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 château. 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
Château 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 Duc de Langeais,"
Chauncey warned. "I asked for your name.
Give
it."
"Duc?" The boy leaned against a twisted willow
tree. "Or bastard?"
Chauncey unsheathed his sword.
"Take it back! My father was the Duc de Langeais. I'm the
Duc de Langeais now," he added clumsily, and cursed himself
forit.
The boy gave a lazy shake of his head. "Your
father wasn't the old duc."
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
Duc 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.
© 2009 by Becca
Fitzpatrick
Chapter
One
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 upperclass
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 beginning 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 H?"
I stared at him a moment,
shaken by how dead on he was. I didn't get the
feeling it was a lucky 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 cliché 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."
"Ever been to a shrink?"
"No," I lied.
The truth was, I was in counseling with the school
psychologist, Dr. Hendrickson. It wasn't by choice, and it
wasn't something I liked to talk about.
"Done anything
illegal?"
"No." Occasionally breaking the speed limit
wouldn't count. Not with him. "Why don't you ask me
something normal? Like...my favorite kind of
music?"
"I'm not going to ask what I can
guess."
"You do not know the type of music I
listen to."
"Baroque. With you, it's all about order,
control. I bet you play...the cello?" He said it like he'd
pulled the guess out of thin air.
"Wrong." Another
lie, but this one sent a chill rippling along my skin that
left my fingers tingling. Who was he really? If he
knew I played the cello, what else did he
know?
"What's that?" Patch tapped his pen against the
inside of my wrist. Instinctively I pulled away.
"A
birthmark."
"Looks like a scar. Are you suicidal,
Nora?" His eyes connected with mine, and I could feel him
laughing. "Parents married or divorced?"
"I live with
my mom."
"Where's dad?"
"My dad passed away last
year."
"How did he die?"
I flinched. "He was —
murdered. This is kind of personal territory, if you don't
mind."
There was a count of silence and the edge in
Patch's eyes seemed to soften a touch. "That must be hard."
He sounded like he meant it.
The bell rang and Patch
was on his feet, making his way toward the
door.
"Wait," I called out. He didn't turn. "Excuse
me!" He was through the door. "Patch! I didn't get anything
on you."
He turned back and walked toward me. Taking
my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought to
pull away.
I looked down at the seven numbers in red
ink on my palm and made a fist around them. I wanted to tell
him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell
him it was his fault for taking all the time questioning me.
I wanted a lot of things, but I just stood there looking
like I didn't know how to open my mouth.
At last I
said, "I'm busy tonight."
"So am I." He grinned and
was gone.
I stood nailed to the spot, digesting what
had just happened. Did he eat up all the time questioning me
on purpose? So I'd fail? Did he think one flashy grin
would redeem him? Yes, I thought. Yes, he
did.
"I won't call!" I called after him. "Not —
ever!"
"Have you finished your column for tomorrow's
deadline?" It was Vee. She came up beside me, jotting notes
on the notepad she carried everywhere. "I'm thinking of
writing mine on the injustice of seating charts. I got
paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment
this morning."
"My new partner," I said, pointing into
the hallway at the back of Patch. He had an annoyingly
confident walk, the kind you find paired with faded T-shirts
and a cowboy hat. Patch wore neither. He was a
dark-Levi's-dark-henley-dark-boots kind of guy.
"The
senior transfer? Guess he didn't study hard enough the first
time around. Or the second." She gave me a knowing look.
"Third time's a charm."
"He gives me the creeps. He
knew my music. Without any hints whatsoever, he said,
'Baroque.'" I did a poor job of mimicking his low
voice.
"Lucky guess?"
"He knew...other
things."
"Like what?"
I let go of a sigh. He
knew more than I wanted to comfortably contemplate. "Like
how to get under my skin," I said at last. "I'm going to
tell Coach he has to switch us back."
"Go for it. I
could use a hook for my next eZine article. 'Tenth Grader
Fights Back.' Better yet, 'Seating Chart Takes Slap in the
Face.' Mmm. I like it."
