"What abo­ut them?"

  "Cut it out, Patch."

  He glan­ced aro­und the­at­ri­cal­ly. "You don't me­an-tal­king to yo­ur mind? You know how crazy that so­unds, right?"

  Swal­lo­wing, I sa­id in the cal­mest vo­ice I co­uld ma­na­ge, "You sca­re me, and I'm not su­re you're go­od for me."

  "I co­uld chan­ge yo­ur mind."

  "No­o­o­ora!" Vee cal­led over the din of vo­ices and elect­ro­nic be­eps.

  "Me­et me at the Arc­han­gel," Patch sa­id.

  I to­ok a step back. "No," I sa­id on im­pul­se.

  Patch ca­me aro­und be­hind me, and a chill shim­mi­ed up my spi­ne. "I'll be wa­iting," he sa­id in­to my ear. Then he slip­ped out of the ar­ca­de.

  CHAPTER 8

  I WAL­KED BACK TO THE FO­OS­BALL TAB­LE IN A COLD DA­ZE. El­li­ot was bent over it, his fa­ce sho­wing com­pe­ti­ti­ve con­cent­ra­ti­on. Vee was shri­eking and la­ug­hing. Jules was still mis­sing.

  Vee lo­oked up from the ga­me. "Well? What hap­pe­ned? What'd he say to you?"

  "Not­hing. I told him not to bot­her us. He left." My vo­ice so­un­ded flat.

  "He didn't lo­ok mad when he left," El­li­ot sa­id. "Wha­te­ver you sa­id, it must ha­ve wor­ked."

  "Too bad," Vee sa­id. "I was ho­ping for so­me ex­ci­te­ment.

  "Are we re­ady to play?" El­li­ot as­ked. "I'm get­ting hungry for so­me hard-won piz­za."

  "Ye­ah, if Jules wo­uld ever co­me back," sa­id Vee. "I'm star­ting to think may­be he do­esn't li­ke us. He ke­eps di­sap­pe­aring. I'm star­ting to think it's a non­ver­bal cue."

  "You kid­ding me? He lo­ves you guys," El­li­ot sa­id with too much ent­hu­si­asm. "He's just slow to warm up to stran­gers. I'll go find him. Don't go anyw­he­re."

  As so­on as Vee and I we­re alo­ne, I sa­id, "You know I'm go­ing to kill you, right?"

  Vee ra­ised her palms and to­ok a step back. "I was do­ing you a fa­vor. El­li­ot is wild abo­ut you. Af­ter you left, I told him you ha­ve, li­ke, ten guys cal­ling you every night. You sho­uld ha­ve se­en his fa­ce. Ba­rely con­ta­ined je­alo­usy."

  I gro­aned.

  "It's the law of supply and de­mand," Vee sa­id. "Who wo­uld've tho­ught eco­no­mics wo­uld co­me in use­ful?"

  I lo­oked to the ar­ca­de do­ors. "I ne­ed so­met­hing."

  "You ne­ed El­li­ot."

  "No, I ne­ed su­gar. Lots of it. I ne­ed cot­ton candy." What I ne­eded was an era­ser big eno­ugh to scrub away all evi­den­ce of Patch from my li­fe. Par­ti­cu­larly the mind-spe­aking. I shud­de­red. How was he do­ing it? And why me? Un­less… I'd ima­gi­ned it. Just li­ke I'd ima­gi­ned hit­ting so­me­one with the Ne­on.

  "I co­uld use a lit­tle su­gar myself," Vee sa­id. "I saw a ven­dor ne­ar the park ent­ran­ce on our way in. I'll stay he­re so Jules and El­li­ot don't think we ran off, and you can get the cot­ton candy."

  Out­si­de, I backt­rac­ked to the ent­ran­ce, but when I fo­und the ven­dor sel­ling cot­ton candy, I was dist­rac­ted by a sight fart­her down the walk­way. The Arc­han­gel ro­se up abo­ve the tre­etops. A sna­ke of cars zip­ped over the ligh­ted tracks and do­ve out of vi­ew. I won­de­red why Patch wan­ted to me­et. I felt a jab in my sto­mach and pro­bably sho­uld ha­ve ta­ken it for an ans­wer, but des­pi­te my best in­ten­ti­ons, I fo­und myself con­ti­nu­ing down the walk­way to­ward the Arc­han­gel.

