king on a lol­li­pop.

  Patch's fa­ce is al­ways a mask, and at any gi­ven mo­ment I ha­ve no idea what he's thin­king. But as so­on as he loc­ked eyes on Miss Gre­ene, I knew he was surp­ri­sed. He re­co­ve­red qu­ickly, all emo­ti­on tun­ne­ling away as his eyes tur­ned gu­ar­ded and wary. "Dab­ria?"

  My he­art hit a fas­ter ca­den­ce. I tri­ed to wrest­le my tho­ughts to­get­her, but all I co­uld think was, if I was re­al­ly eight months in the past, how did Miss Gre­ene and Patch know each ot­her? She didn't ha­ve a job at scho­ol yet. And why was he cal­ling her by her first na­me?

  "How ha­ve you be­en?" Miss Gre­ene-Dab­ria-asked with a coy smi­le, tos­sing the lol­li­pop in the trash.

  "What are you do­ing he­re?" Patch's eyes tur­ned even mo­re watch­ful, as if he didn't think "what you see is what you get" ap­pli­ed to Dab­ria.

  "I sne­aked out." Her smi­le twis­ted up on one si­de. "I had to see you aga­in. I've be­en trying for a long ti­me, but se­cu­rity-well, you know. It's not exactly lax. Yo­ur kind and my kind-we aren't sup­po­sed to mix. But you know that."

  "Co­ming he­re was a bad idea."

  "I know it's be­en a whi­le, but I was ho­ping for a slightly mo­re fri­endly re­ac­ti­on," she sa­id, pus­hing her lips out in a po­ut.

  Patch didn't ans­wer.

  "I ha­ven't stop­ped thin­king abo­ut you." Dab­ria dim­med her vo­ice to a low, sexy pitch and to­ok a step clo­ser to Patch. "It wasn't easy get­ting down he­re. Lu­ci­an­na is ma­king ex­cu­ses for why I'm ab­sent. I'm ris­king her fu­tu­re as well as my own. Don't you want to at le­ast he­ar what I ha­ve to say?"

  "Talk." Patch's words didn't hold a shred of trust.

  "I ha­ven't gi­ven up on you. This who­le ti­me-" She bro­ke off and blin­ked back a sud­den disp­lay of te­ars. When she spo­ke aga­in, her vo­ice was mo­re com­po­sed but still held a wa­ve­ring no­te. "I know how you can get yo­ur wings back."

  She smi­led at Patch, but he didn't re­turn the smi­le.

  "As so­on as you get yo­ur wings back, you can co­me ho­me," she sa­id, spe­aking mo­re con­fi­dently. "Everyt­hing will be li­ke it was be­fo­re. Not­hing has chan­ged. Not re­al­ly"

  "What's the catch?"

  "The­re is no catch. You ha­ve to sa­ve a hu­man li­fe. Very judi­ci­o­us, con­si­de­ring the cri­me that ba­nis­hed you he­re in the first pla­ce."

  "What rank will I be?"

  All con­fi­den­ce scat­te­red from Dab­ria's eyes, and I got the fe­eling he'd as­ked the one qu­es­ti­on she'd ho­ped to avo­id. "I just told you how to get yo­ur wings back," she sa­id, so­un­ding a to­uch con­des­cen­ding. "I think I de­ser­ve a thank-you-"

  "Answer the qu­es­ti­on." But his grim smi­le told me he al­re­ady knew. Or had a very go­od gu­ess. Wha­te­ver Dab­ria's ans­wer was, he wasn't go­ing to li­ke it.

  "Fi­ne. You'll be a gu­ar­di­an, all right?"

  Patch tip­ped his he­ad back and la­ug­hed softly.

  "What's wrong with be­ing a gu­ar­di­an?" Dab­ria de­man­ded. "Why isn't it go­od eno­ugh?"

  "I ha­ve so­met­hing bet­ter in the works."

