Becca Fitzpatrick: Crescendo

“Do I get any last-minute answers?” I asked, my tone edging toward challenging, in spite of my fear.

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“I thought only first-generation purebred Nephilim could swear fealty. In order for Hank to be first-generation, he’d have to have a human and a fallen angel parent. But his father wasn’t a fallen angel. He was one of Chauncey’s male descendants.”

“You’re overlooking the fact that men can have affairs with female fallen angels.”

I shook my head. “Fallen angels don’t have human bodies. Females can’t give birth. Patch told me.”

“But a female fallen angel, possessing a female human body during Cheshvan, can produce a baby. The human may give birth to the baby long after Cheshvan, but the baby is tainted. It was conceived by a fallen angel.”

“That’s revolting.”

He smiled faintly. “I agree.”

“Out of morbid curiosity, when you sacrifice me, does your body just become human, or do you possess another human body for good?”

“I become human.” His mouth curved slightly. “So if you come back to haunt me from the grave, just know you’ll be looking for my same handsome mug.”

“Patch could show up any minute now and stop you,” I said, trying to be strong, but unable to stop the unbearable shaking in every limb of my body.

His eyes laughed at me. “I had my work cut out, but I’m confident I drove the wedge between the two of you about as deep as it could go. You got the ball rolling by breaking up with him—I couldn’t have planned it better myself. Then there was the constant fighting, your jealousy over Marcie, and Patch’s card—which I drugged to toss in just one more seed of distrust. When I stole the ring from Barnabas and had it delivered to you at the bakery, I had no doubt Patch was the last person you’d run to. Swallow your pride and ask for his help? When you thought he was hooked up with Marcie? Not a chance. You played right into my hands when you asked me if he was the Black Hand. I made the evidence against him overwhelming when I answered that yes, he was. Then I took advantage of the turn in our conversation to mention the address of one of Barnabas’s Nephilim safe houses as Patch’s, knowing full well you’d go snooping around and probably find memorabilia from the Black Hand. I canceled the movie plans last night, not Patch. I didn’t want to be stuck inside a movie theater while you were all alone in the apartment. I needed to follow you. I planted the dynamite once you were inside, hoping to sacrifice you, but you got away.”

“I’m touched, Rixon. A bomb. How elaborate. Why didn’t you keep things simple and just march inside my bedroom one night and put a bullet between my eyes?”

He spread his hands in front of him. “This is a big moment for me, Nora. Can you blame me for wanting a little flourish? I tried posing as Harrison’s ghost to lure you close, thinking how fantastic it would be to send you to the grave thinking your own father had killed you, but you didn’t trust me. You kept running away.” He frowned a little.

“You’re a psychopath.”

“I prefer creative.”

“What else was a lie? At the beach, did you tell me Patch was still my guardian angel—”

“To lull you into a false sense of security? Yes.”

“And the blood oath?”

“A spur-of-the-moment lie. Just to keep things interesting.”

“So basically you’re telling me nothing you’ve ever said to me was true.”

“Except the part about sacrificing you. I was dead serious about that. Enough talking. Let’s get on with this.” Using the gun, he shoved me deeper into the fun house. The rough prod tipped me off balance, and I stepped sideways to catch my footing, landing on a section of floor that began undulating up and down. I felt Rixon grab for my wrist to steady me, only something went wrong. His hand slipped down over mine. I heard the soft thud of his body landing. The sound seemed to come from directly below. A thought brushed my mind—that he’d fallen down one of the many trapdoors rumored to be scattered throughout the fun house—but I didn’t stay around long enough to see if I’d guessed right.

I bolted back the way we’d come, searching for the clown head. A figure sprang out in front of me, a light flashing overhead to illuminate a blood-soaked ax wedged in a bearded pirate’s head. He leered at me a moment before his eyes rolled back in his head and the light faded.

I drew several sharp breaths, telling myself it was pretend, but unable to steady myself as the floor quaked and shifted under my shoes. I went down on my knees, crawling over the grime and grit pressing into my palms, trying to calm my head, which seemed to tilt with the floors. I crawled for several feet, not wanting to stop moving long enough to let Rixon find a way out of the trapdoor.

“Nora!” Rixon’s rough bark carried up behind me.

I pulled myself up, using the walls to support me, but the walls were coated in slime that oozed onto my hands. Somewhere overhead, laughter boomed, tapering off to a cackle. I shook my hands hard to slough off the slime. Then I fished my way into the sheer blackness that lay ahead. I was lost. Lost, lost, lost .

I jogged a few steps forward, rounded a turn, and squinted at the faint glow of orange light several yards down the path. It wasn’t the clown’s head, but I was drawn to the promise of light like a moth. When I reached the lantern, the tacky Halloweenish light illuminated the words TUNNEL of doom. I was standing on a boat dock. Small plastic boats were parked nose-to-bumper, water from the canal lapping their sides.

I heard footsteps on the path behind me. With no time to second-guess, I stepped into the boat closest to me. I’d just found my balance when the boat lurched into motion, jerking me down onto the slat of wood that served as a seat. The boats were moving in a single-file line, the tracks below clacking as they steered the boats into the tunnel ahead. A pair of saloon-style doors flung open, swallowing my boat into the tunnel.

Feeling my way to the front of the boat, I climbed over the safety bar and onto the bow. I stayed there a moment, one hand anchoring me to the boat, while my other hand reached ahead, trying to grab the rear bar of the boat one up. I was a few inches short. I would have to jump. I scooted up the bow as far as I dared. I tucked my legs under me, then leaped, managing to skid onto the back of the next boat up.

I allowed myself one moment of relief, then went back to work. Once again, I moved up the bow, with the intention of jumping boats all the way to the end of the ride. Rixon was bigger and faster, and he had a gun. My only hope of survival was to keep moving, to keep drawing out the time it took for him to catch me.

I was on the next bow, preparing to jump, when a siren blasted and the sudden illumination of a red light overhead blinded me. A skeleton dropped from the ceiling of the tunnel, smacking into me. I lost my footing and felt a wash of vertigo as I skidded sideways, overboard. Frigid water rushed through my clothes, closing over my head. Instantly I put my feet down, broke the water’s surface, and waded through the chest-deep water back to the boat. Gritting my teeth against the cold, I clamped my hands around the boat’s safety bar and hauled myself back inside.

Several loud shots ricocheted through the tunnel, one of the bullets whizzing past my ear. I dropped low in the boat, while Rixon’s laugh carried from a few boats back. “A matter of time,” he called.

More lights were flashing overhead, and between the pulses of light, I could see Rixon making his way across the boats toward me.

A faint roar sounded somewhere ahead. My stomach slid out from beneath me. I felt my concentration peel away from Rixon and shift to the spray of moisture in the air. My heart stopped for a half moment, then started pounding much too hard.