  I sta­yed with the flow of fo­ot traf­fic, ke­eping my eyes on the dis­tant track of the Arc­han­gel lo­oping thro­ugh the sky. The wind had chan­ged from chilly to icy, but that wasn't the re­ason I felt inc­re­asingly ill at ease. The fe­eling was back. That cold, he­art-stop­ping fe­eling that so­me­one was watc­hing me.

  I sto­le a lo­ok to both si­des. Not­hing ab­nor­mal in my pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on. I spun a full 180 deg­re­es. A lit­tle ways back, stan­ding in a small co­urt­yard of tre­es, a ho­oded fi­gu­re tur­ned and di­sap­pe­ared in­to the dark­ness.

  With my he­art be­ating fas­ter, I bypas­sed a lar­ge gro­up of pe­dest­ri­ans, put­ting dis­tan­ce bet­we­en me and the cle­aring. Se­ve­ral stri­des fart­her on, I glan­ced back aga­in. No­body sto­od out as fol­lo­wing me.

  When I fa­ced for­ward aga­in, I ran smack in­to so­me­one. "Sorry!" I blur­ted, trying to re­ga­in my ba­lan­ce.

  Patch grin­ned down at me. "I'm hard to re­sist."

  I blin­ked up at him. "Le­ave me alo­ne." I tri­ed to si­des­tep him, but he ca­ught me by the el­bow.

  "What's wrong? You lo­ok re­ady to throw up."

  "You ha­ve that ef­fect on me," I snap­ped.

  He la­ug­hed. I felt li­ke kic­king his shins.

  "You co­uld use a drink." He still had me by the el­bow, and he tug­ged me to­ward a le­mo­na­de cart.

  I dug in my he­els. "You want to help? Stay away from me."

  He brus­hed a curl off my fa­ce. "Lo­ve the ha­ir. Lo­ve when it's out of cont­rol. It's li­ke se­e­ing a si­de of you that ne­eds to co­me out mo­re of­ten."

  I smo­ot­hed my ha­ir fu­ri­o­usly. As so­on as I re­ali­zed I lo­oked li­ke I was trying to ma­ke myself mo­re pre­sen­tab­le for him, I sa­id, "I ha­ve to go. Vee is wa­iting." A fraz­zled pa­use. "I gu­ess I'll see you in class on Mon­day."

  "Ri­de the Arc­han­gel with me."

  I cra­ned my neck, sta­ring up at it. High-pitc­hed scre­ams ec­ho­ed down as the cars thun­de­red over the tracks.

  Two pe­op­le to a se­at." His smi­le chan­ged to a slow, da­ring grin.

  "No." No way.

  "If you ke­ep run­ning from me, you're ne­ver go­ing to fi­gu­re out what's re­al­ly go­ing on."

  That com­ment right the­re sho­uld ha­ve sent me run­ning. But it didn't. It was al­most as if Patch knew exactly what to say to pi­que my cu­ri­osity. Exactly what to say, at exactly the right mo­ment.

  "What is go­ing on?" I as­ked.

  "Only one way to find out."

  "I can't. I'm af­ra­id of he­ights. Be­si­des, Vee's wa­iting." Only, sud­denly the tho­ught of go­ing up that high in the air didn't sca­re me. Not any­mo­re. In an ab­surd way, kno­wing I'd be with Patch ma­de me fe­el sa­fe.

  "If you ri­de the who­le way thro­ugh wit­ho­ut scre­aming, I'll tell Co­ach to switch our se­ats."

  "I al­re­ady tri­ed. He won't bud­ge."

  "I co­uld be mo­re con­vin­cing than you."

  I to­ok his com­ment as a per­so­nal in­sult. "I don't scre­am," I sa­id. "Not for car­ni­val ri­des." Not for you.

  In step with Patch, I ma­de my way to the back of the li­ne le­ading up to the Arc­han­gel. A rush of scre­ams lif­ted, then fa­ded, far abo­ve in the night sky.

  "I ha­ven't se­en you at Delp­hic be­fo­re," Patch sa­id.

  "You're he­re a lot?" I ma­de a men­tal no­te not to ta­ke any mo­re we­ekend trips to Delp­hic.

  "I ha­ve a his­tory with the pla­ce."

  We ed­ged up the li­ne as the cars emp­ti­ed and a new set of thrill se­ekers bo­ar­ded the ri­de.

