Becca Fitzpatrick: Silence

I hardly saw the road as I sped toward Delphic Amusement Park. I screeched into the parking lot, finding myself utterly and completely alone. I hadn’t dared allow myself to contemplate what I’d done, but now, surrounded by darkness and stillness, I couldn’t bear to be brave any longer. I wasn’t strong enough to hold everything back. Bending my head to the steering wheel, I sobbed.

I cried for the choice I’d had to make and for what it had cost me. Most of all, I cried because I was at a complete and utter loss as to how to tell Patch. It was news I knew I should deliver in person, but I was terrified. How, when we’d finally reconciled our relationship, could I explain that I’d turned myself into the very thing he despised above all else?

Using Marcie’s cell I dialed his number, torn between relief and dread when his voice mail picked up. Was he not answering because he didn’t know it was me calling? Could he know what I’d done? Was he avoiding me until he could come to terms with his feelings? Was he cursing me for making such a stupid, stupid decision, even though I’d had no alternative?

No, I told myself. It was none of those things. Patch didn’t avoid confrontation — that was my problem.

I exited the car and walked solemnly to the gates. I pressed my head to the bars, the cold metal stinging my skin, but the pain didn’t compare to the ache of regret and longing burning inside me. Patch! I cried out silently. What have I done?

I rattled the bars, seeing no way to get in, when a metallic groan jarred me alert. The steel in my hands bent as though made of clay. I blinked through the confusion before it struck me. I was no longer human. I was truly Nephilim, and I had the strength and power of one. A horrifying fascination tingled up my spine at the prospect of my new powers. If I’d been looking for a way to convince myself that I could undo the oath, I was rapidly approaching the point of no return.

Prying the bars wide enough apart to squeeze through, I jogged into the park, slowing when I neared the shed leading down to Patch’s studio. My fingers trembled as I turned the doorknob. With heavy feet, I crossed the shed and lowered myself through the trap-door.

Using trial and error, and relying heavily on my memory, I found the right door. I stepped inside Patch’s studio and immediately knew something was wrong. I sensed the lingering traces of a violent confrontation in the air. It wasn’t something I could explain, but the evidence was there, as palpable as if I’d read it on paper.

Following an invisible trail of energy, I moved cautiously through Patch’s studio, still unsure what to make of the strange vibrations all around. I nudged his bedroom door open with my foot, and that was when I saw the secret door.

One of the black granite walls was rolled slightly to the right, opening to a shadowy corridor beyond. Water puddled on the dirt floor. Mounted torches burned with smoky brightness.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor, and my stomach tightened. The torchlight illuminated the chiseled lines of Patch’s face and the edge in his black eyes, which looked right through me, absorbed in thought. His features were so merciless, I could do nothing but stand, paralyzed. I couldn’t look at him, and I couldn’t not look. I was filled with diminishing hope and surging shame. Just as I was about to shut my eyes to tears, his gaze shifted and our eyes met. One look from him, and the weight fell away. My defenses dissolved.

I walked toward him, slowly at first, my body shaking with emotion, then running into his arms, unable to be away from him any longer.

“Patch — I—don’t know where to begin!” I said, bursting into tears.

He clutched me against him. “I know everything,” he murmured roughly into my ear.

“No you don’t,” I protested miserably. “Hank made me swear a vow. I’m not — that is — I’m no longer—” I couldn’t make myself say it. Not to Patch. I couldn’t tolerate it if he rejected me. Even the slightest halting in his expression, a gleam of scorn in his eyes …

He gave me a light shake. “It’s all right, Angel. Listen to me. I know about the Changeover Vow. Believe me when I say I know everything.”

I sobbed into his shirt, twisting my fingers into it. “How could you?”

“I came back and you were gone.”

“I’m so sorry. Scott was in trouble. I had to help. And I ruined everything!”

“I went out to find you. The first place I looked was with Hank. I thought he’d tricked you into leaving. I dragged him back here and got him to confess everything.” He exhaled, a haggard sound. “I can tell you how my night played out, but you should see for yourself.”

He tugged his shirt over his head.

Pressing my finger gently to Patch’s scar, I concentrated on what I wanted to know. Mainly what had happened after Patch had left the studio a few short hours ago.

I was tugged inside the dark recesses of his mind, a cacophony of voices rushing past my ears, while faces blurred together much too fast to pinpoint. It felt as though I were lying on my back on a street at night, horns beeping, tires whizzing dangerously close.

Hank, I thought with all my energy. What happened after Patch left to find Hank? One car veered toward me, and I was plunged headlong into its headlights….

The memory opened on a murky street corner outside Hank’s warehouse. It wasn’t the one I’d successfully broken into, rather the one Scott and I had first attempted to take pictures of. The air was damp and heavy, the stars hidden behind cloud cover. Patch moved silently down the sidewalk, approaching what could only be Hank’s guard from behind. He leaped at him, dragging him backward in a punishing embrace before the guard could so much as squawk. Patch deprived the man of his weapons, tucking them into the waistband of his jeans.

To my amazement, Gabe — the same Gabe who’d tried to kill me behind 7-Eleven — strolled out of the shadows ahead. Dominic and Jeremiah followed. All three shared a wicked smile.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Gabe asked in a mocking undertone, brushing dirt off the Nephil guard’s collar.

“Keep him quiet until I give the signal,” Patch said, handing the guard over to Dominic and Jeremiah.

“Better not fail me, bro,” Gabe said to Patch. “I’m counting on the Black Hand being on the other side of that door.” He lifted his chin at the warehouse’s side door. “You come through for me, and I’ll forget any past grievances. You end up wrong about this, and I’ll show you what it feels like to have a tire iron rammed into your wing scars … every day for a solid year.”

Patch merely answered with a cool, measured look. “Wait for my signal.”

He edged up to the small window encased in the door. I followed, peering through the glass.

I saw the caged archangel. I saw a handful of Hank’s Nephilim men. But to my surprise, Marcie Millar stood just feet away, her posture withdrawn, her eyes wide and frightened. What could only be Patch’s archangel’s necklace dangled from her bloodless hands, and her gaze flicked surreptitiously to the door Patch and I hid behind.

There was a loud commotion as the archangel bucked wildly, kicking at the bars of her cage. Hank’s men instantly lashed back with blue-glowing chains, no doubt enchanted with devilcraft, sending them whipping against her body. After repeated strikes, her skin adopted the same unearthly bluish glow as the chains, and she crouched in submission.

“Would you like the honors?” Hank proposed to Marcie, holding his hand out to indicate the necklace. “Or if you’d rather, I’ll place it on her neck.”

By now, Marcie was trembling. Her complexion was ashen and she cowered, saying nothing.