The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “I respect your opinion, but I’ve been doing this a lot longer,” he said, his voice low and serious and heartfelt.

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “Blakely isn’t a nice guy.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said bitingly.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to infect you with something. He’s been messing around with devilcraft far too long to have any sense of decency or humanity left. It has hardened his heart and put ideas into his mind—crafty, malicious, dishonorable ideas. I don’t think he’s making blind threats. He sounded sincere. He sounded dead set on carrying out every threat he spoke. If I don’t meet him tonight, he’ll throw away the antidote. He’s not afraid of showing us what kind of man he is.”

  “Then let’s show him who we are. Tell me where he wants to meet. Let’s grab him and bring him in for questioning,” I challenged. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes had passed since Patch ended the call. Blakely wouldn’t wait all night. We had to get going—we were wasting time.

  “You’re not meeting Blakely tonight, end of story,” Patch said.

  I hated how infuriatingly alpha he was being about this. I deserved an equal say, and he was brushing me aside. He didn’t care about my opinion—that was just a thinly veiled platitude. “We’re going to miss our chance to catch him!” I argued.

  “I’m going to make the trade, and you’re staying here.”

  “How can you say that? You’re letting him call the shots! What has happened to you?”

  His eyes locked with mine. “I thought it was quite obvious, Angel. Your health is more important than getting answers. There will be another time to get Blakely.”

  My mouth hung open, and I shook my head from side to side. “If you walk out of here without me, I’ll never forgive you.” A strong threat, but I believed I meant it. Patch had promised we were a team from now on. If he cut me out now, I’d view it as a betrayal. We’d been through too much for him to coddle me now.

  “Blakely is already on edge. If anything feels off, he’ll run, and there goes our antidote. He said he wanted to meet me alone, and I’m going to honor his request.”

  I shook my head fiercely. “Don’t make this about Blakely. This is about you and me. You said we’d be a team from now on. This is about what we want—not what he wants.”

  There was a knock at my bedroom door, and I snapped, “What?”

  Marcie pushed the door open and stood in the entrance, arms folded snugly over her chest. She was wearing a baggy old tee and boxer shorts. Not what I pictured Marcie wearing to bed. I would have expected more pink, more lace, more skin.

  “Who are you talking to?” she wanted to know, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “I can hear you yapping all the way down the hall.”

  I swiveled my attention back to Patch, but it was just Marcie and me left in my bedroom. Patch had vanished.

  I snatched a pillow off my bed and flung it against the wall.

  • • •

  Sunday morning I woke with a strange, insatiable hunger clawing at my belly. I pushed myself out of bed, skipped the bathroom, and headed straight to the kitchen. I opened the fridge, eyeing the shelves greedily. Milk, fruit, leftover beef stroganoff. Salad, cheese slices, Jell-O salad. None of it looked remotely appealing, and yet my stomach twisted with hunger pangs. I stuck my head in the pantry, raked my eyes up and down the shelves, but every last item had the appeal of chewing polyester. My unaccountable cravings intensified at the lack of food, and I started to feel nauseated.

  It was still dark out, a few minutes before five, and I lugged myself back to bed. If I couldn’t eat my pains away, I’d sleep them off. Trouble was, my head felt perched on a Tilt-A-Whirl, vertigo reeling me up in its madness. My tongue was dry and swollen with thirst, but the thought of sipping something even as bland as water made my insides threaten to heave in revolt. I briefly wondered if this could be an aftereffect of the stabbing, but I was too uncomfortable to do much thinking.

  I spent the next several minutes rolling around, trying to find the coolest part of my sheets for relief, when a silky voice whispered in my ear, “Guess what time it is?”

  I let out a genuine groan. “I can’t train today, Dante. I’m sick.”

  “Oldest excuse in the book. Now get out of bed,” he said, swatting my leg.

  My head hung over the side of the mattress, and I eyed his shoes. “If I throw up on your feet, will you believe me?”

  “I’m not that squeamish. I want you outside in five. If you’re late, you’ll make it up to me. An extra five miles for every tardy minute sounds about fair.”

  He left, and it took all my motivation and then some to drag myself out of bed. I laced up my shoes slowly, locked in a battle with raging hunger attacking me from one side, and sharp vertigo from the other.

  When I made it to the driveway, Dante said, “Before we get started, I have an update on our training efforts. One of my first acts as lieutenant was assigning officers over our troops. I hope you approve. Training of the Nephilim is going well,” he went on without waiting for my response. “We’ve been focusing on anti-possession techniques, mind-tricks as both offensive and defensive strategies, and rigorous physical conditioning. Our biggest area of weakness is spy recruiting. We need to develop good information sources. We need to know what fallen angels are planning, but we’ve been unsuccessful up to this point.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “Uh . . . okay. Good to know. I’ll be thinking of ideas.”

  “I’d suggest that you ask Patch.”

  “To spy for us?”

  “Use your relationship to your advantage. He may have information on fallen angels’ weak points. He may know of fallen angels who’d be easier to flip.”

  “I’m not using Patch. And I told you: Patch is staying out of the war. He hasn’t sided with fallen angels. I’m not asking him to spy for the Nephilim,” I said almost coldly. “He isn’t getting involved.”

  Dante gave a brief nod. “Understood. Forget I asked. Standard warm-up. Ten miles. Push yourself on the back half—I want you sweating.”

  “Dante—” I protested weakly.

  “Those extra miles I warned you about? They go for excuses too.”

  Just get through this, I tried to encourage myself. You have the rest of the day off to sleep. And eat, and eat, and eat.

  Dante worked me hard; after the ten-mile warm-up, I practiced vaulting over boulders twice my height, then sprinting up the steep slopes of a ravine, and we brushed up on the lessons I’d already learned, particularly working mind-tricks.

  Finally, at the end of the second hour, he said, “Let’s call it a day. Can you find your way home?”

  We’d traveled quite far into the woods, but I could tell by the rising sun which way was east, and I felt confident I could make it back alone. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, and left.

  Halfway to the farmhouse I found the boulder we’d deposited our belongings on—the Windbreaker I’d shed after my warm-up, and Dante’s navy gym bag. He brought it every day, toting it several miles into the woods, which had to be not only heavy and awkward, but impractical. So far, he’d never once unzipped it. At least, not in my presence. The bag could be stocked with a myriad of torture devices he intended to employ in the name of training me. More likely, it held a change of clothes and spare shoes. Possibly including—I laughed at the thought—a pair of tighty whities or boxers printed with penguins that I could tease him endlessly about. Maybe even hang on a nearby tree. There was no one around to see them, but he’d be embarrassed enough knowing I had.

  Smiling sneakily, I pulled the zipper back a few inches. As soon as I saw the glass bottles filled with ice-blue liquid lined up inside, the pangs in my stomach twisted ferociously. Hunger clawed through me like something living.

  Unquenchable need threatened to explode inside me. A highpitched scream roared in my ears. In one overpowering wave, I remembered the potent taste of devilcraft. Awful, but so worth it. I remembered
the surge of power it had given me. I could barely keep my balance, I was so consumed by the need to feel that unstoppable high again. The skyrocketing jumps, the unmatched speed, the animal-like agility. My pulse was giddy, beating and fluttering with need, need, need. My vision blurred and my knees slackened. I could almost taste the relief and fulfillment that would come with one little sip.

  I quickly counted the bottles. Fifteen. No way would Dante notice if one went missing. I knew it was wrong to steal, just as I knew devilcraft wasn’t good for me. But those thoughts were dull arguments floating aimlessly at the back of my head. I rationalized that prescription medicine in the wrong doses wasn’t good for me either, but sometimes I needed it. Just like I needed a taste of devilcraft.

  Devilcraft. I could hardly think, I was so smitten and greedy for the power I knew it would give me. A sudden thought seized me—I might die if I didn’t get it, the need was that potent. I would do anything for it. I had to feel that way again. Indestructible. Untouchable.

  Before I knew what I’d done, I took a bottle. It felt cool and reassuring in my grip. I hadn’t even taken a sip, and already my head was clearing. No more vertigo, and soon, no more cravings.

  The bottle fit perfectly in my grip, as if it were meant to be there all along. Dante wanted me to have this bottle. After all, how many times had he tried to get me to drink devilcraft? And hadn’t he said my next dose was on the house?

  I’d take one bottle, and it would be enough. I’d feel the rush of power once more and I’d be satisfied.

  Just once more.

  CHAPTER

  18

  MY EYES OPENED TO A SUDDEN RAP ON THE door. I sat up, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through my bedroom window, indicating that it was late morning. My skin was clammy with sweat, my sheets tangled around my legs. On my nightstand, an empty bottle lay tipped on its side.

  The memory stormed back.

  I’d barely made it to my bedroom before twisting off the cap, flinging it hastily aside, and draining the devilcraft in seconds. I’d choked and gagged, feeling as though I would suffocate as the liquid clogged my throat, but I knew that the faster I guzzled, the sooner it would be over. A surge of adrenaline unlike anything I’d ever felt had expanded inside me, vaulting my senses to an exhilarating high. I’d had the urge to run outside and push my body to the limit, sprinting and bounding and dodging everything in my path. Like flying. Only better.

  And then, just as quickly as the urge had spiked inside me, I’d collapsed. I didn’t even remember falling into bed.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” my mom called through the door. “I know it’s the weekend, but let’s not sleep the whole day away. It’s already after eleven.”

  Eleven? I’d been out cold for four hours?

  “I’ll be down in a second,” I responded, my whole body shaking from what had to be a side effect of the devilcraft. I’d consumed too much, too fast. It explained my body shutting down for hours, and the peculiar, jittery sensation pulsating inside me.

  I couldn’t believe I’d stolen the devilcraft from Dante. Worse, I couldn’t believe I’d drunk it. I was ashamed of myself. I had to find a way to correct it, but I didn’t know where to start. How could I tell Dante? He already thought I was as feeble as a human, and if I couldn’t control my own appetites, it only proved him right.

  I should have just asked him for it. But I was disconcerted to realize that I’d enjoyed stealing it. There had been a certain thrill in doing something bad and getting away with it. Just like there had been a thrill in overindulging in the devilcraft, drinking it all immediately and refusing to ration it.

  How could I be having these awful thoughts? How could I have let myself act on them? This wasn’t who I was.

  Swearing that this morning would be the last time I ever used devilcraft, I buried the bottle at the bottom of the wastebasket and tried to flush the incident from my head.

  I assumed that by this hour I’d be eating breakfast alone, but I found Marcie at the kitchen table, crossing off a list of phone numbers. “I’ve spent all morning inviting people to the Halloween party,” she explained. “Feel free to jump in at any time.”

  “I thought you were mailing invites.”

  “Not enough time. The party is Thursday.”

  “A school night? What’s wrong with Friday?”

  “Football game.” My face must have registered confusion, because she elaborated, “All my friends will either be playing in the game or cheering. Plus, it’s an away game, so we can’t just invite them over after.”

  “And Saturday?” I asked, incredulous that we were throwing a party during the week. My mom would never go for it. Then again, Marcie had a way of talking her into just about anything these days.

  “Saturday was my parents’ anniversary. We are not doing it Saturday,” she said with a note of finality. She pushed the list of phone numbers toward me. “I’m doing all the work, and it’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with the party,” I reminded her.

  “You’re just huffy because you don’t have a date.”

  She was right. I didn’t have a date. I’d talked about bringing Patch, but that would require me to forgive him for meeting Blakely last night. The memory of what had happened came rushing back. Between sleeping last night, training with Dante this morning, and falling unconscious for several hours, I’d completely forgotten to check my phone for messages.

  The doorbell chimed, and Marcie jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

  I wanted to yell at her, “Quit acting like you live here!” but instead, I squeezed past her and took the stairs two at a time to my room. My handbag hung over my closet door, and I dug through it until I found my cell phone.

  I drew in a sharp breath. No messages. I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t know if I should worry. What if Blakely had ambushed Patch? Or what if his silence was merely because we’d parted on bad terms last night? When I got angry, I wanted space, and Patch knew it.

  I fired him a quick text. CAN WE TALK?

  Downstairs, I heard Marcie break into a flustered argument. “I said I’ll go get her. You have to wait here. Hey! You can’t just burst in without being invited!”

  “Says who?” Vee shot back, and I heard her bustle up the stairs.

  I met them in the hallway outside my bedroom. “What’s going on?”

  “Your fat friend elbowed her way inside without being invited,” Marcie complained.

  “This skinny cow is acting like she owns the place,” Vee told me. “What is she doing here?”

  “I live here now,” Marcie said.

  Vee barked a laugh. “Always a funny one, you are,” she said, wagging her finger at Marcie.

  Marcie’s chin jutted up. “I do live here. Go ’head. Ask Nora.”

  Vee looked to me, and I sighed. “It’s temporary.”

  Vee rocked back on her heels as though hit by an invisible punch. “Marcie? Living here? Am I the only one who realizes all logic just got up and walked off?”

  “It was my mom’s idea,” I said.

  “It was my idea, and my mom’s, but Mrs. Grey agreed it was for the best,” Marcie corrected.

  Before Vee could ask more questions, I snagged her elbow and dragged her inside my bedroom. Marcie inched forward, but I shut the door on her. I was trying my hardest to be civil, but letting her in on a private conversation with Vee was taking the idea of courtesy too far.

  “Why is she really here?” Vee demanded, not bothering to lower her voice.

  “It’s a long story. The short of it is . . . I don’t know what she’s doing here.” Evasive, yes, but honest, too. I had no clue what Marcie was doing here. My mom had been Hank’s mistress, I was their love child, and it stood to reason that Marcie would want nothing to do with us.

  “Gee, everything’s clear now,” Vee said.

  Time to hit her with a distraction. “Marcie is throwing a Halloween party here at the farmhouse. Date
s are required, ditto on costumes. The theme is famous couples from history.”

  “And?” Vee said, not warming up at all.

  “Marcie’s got dibs on Scott.”

  Vee narrowed her eyes. “Like heck she does.”

  “Marcie already asked him, but he didn’t sound very committed,” I offered helpfully.

  Vee cracked her knuckles. “Time to work some Vee magic before it’s too late.”

  My cell phone chimed with a text. GOT THE ANTIDOTE. WE NEED TO MEET, Patch’s message read.

  He was okay. Tension left my shoulders.

  Discreetly, I slipped my phone into my pocket and told Vee, “My mom needs me to pick up the dry cleaning and return library books. But I can swing by your place later.”

  “And then we can plan how I’m going to steal Scott from the ho,” Vee said.

  I gave Vee a five-minute head start, then backed the Volkswagen down the driveway.

  LEAVING THE FARMHOUSE NOW, I texted Patch. WHERE ARE YOU?

  HEADING TO THE TOWNHOME, he responded.

  MEET YOU THERE.

  I drove to Casco Bay, too busy formulating what I’d say to Patch to take in the stunning fall scenery. I was only half-aware of the deep blue water glinting under the sun, and the waves spraying and foaming as they smashed into the craggy cliffs. I parked a few blocks from Patch’s place and let myself inside. I was first to arrive, and went out on the balcony to gather my thoughts one final time.

  The air was cool and sticky with salt, with just enough breeze to raise goose bumps, and I hoped it would temper my anger and the lingering sting of betrayal. I appreciated that Patch always had my safety in mind, and I was touched by his concern and didn’t want to sound ungrateful that I was lucky enough to have a boyfriend who would go to any lengths for me, but a deal was a deal. We’d agreed to work as a team, and he’d broken my trust.

  I heard the garage door glide open, followed by Patch’s motorcycle pulling in. A moment later he appeared in the living room. He kept his distance, but his eyes were all over me. His hair was wind-blown, and a dark stubble dotted his jawline. He wore the same clothes I’d last seen him in, and I knew he’d been out all night.