  "Let me gu­ess," I sa­id. "You pla­yed ho­ok) he­re ins­te­ad of go­ing to scho­ol last ye­ar."

  I was be­ing sar­cas­tic, but Patch sa­id, "Answe­ring that wo­uld me­an shed­ding light on my past. And I'd li­ke to ke­ep it in the dark."

  "Why? What's wrong with yo­ur past?"

  "I don't think now is a go­od ti­me to talk abo­ut it. My past might frigh­ten you."

  Too la­te, I tho­ught.

  He step­ped clo­ser and our arms met, a brus­hed con­nec­ti­on that ca­used the ha­irs on my arm to ri­se. "The things I ha­ve to con­fess aren't the kind of things you tell yo­ur flip­pant bio part­ner," he sa­id.

  The fri­gid wind wrap­ped aro­und me, and when I bre­at­hed in, it fil­led me with ice. But it didn't com­pa­re to the chill Patch's words sent thro­ugh me.

  Patch jer­ked his chin up the ramp. "Lo­oks li­ke we're up."

  I pus­hed thro­ugh the re­vol­ving ga­te. By the ti­me we ma­de it to the bo­ar­ding plat­form, the only empty cars we­re at the very front and the very back of the rol­ler co­as­ter. Patch he­aded to­ward the for­mer.

  The rol­ler co­as­ter's const­ruc­ti­on didn't ins­pi­re my con­fi­den­ce, re­mo­de­led or not. It lo­oked mo­re than a cen­tury old and was ma­de of wo­od that had spent a lot of ti­me ex­po­sed to Ma­ine's harsh ele­ments. The art­work pa­in­ted on the si­des was even less ins­pi­ring.

  The car Patch cho­se had a gro­uping of fo­ur pa­in­tings. The first de­pic­ted a mob of hor­ned de­mons rip­ping the wings off a scre­aming ma­le an­gel. The next pa­in­ting sho­wed the wing­less an­gel perc­hed on a he­ads­to­ne, watc­hing child­ren play from a dis­tan­ce. In the third pa­in­ting, the wing­less an­gel sto­od clo­se to the child­ren, cro­oking a fin­ger at one lit­tle gre­en-eyed girl. In the fi­nal pa­in­ting, the wing­less an­gel drif­ted thro­ugh the girl's body li­ke a ghost. The girl's eyes we­re black, her smi­le was go­ne, and she'd spro­uted horns li­ke the de­mons from the first pa­in­ting. A sli­ve­red mo­on hung abo­ve the pa­in­tings.

  I aver­ted my eyes and as­su­red myself it was the fri­gid air ma­king my legs tremb­le. I slid in­to the car be­si­de Patch.

  "Yo­ur past wo­uldn't frigh­ten me," I sa­id, buck­ling my se­at belt ac­ross my lap. "I'm gu­es­sing I'd be mo­re ap­pal­led than anyt­hing."

  "Appal­led," he re­pe­ated. The to­ne of his vo­ice led me to be­li­eve he'd ac­cep­ted the ac­cu­sa­ti­on. Stran­ge, sin­ce Patch ne­ver deg­ra­ded him­self.

  The cars rol­led back­ward, then lurc­hed for­ward. Not in a smo­oth way, we he­aded away from the plat­form, clim­bing ste­adily up­hill. The smell of swe­at, rust, and salt­wa­ter blo­wing in from the sea fil­led the air. Patch sat clo­se eno­ugh to smell. I ca­ught the sligh­test tra­ce of rich mint so­ap.

  "You lo­ok pa­le," he sa­id, le­aning in to be he­ard abo­ve the clic­king tracks.

  I felt pa­le, but did not ad­mit it.

  At the crest of the hill the­re was a mo­ment's he­si­ta­ti­on. I co­uld see for mi­les, no­ting whe­re the dark co­untry­si­de blen­ded with the spark­le of the su­burbs and gra­du­al­ly be­ca­me the grid of Port­land's lights. The wind held its bre­ath, al­lo­wing the damp air to set­tle on my skin.

  Wit­ho­ut me­aning to, I sto­le a lo­ok at Patch. I fo­und a me­asu­re of con­so­la­ti­on in ha­ving him at my si­de. Then he flas­hed a grin.

  "Sca­red, An­gel?"

  I clenc­hed the me­tal bar dril­led in­to the front of the car as I felt my we­ight tip for­ward. A shaky la­ugh slip­ped out of me.

