My conf­lic­ting emo­ti­ons we­ig­hed so he­avily in­si­de my chest, I tho­ught they might suf­fo­ca­te me. Bi­ting back te­ars, I for­ged ahe­ad. "Dab­ria sa­id my birth­mark me­ans I'm re­la­ted to Cha­un­cey. Is that true?"

  "Do you want me to ans­wer that?"

  I didn't know what I wan­ted. My who­le world felt li­ke a joke, and I was the last one to get the punch li­ne. I wasn't No­ra Grey, ave­ra­ge girl. I was the des­cen­dant of so­me­one who wasn't even hu­man. And my he­art was smas­hing it­self to pi­eces over anot­her non­hu­man. A dark an­gel. "Which si­de of my fa­mily?" I sa­id at last.

  "Yo­ur dad's."

  "Whe­re's Cha­un­cey now?" Even tho­ugh we we­re re­la­ted, I li­ked the idea of him be­ing far away. Very far away. Far eno­ugh that the link bet­we­en us might not fe­el as re­al.

  His bo­ots we­re flush with the to­es of my ten­nis sho­es. "I'm not go­ing to kill you, No­ra. I don't kill pe­op­le who are im­por­tant to me. And you top the list."

  My he­art did a ner­vo­us flip. My hands we­re pres­sed aga­inst his sto­mach, which was so hard even his skin didn't gi­ve. I was ke­eping a po­int­less sa­fe­gu­ard bet­we­en us, sin­ce not even a to­we­ring elect­ri­cal fen­ce wo­uld ma­ke me fe­el se­cu­re from him.

  "You're im­pin­ging on my pri­va­te spa­ce," I sa­id, inc­hing back­ward.

  Patch ga­ve a ba­rely-the­re smi­le. "Impin­ging? This isn't the SAT, No­ra."

  I tuc­ked a few stray ha­irs be­hind my ears and to­ok one si­zab­le step si­de­ways, skir­ting the sink. "You're crow­ding me. I ne­ed- ro­om." What I ne­eded we­re bo­un­da­ri­es. I ne­eded wil­lpo­wer. I ne­eded to be ca­ged up, sin­ce yet aga­in I was pro­ving I co­uldn't be trus­ted in Patch's pre­sen­ce. I sho­uld ha­ve be­en bol­ting for the do­or, and yet… I wasn't. I tri­ed con­vin­cing myself I was sta­ying be­ca­use I ne­eded ans­wers, but that was only part of it. It was the ot­her part I didn't want to think abo­ut. The emo­ti­onal part. The part that was po­int­less figh­ting.

  "Are you ke­eping anyt­hing el­se from me?" I wan­ted to know.

  "I'm ke­eping a lot of things from you."

  My in­si­des to­ok a ste­ep di­ve. "Li­ke?"

  "Li­ke the way I fe­el abo­ut be­ing loc­ked up in he­re with you." Patch bra­ced one hand aga­inst the mir­ror be­hind me, his we­ight tip­ping to­ward me. "You ha­ve no idea what you do to me."

  I sho­ok my he­ad. "I don't think so. This isn't a go­od idea. This isn't right."

  "The­re's all kinds of right," he mur­mu­red. "On the spect­rum, we're still in the sa­fe zo­ne."

  I was pretty su­re the self-pre­ser­ving half of my bra­in was scre­aming, Run for yo­ur li­fe! Un­for­tu­na­tely, blo­od ro­ared in my ears, and I wasn't he­aring stra­ight. Ob­vi­o­usly I wasn't thin­king stra­ight eit­her.

  "De­fi­ni­tely right. Usu­al­ly right," Patch con­ti­nu­ed. "Mostly right. May­be right."

  "May­be not right now." I suc­ked in so­me air. Out of the cor­ner of my eye I no­ti­ced a fi­re alarm dril­led in­to the wall. It was ten, may­be fif­te­en fe­et away. If I was fast, I co­uld cross the ro­om and pull it be­fo­re Patch stop­ped me. Se­cu­rity wo­uld co­me run­ning. I'd be sa­fe. And that's what I wan­ted… wasn't it?

  "Not a go­od idea," Patch sa­id with a soft sha­ke of his he­ad.