At the end of the day, I was
the one who took a slap in the face. Coach shot down my plea
to rethink the seating chart. It appeared I was stuck with
Patch.
For now.© 2009 by Becca
Fitzpatrick
Chapter Two
My mom
and I live in a drafty eighteenth-century farmhouse on the
outskirts of Coldwater. It's the only house on Hawthorne
Lane, and the nearest neighbors are almost a mile away. I
sometimes wonder if the original builder realized that out
of all the plots of land available, he chose to construct
the house in the eye of a mysterious atmospheric inversion
that seems to suck all the fog off Maine's coast and
transplant it into our yard. The house was at this moment
veiled by gloom that resembled escaped and wandering
spirits.
I spent the evening planted on a bar stool in
the kitchen in the company of algebra homework and Dorothea,
our housekeeper. My mom works for the Hugo Renaldi Auction
Company, coordinating estate and antique auctions all along
the East Coast. This week she was in Charleston, South
Carolina. Her job required a lot of travel, and she paid
Dorothea to cook and clean, but I was pretty sure the fine
print on Dorothea's job description included keeping a
watchful, parental eye on me.
"How was school?"
Dorothea asked with a slight German accent. She stood at the
sink, scrubbing overbaked lasagna off a casserole
dish.
"I have a new biology partner."
"This is a
good thing, or a bad thing?"
"Vee was my old
partner."
"Humph." More vigorous scrubbing, and the
flesh on Dorothea's upper arm jiggled. "A bad thing,
then."
I sighed in agreement.
"Tell me about the
new partner. This girl, what is she like?"
"He's tall,
dark, and annoying." And eerily closed off. Patch's eyes
were black orbs. Taking in everything and giving away
nothing. Not that I wanted to know more about Patch.
Since I hadn't liked what I'd seen on the surface, I doubted
I'd like what was lurking deep inside.
Only, this
wasn't exactly true. I'd liked a lot of what I'd
seen. Long, lean muscles down his arms, broad but relaxed
shoulders, and a smile that was part playful, part
seductive. I was in an uneasy alliance with myself, trying
to ignore what had started to feel irresistible.
At
nine o'clock Dorothea finished for the evening and locked up
on her way out. By way of a good-bye, I flashed the porch
lights twice; they must have penetrated the fog, because she
answered with a honk. I was alone.
I took inventory of
the feelings playing out inside me. I wasn't hungry. I
wasn't tired. I wasn't even all that lonely. But I
was a little bit restless about my biology
assignment. I'd told Patch I wouldn't call, and six hours
ago I'd meant it. All I could think now was that I didn't
want to fail. Biology was my toughest subject. My grade
tottered problematically between A and B. In my mind, that
was the difference between a full and half scholarship in my
future.
I went to the kitchen and picked up the phone.
I looked at what was left of the seven numbers still
tattooed on my hand. Secretly, I hoped Patch didn't answer
my call. If he was unavailable or uncooperative on
assignments, it was evidence I could use against him to
convince Coach to undo the seating chart. Feeling hopeful, I
keyed in his number.
Patch answered on the third ring.
"What's up?"
In a matter-of-fact tone I said, "I'm
calling to see if we can meet tonight. I know you said
you're busy, but — "
"Nora." Patch said my name like
it was the punch line to a joke. "Thought you weren't going
to call. Ever."
I hated that I was eating my words. I
hated Patch for rubbing it in. I hated Coach and his
deranged assignments. I opened my mouth, hoping something
smart would come out. "Well? Can we meet or not?"
"As
it turns out, I can't."
"Can't, or won't?"
"I'm
in the middle of a pool game." I heard the smile in his
voice. "An important pool game."
From the background
noise I heard on his end, I believed he was telling the
truth — about the pool game. Whether it was more important
than my assignment was up for debate.
"Where are you?"
I asked.
"Bo's Arcade. It's not your kind of
hangout."
"Then let's do the interview over the phone.
I've got a list of questions right — "
He hung up on
me.
I stared at the phone in disbelief, then ripped a
clean sheet of paper from my notebook. I scribbled
Jerk on the first line. On the line beneath it I
added, Smokes cigars. Will die of lung cancer. Hopefully
soon. Excellent physical shape.