  Our car flew de­mo­ni­cal­ly fast, my ha­ir flap­ping out be­hind me. Swer­ving to the left, then to the right, we clat­te­red over the tracks.

  Insi­de, I felt my or­gans flo­at and fall in res­pon­se to the ri­de. I lo­oked down, trying to con­cent­ra­te on so­met­hing not mo­ving.

  It was then that I no­ti­ced my se­at belt had co­me un­do­ne.

  I tri­ed to sho­ut at Patch, but my vo­ice was swal­lo­wed up in the rush of air. I felt my sto­mach go hol­low, and I let go of the me­tal bar with one hand, trying to se­cu­re the se­at belt aro­und my wa­ist with the ot­her. The car lun­ged to the left. I slam­med sho­ul­ders with Patch, pres­sing aga­inst him so hard it hurt. The car so­ared up, and I felt it lift from the tracks, not fully ri­ve­ted to them.

  We we­re plun­ging. The flas­hing lights along the tracks blin­ded me; I co­uldn't see which way the track tur­ned at the end of the di­ve.

  It was too la­te. The car swer­ved to the right. I felt a jolt of pa­nic, and then it hap­pe­ned. My left sho­ul­der slam­med aga­inst the car do­or. It flung open, and I was rip­ped out of the car whi­le the rol­ler co­as­ter sped off wit­ho­ut me. I rol­led on­to the tracks and grap­pled for so­met­hing to anc­hor myself. My hands fo­und not­hing, and I tumb­led over the ed­ge, plun­ging stra­ight down thro­ugh the black air. The gro­und rus­hed up at me, and I ope­ned my mo­uth to scre­am.

  The next thing I knew, the ri­de scre­ec­hed to a stop at the un­lo­ading plat­form.

  My arms hurt from how tightly Patch held me. "Now that's what I call a scre­am," he sa­id, grin­ning at me.

  In a da­ze, I watc­hed him pla­ce a hand over his ear as if my scre­am still ec­ho­ed the­re. Not at all cer­ta­in what had just hap­pe­ned, I sta­red at the pla­ce on his arm whe­re my na­ils had left se­mi­circ­les tat­to­o­ed on his skin. Then my eyes mo­ved to my se­at belt. It was se­cu­red aro­und my wa­ist.

  "My se­at belt…," I be­gan. "I tho­ught-"

  "Tho­ught what?" Patch as­ked, so­un­ding ge­nu­inely in­te­res­ted.

  "I tho­ught… I flew out of the car. I li­te­ral­ly tho­ught… I was go­ing to die."

  "I think that's the po­int."

  At my si­des, my arms tremb­led. My kne­es wob­bled slightly un­der the we­ight of my body.

  "Gu­ess we're stuck as part­ners," sa­id Patch. I sus­pec­ted a small deg­ree of vic­tor) in his vo­ice. I was too stun­ned to ar­gue.

  "The Arc­han­gel," I mur­mu­red, lo­oking back over my sho­ul­der at the ri­de, which had star­ted its next as­cent.

  "It me­ans high-ran­king an­gel." The­re was a de­fi­ni­te smug­ness to his vo­ice. "The hig­her up, the har­der the fall."

  I star­ted to open my mo­uth, me­aning to say aga­in how I was su­re I'd left the car for a mo­ment and for­ces be­yond my abi­lity to exp­la­in had put me sa­fely back be­hind my se­at belt. Ins­te­ad I sa­id, "I think Pm mo­re of a gu­ar­di­an an­gel girl."

  Patch smir­ked aga­in. Gu­iding me down the walk, he sa­id, "I'll ta­ke you back to the ar­ca­de."

  CHAPTER 9

  I CUT THRO­UGH THE CROWD IN­SI­DE THE AR­CA­DE, PAS­SING the con­ces­si­on co­un­ter and rest­ro­oms. When the fo­os­ball tab­les ca­me in­to vi­ew, Vee wasn't at any of them. Ne­it­her we­re El­li­ot or Jules.

  "Lo­oks li­ke they left," Patch sa­id. His eyes might ha­ve held a sli­ver of amu­se­ment. Then aga­in, with Patch, it co­uld just as easily ha­ve be­en so­met­hing en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent. "Lo­oks li­ke you ne­ed a ri­de."