  I bol­ted for the fi­re alarm any­way. My fin­gers clo­sed on the le­ver and I pul­led down to so­und the alarm. Only, the le­ver didn't bud­ge. As hard as I tri­ed, I co­uldn't get it to mo­ve. And then I re­cog­ni­zed Patch's fa­mi­li­ar pre­sen­ce in my he­ad, and I knew it was a mind ga­me.

  I swi­ve­led aro­und to fa­ce him. "Get out of my he­ad." I stor­med back and sho­ved hard aga­inst his chest. Patch to­ok a step back, ste­ad­ying him­self.

  "What was that for?" he as­ked.

  "For this who­le night." For ma­king me crazy abo­ut him when I knew it was wrong. He was the worst kind of wrong. He was so wrong it felt right, and that ma­de me fe­el comp­le­tely out of cont­rol.

  I might ha­ve be­en temp­ted to hit him squ­are in the jaw had he not ta­ken me by the sho­ul­ders and pin­ned me aga­inst the wall. The­re was hardly any spa­ce left bet­we­en us, just a thin bo­un­dary of air, but Patch ma­na­ged to eli­mi­na­te it.

  "Let's be ho­nest, No­ra. You've got it bad for me." His eyes held a lot of depth. "And I've got it bad for you." He le­aned in­to me and put his mo­uth on mi­ne. A lot of him was on me, ac­tu­al­ly. We to­uc­hed ba­se at se­ve­ral stra­te­gic lo­ca­ti­ons down our bo­di­es, and it to­ok all my wil­lpo­wer to bre­ak away.

  I pul­led back. "I'm not fi­nis­hed. What hap­pe­ned to Dab­ria?"

  "All ta­ken ca­re of."

  "What exactly do­es that me­an?"

  "She wasn't go­ing to ke­ep her wings af­ter plot­ting to kill you. The mo­ment she tri­ed to get back in­to he­aven, the aven­ging an­gels wo­uld ha­ve strip­ped them. She had it co­ming so­oner or la­ter. I just sped things up."

  "So you just-to­re them off?"

  "They we­re de­te­ri­ora­ting; the fe­at­hers we­re bro­ken and thin. If she sta­yed on Earth much lon­ger, it was a sig­nal to every ot­her fal­len an­gel who saw her that she'd fal­len. If I didn't do it, one of them wo­uld ha­ve."

  'Is she go­ing to ma­ke-I dod­ged anot­her one of his ad­van­ces-anot­her un­wan­ted ap­pe­aran­ce in my li­fe?"

  "Hard to say."

  Light­ning qu­ick, Patch ca­ught hold of the hem of my swe­ater. He re­eled me in­to him. His knuck­les brus­hed the skin of my na­vel. He­at and ice shot thro­ugh me si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly. "You co­uld ta­ke her, An­gel," he sa­id. "I've se­en both of you in ac­ti­on, and my bet's on you. You don't ne­ed me for that."

  "What do I ne­ed you for?"

  He la­ug­hed. Not ab­ruptly, but with a cer­ta­in low de­si­re. His eyes had lost the­ir ed­ge and we­re fo­cu­sed wholly on me. His smi­le was all fox… but sof­ter. So­met­hing just be­hind my na­vel dan­ced, then co­iled lo­wer.

  "Do­or's loc­ked," he sa­id. "And we ha­ve un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness."

  My body se­emed to ha­ve swept asi­de the lo­gi­cal part of my bra­in. Smot­he­red it, in fact. I slid my hands up his chest and lo­oped my arms aro­und his neck. Patch lif­ted me at the hips, and I wrap­ped my legs aro­und his wa­ist. My pul­se po­un­ded, but I didn't mind one lit­tle bit. I crus­hed my mo­uth to his, so­aking up the ecs­tasy of his mo­uth on mi­ne, his hands on me, fe­eling on the ver­ge of burs­ting out of my skin-

  The cell pho­ne in my poc­ket rang to li­fe. I pul­led away from Patch, bre­at­hing he­avily, and the pho­ne rang a se­cond ti­me.

  "Vo­ice ma­il," Patch sa­id.