I immediately
scribbled over the last observation until it was
illegible.
The microwave clock blinked to 9:05. As I
saw it, I had two choices. Either I fabricated my interview
with Patch, or I drove to Bo's Arcade. The first option
might have been tempting, if I could just block out Coach's
voice warning that he'd check all answers for authenticity.
I didn't know enough about Patch to bluff my way through a
whole interview. And the second option? Not even remotely
tempting.
I delayed making a decision long enough to
call my mom. Part of our agreement for her working and
traveling so much was that I act responsibly and not be the
kind of daughter who required constant supervision. I liked
my freedom, and I didn't want to do anything to give my mom
a reason to take a pay cut and get a local job to keep an
eye on me.
On the fourth ring, her voice mail picked
up.
"It's me," I said. "Just checking in. I've got
some biology homework to finish up, then I'm going to bed.
Call me at lunch tomorrow, if you want. Love
you."
After I hung up, I found a quarter in the
kitchen drawer. Best to leave complicated decisions to
fate.
"Heads I go," I told George Washington's
profile, "tails I stay." I flipped the quarter in the air,
flattened it to the back of my palm, and dared a peek. My
heart squeezed out an extra beat, and I told myself I wasn't
sure what it meant.
"It's out of my hands now," I
said.
Determined to get this over with as quickly as
possible, I grabbed a map off the fridge, snagged my keys,
and backed my Fiat Spider down the driveway. The car had
probably been cute in 1979, but I wasn't wild about the
chocolate brown paint, the rust spreading unchecked across
the back fender, or the cracked white leather
seats.
Bo's Arcade turned out to be farther away than
I would have liked, nestled close to the coast, a
thirty-minute drive. With the map flattened to the steering
wheel, I pulled the Fiat into a parking lot behind a large
cinder-block building with an electric sign flashing BO'S
ARCADE, MAD BLACK PAINTBALL & OZZ'S POOL HALL. Graffiti
splashed the walls, and cigarette butts dotted the
foundation. Clearly Bo's would be filled with future Ivy
Leaguers and model citizens. I tried to keep my thoughts
lofty and nonchalant, but my stomach felt a little uneasy.
Double-checking that I'd locked all the doors, I headed
inside.
I stood in line, waiting to get past the
ropes. As the group ahead of me paid, I squeezed past,
walking toward the maze of blaring sirens and blinking
lights.
"Think you deserve a free ride?" hollered a
smoke-roughened voice.
I swung around and blinked at
the heavily tattooed cashier. I said, "I'm not here to play.
I'm looking for someone."
He grunted. "You want past
me, you pay." He put his palms on the counter, where a price
chart had been duct-taped, showing I owed fifteen dollars.
Cash only.
I didn't have cash. And if I had, I
wouldn't have wasted it to spend a few minutes interrogating
Patch about his personal life. I felt a flush of anger at
the seating chart and at having to be here in the first
place. I only needed to find Patch, then we could hold the
interview outside. I was not going to drive all this way and
leave empty-handed.
"If I'm not back in two minutes,
I'll pay the fifteen dollars," I said. Before I could
exercise better judgment or muster up a tad more patience, I
did something completely out of character and ducked under
the ropes. I didn't stop there. I hurried through the
arcade, keeping my eyes open for Patch. I told myself I
couldn't believe I was doing this, but I was like a rolling
snowball, gaining speed and momentum. At this point I just
wanted to find Patch and get out.
The cashier followed
after me, shouting, "Hey!"
Certain Patch was not on
the main level, I jogged downstairs, following signs to
Ozz's Pool Hall. At the bottom of the stairs, dim track
lighting illuminated several poker tables, all in use. Cigar
smoke almost as thick as the fog enveloping my house clouded
the low ceiling. Nestled between the poker tables and the
bar was a row of pool tables. Patch was stretched across the
one farthest from me, attempting a difficult bank
shot.
"Patch!" I called out.
Just as I spoke, he
shot his pool stick, driving it into the tabletop. His head
whipped up. He stared at me with a mixture of surprise and
curiosity.