  "Lis­ten to me, Patch. The­re's not­hing bet­ter. You're kid­ding yo­ur­self. Any ot­her fal­len an­gel wo­uld jump at the chan­ce to get the­ir wings back and be­co­me a gu­ar­di­an. Why can't you?" Her vo­ice was cho­ked with be­wil­der­ment, ir­ri­ta­ti­on, re­j­ec­ti­on.

  Patch pus­hed up from the po­ol tab­le. "It was go­od se­e­ing you aga­in, Dab­ria. Ha­ve a ni­ce trip back."

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, she cur­led her fists in­to his shirt, yan­ked him clo­se, and crus­hed a kiss to his mo­uth. Very slowly Patch's body tur­ned to­ward her, his stan­ce sof­te­ning. His hands ca­me up and skim­med her arms.

  I swal­lo­wed hard, trying to ig­no­re the stab of je­alo­usy and con­fu­si­on in my he­art. Part of me wan­ted to turn away and cry, part of me wan­ted to march over and start sho­uting. Not that it wo­uld do any go­od. I was in­vi­sib­le. Ob­vi­o­usly Miss Gre­ene… Dab­ria… who­ever she was… and Patch had a ro­man­tic past to­get­her. We­re they still to­get­her now-in the fu­tu­re? Had she ap­pli­ed for a job at Cold­wa­ter High to be clo­ser to Patch? Is that why she was so de­ter­mi­ned to sca­re me away from him?

  "I sho­uld go," sa­id Dab­ria, pul­ling free. "I've al­re­ady sta­yed too long. I pro­mi­sed Lu­ci­an­na I'd hurry." She lo­we­red her he­ad aga­inst his chest. "I miss you," she whis­pe­red. "Sa­ve one hu­man li­fe, and you'll ha­ve yo­ur wings aga­in. Co­me back to me," she beg­ged. "Co­me ho­me." She bro­ke away sud­denly. "I ha­ve to go. No­ne of the ot­hers can find out I've be­en down he­re. I lo­ve you."

  As Dab­ria tur­ned away, the an­xi­ety va­nis­hed from her fa­ce. An exp­res­si­on of sly con­fi­den­ce rep­la­ced it. It was the fa­ce of so­me­one who'd bluf­fed the­ir way thro­ugh a ro­ugh hand of cards.

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, Patch ca­ught her by the wrist.

  "Now tell me why you're re­al­ly he­re," he sa­id.

  I shi­ve­red at the dark un­der­cur­rent in Patch's to­ne. To an out­si­der, he lo­oked per­fectly calm. But to an­yo­ne who'd known him any length of ti­me, it was ob­vi­o­us. He was gi­ving Dab­ria a lo­ok that sa­id she'd cros­sed a li­ne and it was in her best in­te­rest to hop back ac­ross it-now.

  Patch ste­ered her to­ward the bar. He plan­ted her on a bar sto­ol and slid on­to the one be­si­de it. I to­ok the one next to Patch, le­aning in to he­ar him abo­ve the mu­sic.

  "What do you me­an, what am I he­re for?" Dab­ria stam­me­red. "I told you-"

  "You're lying."

  Her mo­uth drop­ped. "I can't be­li­eve-you think-"

  "Tell me the truth, right now," sa­id Patch.

  Dab­ria he­si­ta­ted be­fo­re ans­we­ring. She ga­ve him a fi­er­ce gla­re, then sa­id, "Fi­ne. I know what you're plan­ning to do."

  Patch la­ug­hed. It was a la­ugh that sa­id, I ha­ve a lot of plans. Which one are you re­fer­ring to?

  "I know you've he­ard ru­mors abo­ut The Bo­ok of Enoch. I al­so know you think you can do the sa­me thing, but you can't."

  Patch fol­ded his arms on the bar. "They sent you he­re to per­su­ade me to cho­ose a dif­fe­rent co­ur­se, didn't they?" A smi­le sho­wed in his eyes. "If I'm a thre­at, the ru­mors must be true."

  "No, they're not. They're ru­mors"

  "If it hap­pe­ned on­ce, it can hap­pen aga­in."

