Becca Fitzpatrick: Crescendo

When I start fighting, run , Patch spoke to my thoughts, and I realized he’d stalled fighting to speak to me, to help me find a way out. I’ll distract them. You run. Take the Jeep. Do you remember how to hot-wire it? Don’t go home. Stay in the Jeep until I find you—

The man who lingered at the back of the shed, commanding the others, stepped forward into a hazy ray of light slicing through one of the shed’s many cracks. He was tall, lean, handsome, unnaturally young-looking for his age, and dressed impeccably in a white country-club polo and cotton twill pants.

“Mr. Millar,” I whispered. I couldn’t think of anything else to call him. Hank seemed too informal; Dad seemed revoltingly intimate.

“Let me introduce myself properly,” he said. “I’m the Black Hand. I knew your father Harrison well. I’m glad he’s not here now to see you debasing yourself with one of the devil’s brood.” He wagged his head. “You’re not the girl I thought you’d grow up to be, Nora. Fraternizing with the enemy, making a mockery of your heritage. I believe you even blew up one of my Nephilim safe houses last night. But no matter. I can forgive that .” He paused with significance. “Tell me, Nora. Was it you who killed my dear friend Chauncey Langeais?”