The cashier clomped down the steps behind
me, vising my shoulder with his hand. "Upstairs.
Now."
Patch's mouth moved into another barely-there
smile. Hard to say if it was mocking or friendly. "She's
with me."
This seemed to hold some sway with the
cashier, who loosened his grip. Before he could change his
mind, I shook off his hand and weaved through the tables
toward Patch. I took the first several steps in stride, but
found my confidence slipping the closer I got to
him.
I was immediately aware of something different
about him. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I could
feel it like electricity. More animosity?
More
confidence.
More freedom to be himself. And those
black eyes were getting to me. They were like magnets
clinging to my every move. I swallowed discreetly and tried
to ignore the queasy tap dance in my stomach. I couldn't
quite put my finger on it, but something about Patch wasn't
right. Something about him wasn't normal. Something
wasn't...safe.
"Sorry about the hang-up," Patch said,
coming beside me. "The reception's not great down
here."
Yeah, right.
With a tilt of his head,
Patch motioned the others to leave. There was an uneasy
silence before anybody moved. The first guy to leave bumped
into my shoulder as he walked past. I took a step back to
balance myself and looked up just in time to received cold
eyes from the other two players as they
departed.
Great. It wasn't my fault Patch was
my partner.
"Eight ball?" I asked him, raising my
eyebrows and trying to sound completely sure of myself, of
my surroundings. Maybe he was right and Bo's wasn't my kind
of place. That didn't mean I was going to bolt for the
doors. "How high are the stakes?"
His smile widened.
This time I was pretty sure he was mocking me. "We don't
play for money."
I set my handbag on the edge of the
table. "Too bad. I was going to bet everything I have
against you." I held up my assignment, two lines already
filled. "A few quick questions and I'm out of
here."
"Jerk?" Patch read out loud, leaning on his
pool stick. "Lung cancer? Is that supposed to be
prophetic?"
I fanned the assignment through the air.
"I'm assuming you contribute to the atmosphere. How many
cigars a night? One? Two?"
"I don't smoke." He sounded
sincere, but I didn't buy it.
"Mm-hmm," I said,
setting the paper down between the eight ball and the solid
purple. I accidentally nudged the solid purple while writing
Definitely cigars on line three.
"You're
messing up the game," Patch said, still smiling.
I
caught his eye and couldn't help but match his smile —
briefly. "Hopefully not in your favor. Biggest dream?" I was
proud of this one because I knew it would stump him. It
required forethought.
"Kiss you."
"That's not
funny," I said, holding his eyes, grateful I didn't
stutter.
"No, but it made you blush."
I boosted
myself onto the side of the table, trying to look impassive
as I did. I crossed my legs, using my knee as a writing
board. "Do you work?"
"I bus tables at the Borderline.
Best Mexican in town."
"Religion?"
He didn't
seem surprised by the question, but he didn't seem overjoyed
by it either. "I thought you said a few quick questions.
You're already at number four."
"Religion?" I asked
more firmly.
Patch dragged a hand thoughtfully along
the line of his jaw. "Not religion...cult."
"You
belong to a cult?" I realized too late that while I sounded
surprised, I shouldn't have.
"As it turns out, I'm in
need of a healthy female sacrifice. I'd planned on luring
her into trusting me first, but if you're ready
now..."
Any smile left on my face slid away. "You're
not impressing me."
"I haven't started trying
yet."
I edged off the table and stood up to him. He
was a full head taller. "Vee told me you're a senior. How
many times have you failed tenth-grade biology? Once?
Twice?"
"Vee isn't my spokesperson."
"Are you
denying failing?"
"I'm telling you I didn't go to
school last year." His eyes taunted me. It only made me more
determined.
"You were truant?"
Patch laid his
pool stick across the tabletop and crooked a finger for me
to come closer. I didn't. "A secret?" he said in
confidential tones. "I've never gone to school before.
Another secret? It's not as dull as I expected."
He
was lying. Everyone went to school. There were laws. He was
lying to get a rise out of me.
"You think I'm lying,"
he said around a smile.
"You've never been to school,
ever? If that's true — and you're right, I don't think it is
— what made you decide to come this
year?"
