Becca Fitzpatrick: Silence

“Not here for the girls,” Rixon echoed. “Not here for the gambling, the drinking, the fighting. By all accounts, we’re blowing a perfectly good night in a reputable establishment. Either you’ve started listening to the wee little angel on your shoulder, or that iniquitous brain of yours is tossing around some scheme.”

“And?”

“And I’m betting on the latter. What I want to know is what worthwhile scheme involves a squeaky-clean high school hangout?” he asked, casting a baleful eye about the place.

Outside, a familiar silhouette jogged past the bank of rain-splattered windows. The girl had her arms crossed over her head, doing an amusing job of trying to shield the rain. She hurried inside, giving the door an extra shove to allow her blond companion time to squeeze in before it slammed shut. They stood in the entrance a moment, shaking off rain and stamping their feet dry.

Rixon was still poking around for answers, but Patch had tuned him out. He was immensely conscious of the shorter of the two girls, a slim redhead with straight shoulders and a chin she held slightly raised in a gesture that could be mistaken for conceit. He’d watched her long enough to know it was something else. He toyed with words like “cagey,” “unassuming” … “prudent.” She’d raked her hair up into a stringent bun, but a few rogue pieces had fallen loose, and the effect brought the slightest curve to his mouth.

Even if he hadn’t memorized her schedule, the black span-dex running pants and wide-necked sweatshirt that she seemed engaged in a battle of tug-of-war with — one moment it would slide off her shoulder and the next she’d hitch it back into place — would have told him she’d come from the gym. Among the growing list of things he was discovering about her: She was a fair-weather exerciser. Once a week at most. And only when the blonde, a yo-yo dieter, dragged her along.

The hostess led the girls in Patch’s direction. Patch slouched, discreetly angling his baseball cap to shield his face. Every other week he’d watched the redhead from across the restaurant, making sure she never had reason to glance his way. She typically sat with her chin propped on laced fingers, listening attentively as the blonde went off on guys, miracle diets, celebrity breakups, or her horoscope.

The hostess weaved to the side suddenly, seating the girls a few tables down. A slippery feeling of anxiety tumbled inside Patch, and the sensation almost made him laugh. When was the last time he’d felt boyish nervousness over being caught in a reprobate act?

But he had to play this safe. When he finally introduced himself to the redhead, creating the illusion of meeting for the first time, it had to appear random. Only after he knew her inside and out would he nail down a strategy to gain her trust.

Then he’d drop the proverbial ax.

Rixon was wrong. The angel on his shoulder had long ago been bound and silenced. Patch was driven by his own highest good, his moral compass a function of utility. He had a plan in everything, but the end result was always the same: to satisfy his wants.

After all this time, he was going to get a human body. Because he wanted it, and he had a plan. And the very heart of that plan sat feet away, stabbing at her ice water with a straw.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking we need to start sopho-more year off with a bang,” the blonde announced loudly to the redhead. “No more ho-hum. This year is gonna be epic. No holds barred. And nothing could make this year more epic than snagging Luke Messersmith as my boyfriend. I already jump-started my this-is-how-I’m-gonna-get-him plan. I Sharpied my phone number on his garage door. All that’s left now is to sit back and wait.”

“For the restraining order?” The redhead was full-on grinning, lighting up her whole face. Clearly she didn’t know the effect it had, Patch thought, or she’d do it more often.

“What, you don’t like obvious?” the blonde argued.

“His parents are going to blacklist you. Any way you look at it, seven digits Sharpied on a garage door doesn’t make for the best icebreaker.”

Patch couldn’t take his eyes off her. This week more so than the last. Come to think of it, that had been the pattern from the start. It was inconvenient that she didn’t resemble Chauncey’s long-lost descendant; killing her would have brought him significantly more enjoyment. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but not this. Long legs, but a cautious, reserved stride. Prim features. A laugh that wasn’t too loud or too soft. Everything in its place.

Another near smile crept to his mouth. He was seized by the urge to put a crack in her. To make her carefully constructed world topple. One line was all it would take to make her blush. He’d bet money on it.

“Maybe next time go with a text,” the redhead suggested. “‘Hey, Luke, here are my digits.’ Works for the rest of the population.”

The blonde blew out a sigh and plunked her chin on her fist. “Fudge it. Snagging Luke Messersmith was a crapshoot anyway. What we need is to set our sights elsewhere. Road trip to Portland. Man, that would make Marcie blow steam out her ears. You and me hanging out with college guys while she models slutty swimsuits at J.C. Penney in front of drooling, prepubescent freshmen.”

Rixon’s chair scraped forward. “I give up,” he said, drawing Patch’s attention. “I. Give. Up. What are you after?”

Patch took another sip of coffee. “Quality time with you.”

“See, when you lie to me it hurts,” Rixon said, swiping an imaginary tear. “I thought we had something special. I thought our joint eternal sentences of damnation were our bond. I know you’re up to something and if I have to, I’ll beat it out of you.”

“Give it a rest.”

“I’d like to. Problem is, I’m not stupid.”

“You act stupid.”

“Right. Thanks for that. For your information, there’s a difference between acting stupid and being stupid.”

“It’s a fine line, but someone has to draw it.”

Rixon flattened his hands to the table with a resounding thud. “What are we doing here other than taking an honest stab at death by boredom? And if you don’t come clean in the next three seconds, I’ll make good on my threat to make a punching bag out of your arrogant smirk.”

Patience. When I bring it up, this is what I’m talking about, Patch spoke to his friend’s mind.

Digging up each other’s flaws, are we? Tsk, tsk. That’s no way to kindle a friendship. As for your flaws, you’ve forgotten how to have fun. Why don’t we go find a group of Nephilim to terrorize? Rixon started to stand.

Patch began to rise as well, but the conversation three tables over penetrated his conscious thought, momentarily diverting his attention.

“Why can’t any of the guys at school look like … those two guys over there. Yowza. ”

The blonde’s voice hung in the air. Patch barely had time to glance sideways and see that both she and the redhead had their eyes pinned on him, definitely and fully aware of him — when Rixon shoved his fist into his jaw. Patch’s head snapped sideways, giving him a direct but swimming picture of the redhead’s mouth forming a perfect and astonished O.

Well, this was inconvenient.

“Told you I’d beat it out of you,” Rixon cackled, dodging lithely around the table.

Patch was on his feet in an instant.

Rixon barreled into him, slamming him back against the wall and into a picture frame. It hit the ground, glass shattering.

From the edge of his vision, Patch saw the redhead blink in stunned confusion and, if he wasn’t mistaken, just enough alarm to bring him a certain satisfaction … and encourage him on.