  De­ep in the re­ces­ses of my cons­ci­o­us­ness, I knew ans­we­ring my pho­ne was im­por­tant. I co­uldn't re­mem­ber why; kis­sing Patch had ma­de every last har­bo­red worry eva­po­ra­te. I un­tang­led myself from him, tur­ning away so he wo­uldn't see how wor­ked up ten se­conds of kis­sing him had ma­de me. In­ter­nal­ly I was scre­aming with joy.

  "Hel­lo?" I ans­we­red, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to wi­pe my mo­uth for sme­ared lip gloss.

  "Ba­be!" Vee sa­id. We had a bad con­nec­ti­on, the crack­le of sta­tic cut­ting ac­ross her vo­ice. "Whe­re are you?"

  "Whe­re are you? Are you still with El­li­ot and Jules?" I flat­te­ned a hand aga­inst my free ear to he­ar bet­ter.

  "I'm at scho­ol. We bro­ke in," she sa­id in a vo­ice that was na­ughty to per­fec­ti­on. "We want to play hi­de-and-se­ek but don't ha­ve eno­ugh pe­op­le for two te­ams. So… do you know of a fo­urth per­son who co­uld co­me play with us?"

  An in­co­he­rent vo­ice mumb­led in the backg­ro­und.

  "Elli­ot wants me to tell you that if you don't co­me be his part­ner-hang on-what?" Vee sa­id in­to the backg­ro­und.

  Elli­ot's vo­ice ca­me on. "No­ra? Co­me play with us. Ot­her­wi­se, the­re's a tree in the com­mon area with Vee's na­me on it."

  Pu­re ice flo­wed thro­ugh me.

  "Hel­lo?" I sa­id ho­ar­sely. "Elli­ot? Vee? Are you the­re?"

  But the con­nec­ti­on was de­ad.

  CHAPTER 27

  WHO WAS THAT?" PATCH ASKED.

  My who­le body was rin­ging. It to­ok me a mo­ment to ans­wer. "Vee bro­ke in­to the high scho­ol with El­li­ot and Jules. They want me to me­et them. I think El­li­ot's go­ing to hurt Vee if I don't go." I lo­oked up at Patch. "I think he's go­ing to hurt her if I do."

  He fol­ded his arms, frow­ning. "Elli­ot?"

  "Last we­ek at the lib­rary I fo­und an ar­tic­le that sa­id he was qu­es­ti­oned in a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on at his old scho­ol, King­horn Prep. He wal­ked in­to the com­pu­ter lab and saw me re­ading it. Ever sin­ce that night, I've got­ten a bad vi­be from him. A re­al­ly bad vi­be. I think he even bro­ke in­to my bed­ro­om to ste­al the ar­tic­le back."

  "Anything el­se I sho­uld know?"

  "The girl who was mur­de­red was El­li­ot's girlf­ri­end. She was han­ged from a tree. Just now on the pho­ne he sa­id, 'If you don't co­me, the­re's a tree in the com­mon area with Vee's na­me on it.'"

  "I've se­en El­li­ot. He se­ems cock) and a lit­tle ag­gres­si­ve, but he do­esn't stri­ke me as a kil­ler." He dip­ped in­to my front poc­ket and ext­rac­ted the Je­ep's keys. "I'll dri­ve over and check things out. I won't be long."

  "I think we sho­uld call the po­li­ce."

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "You'll send Vee to juvie for dest­ruc­ti­on of pro­perty and B and E. One mo­re thing. Jules. Who is this guy?"

  "Elli­ot's fri­end. He was at the ar­ca­de the night we saw you."

  His frown de­epe­ned. "If the­re was anot­her guy, I wo­uld re­mem­ber."

  He ope­ned the do­or and I fol­lo­wed him out. A jani­tor we­aring black slacks and a work-issue ma­ro­on shirt was swe­eping bits of pop­corn in the lobby. He did a do­ub­le ta­ke at the sight of Patch exi­ting the la­di­es' ro­om. I re­cog­ni­zed him from scho­ol. Brandt Chris­ten­sen. We had Eng­lish to­get­her. Last se­mes­ter I'd hel­ped him wri­te a pa­per.