  "Vee wo­uldn't le­ave me," I sa­id, stan­ding on my tip­to­es to see over the top of the crowd. "They're pro­bably pla­ying tab­le ten­nis."

  I ed­ged si­de­ways thro­ugh the crowd whi­le Patch fol­lo­wed be­hind, tip­ping back a can of so­da he'd bo­ught on our way in. He'd of­fe­red to buy me one, but in my cur­rent sta­te, I wasn't su­re I co­uld hold it down.

  The­re was no tra­ce of Vee or El­li­ot at tab­le ten­nis.

  "May­be they're at the pin­ball mac­hi­nes," Patch sug­ges­ted. He was de­fi­ni­tely ma­king fun of me.

  I felt myself go a lit­tle red in the fa­ce. Whe­re was Vee?

  Patch held out his so­da. "Su­re you don't want a drink?"

  I lo­oked from the can to Patch. Just be­ca­use my blo­od war­med at the tho­ught of put­ting my mo­uth whe­re his had be­en didn't me­an I had to tell him.

  I dug thro­ugh my pur­se and pul­led out my cell. The scre­en on my pho­ne was black and re­fu­sed to turn on. I didn't un­ders­tand how the bat­tery co­uld be de­ad when I'd char­ged it right be­fo­re I left. I pus­hed the on but­ton aga­in and aga­in, but not­hing hap­pe­ned.

  Patch sa­id, "My of­fer's still on the tab­le."

  I tho­ught I'd be sa­fer hitc­hing a ri­de from a stran­ger. I was still sha­ken over what had hap­pe­ned on the Arc­han­gel, and no mat­ter how many ti­mes I tri­ed to flush it out, the ima­ge of fal­ling re­pe­ated thro­ugh my he­ad. I was fal­ling… and then the ri­de was over. Just li­ke that. It was the most ter­rif­ying thing I'd ever be­en thro­ugh. Al­most as ter­rif­ying, I was the only one who'd se­emed to no­ti­ce. Not even Patch, who'd be­en right be­si­de me.

  I smac­ked my palm to my fo­re­he­ad. "Her car. She's pro­bably wa­iting for me in the par­king lot."

  Thirty mi­nu­tes la­ter I'd can­vas­sed the en­ti­re lot. The Ne­on was go­ne. I co­uldn't be­li­eve Vee had left wit­ho­ut me. May­be the­re'd be­en an emer­gency. I had no way of kno­wing, sin­ce I co­uldn't check the mes­sa­ges on my cell. I tri­ed to hold my emo­ti­ons in check, but if she had left me, I had an amp­le amo­unt of an­ger sim­me­ring un­der the sur­fa­ce, re­ady to spill out.

  "Out of op­ti­ons yet?" as­ked Patch.

  I bit my lip, pon­de­ring my ot­her op­ti­ons. I had no ot­her op­ti­ons. Un­for­tu­na­tely, I wasn't su­re I was re­ady to ta­ke Patch up on his of­fer. On an or­di­nary day he exu­ded dan­ger. To­night the­re was a po­tent mix of dan­ger, thre­at, and mystery all thrown to­get­her.

  Fi­nal­ly I blew out a sigh and pra­yed I wasn't abo­ut to ma­ke a mis­ta­ke.

  "You'll ta­ke me stra­ight ho­me," I sa­id. It so­un­ded mo­re li­ke a qu­es­ti­on than an or­der.

  "If that's what you want."

  I was abo­ut to ask Patch if he'd no­ti­ced anyt­hing stran­ge on the Arc­han­gel, when I stop­ped myself. I was too sca­red to ask. What if I hadn't fal­len? What if I'd ima­gi­ned the who­le thing? What if I was se­e­ing things that we­ren't re­al­ly hap­pe­ning? First the guy in the ski mask. Now this. I was pretty su­re Patch's mind-spe­aking was re­al, but everyt­hing el­se? Not so su­re.

  Patch wal­ked a few par­king spa­ces over. A shiny black mo­torcyc­le res­ted on its kicks­tand. He swung on and tip­ped his he­ad at the se­at be­hind him. "Hop on."

  "Wow. Ni­ce bi­ke," I sa­id. Which was a lie. It lo­oked li­ke a glossy black de­ath trap. I had ne­ver be­en on a mo­torcyc­le in my li­fe, ever. I wasn't su­re I wan­ted to chan­ge that to­night.