  "It ne­ver hap­pe­ned. Did you even bot­her to re­ad The Bo­ok of Enoch be­fo­re you fell?" she chal­len­ged. "Do you know exactly what it says, word for holy word?"

  "May­be you co­uld lo­an me yo­ur copy."

  "That's blasp­he­mo­us! You're for­bid­den to re­ad it," she cri­ed. "You bet­ra­yed ever) an­gel in he­aven when you fell."

  "How many of them know what I'm af­ter?" he as­ked. "How big of a thre­at am I?"

  She tos­sed her he­ad si­de to si­de. "I can't tell you that. I've al­re­ady told you mo­re than I sho­uld ha­ve."

  "Are they go­ing to try to stop me?"

  "The aven­ging an­gels will."

  He lo­oked at her with me­aning. "Unless they think you tal­ked me out of it."

  "Don't lo­ok at me li­ke that." She so­un­ded li­ke she was put­ting all her co­ura­ge in­to so­un­ding firm. "I won't lie to pro­tect you. What you're trying to do is wrong. It's not na­tu­ral."

  "Dab­ria." Patch spo­ke her na­me as a soft thre­at. He might as well ha­ve had her by the arm, twis­ting it be­hind her back.

  "I can't help you," she sa­id with qu­i­et con­vic­ti­on. "Not that way. Put it out of yo­ur mind. Be­co­me a gu­ar­di­an an­gel. Fo­cus on that and for­get The Bo­ok of Enoch"

  Patch plan­ted his el­bows on the bar, ra­di­ating tho­ught. Af­ter a mo­ment he sa­id, "Tell them we tal­ked, and I sho­wed in­te­rest in be­co­ming a gu­ar­di­an."

  "Inte­rest?" she sa­id, a bit inc­re­du­lo­usly.

  "Inte­rest," he re­pe­ated. "Tell them I as­ked for a na­me. If I'm go­ing to sa­ve a li­fe, I ne­ed to know who's at the top of yo­ur de­par­ting list. I know you're privy to that in­for­ma­ti­on as an an­gel of de­ath."

  "That in­for­ma­ti­on is sac­red and pri­va­te, and not pre­dic­tab­le. The events in this world shift from mo­ment to mo­ment de­pen­ding on hu­man cho­ices-"

  "One na­me, Dab­ria."

  "Pro­mi­se me you'll for­get abo­ut The Bo­ok of Enoch first. Gi­ve me yo­ur word."

  "You'd trust my word?"

  "No," she sa­id, "I wo­uldn't."

  Patch la­ug­hed co­ol­ly and, grab­bing a to­oth­pick from the dis­pen­ser, wal­ked to­ward the sta­irs.

  "Patch, wa­it-," she be­gan. She hop­ped off the bar sto­ol. "Patch, ple­ase wa­it!"

  He lo­oked over his sho­ul­der.

  "No­ra Grey," she sa­id, then im­me­di­ately clam­ped her hands over her mo­uth.

  The­re was a fa­int crack in Patch's exp­res­si­on-a frown of dis­be­li­ef mi­xed with an­no­yan­ce. Which ma­de no sen­se sin­ce, if the ca­len­dar on the wall was cor­rect, we hadn't met yet. My na­me sho­uldn't ha­ve spar­ked fa­mi­li­arity. "How is she go­ing to die?" he as­ked.

  "So­me­one wants to kill her."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know," she sa­id, co­ve­ring her ears and sha­king her he­ad. "The­re's so much no­ise and com­mo­ti­on down he­re. All the ima­ges blur to­get­her, they co­me too fast, I can't see cle­arly. I ne­ed to go ho­me. I ne­ed pe­ace and calm."

  Patch tuc­ked a strand of Dab­ria's ha­ir be­hind her ear and lo­oked at her per­su­asi­vely. She ga­ve a warm shud­der at his to­uch, then nod­ded and shut her eyes. "I can't see… I don't see anyt­hing… it's use­less."