"You."
The impulse to feel scared pounded
through me, but I told myself that was exactly what Patch
wanted. Standing my ground, I tried to act annoyed instead.
Still, it took me a moment to find my voice. "That's not a
real answer."
He must have taken a step closer,
because suddenly our bodies were separated by nothing more
than a shallow margin of air. "Your eyes, Nora. Those cold,
pale gray eyes are surprisingly irresistible." He tipped his
head sideways, as if to study me from a new angle. "And that
killer curvy mouth."
Startled not so much by his
comment, but that part of me responded positively to it, I
stepped back. "That's it. I'm out of here."
But as
soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they weren't
true. I felt the urge to say something more. Picking through
the thoughts tangled in my head, I tried to find what it was
I felt I had to say. Why was he so derisive, and why did he
act like I'd done something to deserve it?
"You seem
to know a lot about me," I said, making the understatement
of the year. "More than you should. You seem to know exactly
what to say to make me uncomfortable."
"You make it
easy."
A spark of anger fired through me. "You admit
you're doing this on purpose?"
"This?"
"This —
provoking me."
"Say 'provoking' again. Your mouth
looks provocative when you do."
"We're done. Finish
your pool game." I grabbed his pool stick off the table and
pushed it at him. He didn't take it.
"I don't like
sitting beside you," I said. "I don't like being your
partner. I don't like your condescending smile." My jaw
twitched — something that typically happened only when I
lied. I wondered if I was lying now. If I was, I wanted to
kick myself. "I don't like you," I said as convincingly as I
could, and thrust the stick against his chest.
"I'm
glad Coach put us together," he said. I detected the
slightest irony on the word "Coach," but I couldn't figure
out any hidden meaning. This time he took the pool
stick.
"I'm working to change that," I
countered.
Patch thought this was so funny his teeth
showed through his smile. He reached for me, and before I
could move away, he untangled something from my
hair.
"Piece of paper," he explained, flicking it to
the ground. As he reached out, I noticed a marking on the
inside of his wrist. At first I assumed it was a tattoo, but
a second look revealed a ruddy brown, slightly raised
birthmark. It was the shape of a splattered paint
drop.
"That's an unfortunate place for a birthmark," I
said, more than a little unnerved that it was so similarly
positioned to my own scar.
Patch casually noticeably
slid his sleeve down over his wrist. "You'd prefer it
someplace more private?"
"I wouldn't prefer it
anywhere." I wasn't sure how this sounded and tried again.
"I wouldn't care if you didn't have it at all." I tried a
third time. "I don't care about your birthmark,
period."
"Any more questions?" he asked.
"Comments?"
"No."
"Then I'll see you in
bio."
I thought about telling him he'd never see me
again. But I wasn't going to eat my words twice in one
day.
Later that night a crack! pulled me out of
sleep. With my face mashed into my pillow, I held still, all
my senses on high alert. My mom was out of town at least
once a month for work, so I was used to sleeping alone, and
it had been months since I'd imagined the sound of footsteps
creeping down the hall toward my bedroom. The truth was, I
never felt completely alone. Right after my dad was shot to
death in Portland while buying my mom's birthday gift, a
strange presence entered my life. Like someone was orbiting
my world, watching from a distance. At first the phantom
presence had creeped me out, but when nothing bad came of
it, my anxiety lost its edge. I started wondering if there
was a cosmic purpose for the way I was feeling. Maybe my
dad's spirit was close by. The thought was usually
comforting, but tonight was different. The presence felt
like ice on the skin.
Turning my head a fraction, I
saw a shadowy form stretching across my floor. I flipped
around to face the window, the gauzy shaft of moonlight the
only light in the room capable of casting a shadow. But
nothing was there. I squeezed my pillow against me and told
myself it was a cloud passing over the moon. Or a piece of
trash blowing in the wind. Still, I spent the next several
minutes waiting for my pulse to calm down.
By the time
I found the courage to get out of bed, the yard below my
window was silent and still. The only noise came from tree
branches scraping against the house, and my own heart
thrumming under my skin.