  "Elli­ot is ex­pec­ting me, not you," I told Patch. "If I don't show up, who knows what will hap­pen to Vee? That's a risk I'm not go­ing to ta­ke."

  "If I let you co­me, you'll lis­ten to my inst­ruc­ti­ons and fol­low them ca­re­ful­ly?"

  "Yes."

  "If I tell you to jump?"

  "I'll jump."

  "If I tell you to stay in the car?"

  "I'll stay in the car." It was mostly true.

  Out in the par­king lot of the the­ater, Patch aimed his key fob at the Je­ep, and the he­ad­lights blin­ked. Sud­denly he ca­me to a halt and swo­re un­der his bre­ath.

  "What's wrong?" I sa­id.

  "Ti­res."

  I drop­ped my ga­ze and su­re eno­ugh, both ti­res on the dri­ver's si­de we­re flat. "I can't be­li­eve it!" I sa­id. "I dro­ve over two na­ils?"

  Patch cro­uc­hed by the front ti­re, run­ning his hand aro­und the cir­cum­fe­ren­ce. "Screwd­ri­ver. This was an in­ten­ti­onal at­tack."

  For a mo­ment I tho­ught may­be this was anot­her mind trick. May­be Patch had his re­asons for not wan­ting me to go to the high scho­ol. His fe­elings abo­ut Vee we­re no sec­ret, af­ter all. But so­met­hing was mis­sing. I co­uldn't fe­el Patch anyw­he­re in­si­de my he­ad. If he was al­te­ring my tho­ughts, he'd fo­und a new way to ac­comp­lish it, be­ca­use as far as I co­uld tell, what I was se­e­ing was re­al.

  "Who wo­uld do that?"

  He ro­se to his full he­ight. "The list is long."

  "Are you trying to tell me you ha­ve a lot of ene­mi­es?"

  "I've up­set a few pe­op­le. A lot of folks pla­ce bets they can't win. Then they bla­me me for wal­king off with the­ir car, or mo­re."

  Patch wal­ked one spa­ce over to a co­upe, ope­ned the dri­ver's si­de do­or, and to­ok a se­at be­hind the ste­ering whe­el. Re­ac­hing un­der it, his hand di­sap­pe­ared.

  "What are you do­ing?" I as­ked, stan­ding in the open do­or­way. It was a was­te of bre­ath sin­ce I was well awa­re of what he was do­ing.

  "Lo­oking for the spa­re key." Patch's hand re­ap­pe­ared, hol­ding two blue wi­res. With so­me skill, he re­mo­ved the ends of the wi­res and tap­ped them to­get­her. The en­gi­ne tur­ned over, and Patch lo­oked out at me. "Se­at belt."

  "I'm not ste­aling a car."

  He shrug­ged. "We ne­ed it now. They don't."

  "It's ste­aling. It's wrong."

  Patch didn't lo­ok the le­ast bit tro­ub­led. In fact, he lo­oked a lit­tle too re­la­xed in the dri­ver's se­at. This isn't the first ti­me he's do­ne this, I tho­ught.

  "First ru­le of auto theft," he sa­id on a smi­le. "Try not to hang aro­und the cri­me sce­ne lon­ger than ne­ces­sary."

  "Hang on one mi­nu­te," I sa­id, hol­ding up a fin­ger.

  I jog­ged back to the the­ater. On my way in­si­de, the glass do­ors ref­lec­ted the par­king lot be­hind me, and I saw Patch swing out of the co­upe.

  "Hi, Brandt," I sa­id to the boy still flic­king pop­corn in­to a long-hand­led dust­pan.

  Brandt lo­oked up at me, but his at­ten­ti­on was qu­ickly drawn over my sho­ul­der. I he­ard the the­ater do­ors open and sen­sed Patch mo­ve be­hind me. His ap­pro­ach wasn't all that dif­fe­rent from a clo­ud ec­lip­sing the sun, subtly dar­ke­ning the lands­ca­pe, hin­ting of a storm.

  "How's it go­ing?" Brandt sa­id un­cer­ta­inly.

  "I'm ha­ving car tro­ub­le," I sa­id, bi­ting my lip and trying on a sympat­he­tic fa­ce. "I know I'm put­ting you in an awk­ward po­si­ti­on, but sin­ce I hel­ped you with that Sha­kes­pe­are pa­per last se­mes­ter…"

  'You want to bor­row my car."

  "Actu­al­ly…yes."

  "It's a pi­ece of junk. It's no Je­ep Com­man­der." He lo­oked right at Patch li­ke he was apo­lo­gi­zing.

  "Do­es it run?" I as­ked.

  "If by run you me­an do the whe­els roll, ye­ah, it runs. But it's not for lo­an."

  Patch ope­ned his wal­let and han­ded over what lo­oked li­ke three crisp hund­red-dol­lar bills. Re­ining in my surp­ri­se, I de­ci­ded the best thing to do was play along.

  "I chan­ged my mind," Brandt sa­id, eyes wi­de, poc­ke­ting the mo­ney. He fis­hed in his poc­kets and un­der­han­ded Patch a pa­ir of keys.

  "What's the ma­ke and co­lor?" Patch as­ked, catc­hing the keys.

  "Hard to tell. Part Volks­wa­gen, part Che­vet­te. It used to be blue. That was be­fo­re it cor­ro­ded to oran­ge. You'll fill the tank up be­fo­re you re­turn it?" Brandt sa­id, so­un­ding li­ke he had his fin­gers cros­sed be­hind his back, pres­sing his luck.

  Patch pe­eled out anot­her twenty. "Just in ca­se we for­get," he sa­id, stuf­fing it in­to the front poc­ket of Brandt's uni­form.

  Out­si­de, I told Patch, "I co­uld ha­ve tal­ked him in­to gi­ving me his keys. I just ne­eded a lit­tle mo­re ti­me. And by the way, why do you bus tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne if you're lo­aded?"

  "I'm not. I won the mo­ney off a po­ol ga­me a co­up­le nights back." He pus­hed Brandt's key in the lock and ope­ned the pas­sen­ger-si­de do­or for me. "The bank is of­fi­ci­al­ly clo­sed."

  Patch dro­ve ac­ross town on dark, qu­i­et stre­ets. It didn't ta­ke long to ar­ri­ve at the high scho­ol. He rol­led Brandt's car to a stop on the east si­de of the bu­il­ding and kil­led the en­gi­ne. The cam­pus was wo­oded, the branc­hes twis­ted and ble­ak and hol­ding up not­hing but a damp fog. Be­hind them lo­omed Cold­wa­ter High.

  The ori­gi­nal part of the bu­il­ding had be­en const­ruc­ted in the la­te ni­ne­te­enth cen­tury, and af­ter sun­set it lo­oked very much li­ke a cat­hed­ral. Gray and fo­re­bo­ding. Very dark. Very aban­do­ned.

  "I just got a re­al­ly bad fe­eling," I sa­id, eye­ing the scho­ol's black vo­ids for win­dows.

  "Stay in the car and ke­ep out of sight," Patch told me, pas­sing over the keys. "If any­body co­mes out of the bu­il­ding, ta­ke off." He got out. He was we­aring a fit­ted black crew­neck tee, dark Le­vi's, and bo­ots. With his black ha­ir and dusky skin, it was hard to dis­tin­gu­ish him from the backg­ro­und. He cros­sed the stre­et and, in a mat­ter of mo­ments, blen­ded comp­le­tely in­to the night.

  CHAPTER 28

  FI­VE MI­NU­TES CA­ME AND WENT. TEN MI­NU­TES stretc­hed to twenty. I strug­gled to ig­no­re the ha­ir-ra­ising fe­eling that I was un­der sur­ve­il­lan­ce. I pe­ered in­to the sha­dows rin­ging the scho­ol.

  What was ta­king Patch so long? I shuf­fled thro­ugh a few the­ori­es, fe­eling mo­re une­asy by the mo­ment. What if Patch co­uldn't find Vee? What wo­uld hap­pen when Patch fo­und El­li­ot? I didn't think El­li­ot co­uld over­po­wer Patch, but the­re was al­ways a chan­ce-if El­li­ot had the ele­ment of surp­ri­se.