  Who wants to kill No­ra Grey?" Patch ur­ged.

  "Wa­it, I see her," sa­id Dab­ria. Her vo­ice tur­ned an­xi­o­us. "The­re's a sha­dow be­hind her. It's him. He's fol­lo­wing her. She do­esn't see him… but he's right the­re. Why do­esn't she see him? Why isn't she run­ning? I can't see his fa­ce, it's in sha­dow…"

  Dab­ria's eyes flew open. She suc­ked in a qu­ick, sharp bre­ath.

  "Who?" Patch sa­id.

  Dab­ria cur­led her hands aga­inst her mo­uth. She was tremb­ling as she ra­ised her eyes to Patch's.

  "You," she whis­pe­red.

  My fin­ger mo­ved off Patch's scar and the con­nec­ti­on bro­ke. It to­ok me a mo­ment to re­ori­ent myself, so I wasn't re­ady for Patch, who wrest­led me in­to the bed in an ins­tant. He pin­ned my wrists abo­ve my he­ad.

  "You we­ren't sup­po­sed to do that." The­re was cont­rol­led an­ger in his fa­ce, dark and sim­me­ring. "What did you see?"

  I got my knee up and clip­ped him in the ribs. "Get-off-me!"

  He slid on­to my hips, strad­dling them, eli­mi­na­ting the use of my legs. With my arms still stretc­hed abo­ve my he­ad, I co­uldn't do mo­re than squ­irm un­der his we­ight.

  "Get-off-me-or-I'll-scre­am!"

  "You're al­re­ady scre­aming. And it isn't go­ing to ca­use a stir in this pla­ce. It's mo­re of a who­re­ho­use than a mo­tel." He ga­ve a hard smi­le that was all let­ha­lity aro­und the ed­ges. "Last chan­ce, No­ra. What did you see?"

  I was figh­ting back te­ars. My who­le body hum­med with an emo­ti­on so fo­re­ign I co­uldn't even na­me it. "You ma­ke me sick!" I sa­id. "Who are you? Who are you re­al­ly?"

  His mo­uth tur­ned even mo­re grim. "We're get­ting clo­ser."

  "You want to kill me!"

  Patch's fa­ce ga­ve away not­hing, but his eyes grew cold.

  "The Je­ep didn't re­al­ly die to­night, did it?" I sa­id. "You li­ed. You bro­ught me he­re so you co­uld kill me. That's what Dab­ria sa­id you want to do. Well, what are you wa­iting for?" I didn't ha­ve a clue whe­re I was go­ing with this, and I didn't ca­re. I was spit­ting words in an at­tempt to ke­ep my hor­ror at bay. "You've be­en trying to kill me all along. Right from the start. Are you go­ing to kill me now?" I sta­red at him, hard and unb­lin­king, trying to ke­ep te­ars from spil­ling as I re­mem­be­red the fa­te­ful day he'd wal­ked in­to my li­fe.

  "It's temp­ting."

  I twis­ted be­ne­ath him. I tri­ed to roll to my right, then to my left. I fi­nal­ly fi­gu­red out I was was­ting a lot of energy and stop­ped. Patch set­tled his eyes on me. They we­re blac­ker than I'd ever se­en them.

  "I bet you li­ke this," I sa­id.

  "That wo­uld be a smart bet."

  I felt my he­art po­un­ding cle­ar down in my to­es. "Just do it," I sa­id in a chal­len­ging vo­ice.

  "Kill you?"

  I nod­ded. "But first I want to know why. Of all the bil­li­ons of pe­op­le out the­re, why me?"

  "Bad ge­nes."

  "That's it? That's the only exp­la­na­ti­on I get?"

  "For now."

  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?" My vo­ice ro­se aga­in. "I get the rest of the story when you fi­nal­ly bre­ak down and kill me?"

  "I don't ha­ve to bre­ak down to kill you. If I'd wan­ted you de­ad fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago, you'd ha­ve di­ed fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago."