our scene at the Devil’s Handbag, knowing it was a popular Nephilim hangout. While we didn’t know the identities of the Nephilim who’d attacked me, or if they’d be there tonight, Patch and I were certain that news of our split would travel fast. Finally, the bartender scheduled to work the night shift, Patch had learned, was a quick-tempered Nephilim supremacist. Vital, Patch had assured me, to our plan.
I shucked out of my sweats and slipped into a chunky cable-knit sweaterdress, tights, and ankle boots. I twisted my hair into a low bun, shaking a few pieces loose to frame my face. Exhaling, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and manufactured a smile. All in all, I didn’t look too bad for a girl about to engage in a devastating fight with the love of her life.
Besides, the fight wasn’t real. Patch had promised we’d find ways to meet. In secret moments and stolen glances. We’d just have to be extra careful.
“Nora!” my mom called up the stairs. “Vee’s here.”
“Wish me luck,” I murmured to my reflection, then grabbed my coat and scarf and flicked off the bedroom light.
“I want you home by nine,” my mom told me when I descended to the foyer. “No exceptions. It’s a school night.”
I kissed her on the cheek and hustled out the door.
Vee had the Neon’s windows rolled down, and her stereo was cranking out Rihanna. I dropped into the passenger seat and called over the music, “I’m surprised your mom let you out on a school night.”
“She had to fly to Nebraska la Vorrblprist night. Her uncle Marvin died, and they’re divvying up his estate. Aunt Henny is watching me.” Vee looked sideways, and her grin hinted at mischief.
“Wasn’t your Aunt Henny in rehab a couple years ago?”
“That would be the one. Too bad it didn’t work out for her. She’s got a gallon of apple juice in the fridge, but it’s the most fermented apple juice I’ve ever taken a swig of.”
“And your mom deemed her responsible enough to watch you?”
“Guess the prospect of getting some of Uncle Marvin’s money softened her up.”
We roared down Hawthorne, belting out the lyrics and dancing in our seats. I was antsy and nervous but thought it best to act like nothing was out of the ordinary.
The Devil’s Handbag was only moderately busy tonight, a decent crowd, but not standing room only. Vee and I slid into a booth, unloaded our coats and handbags, and ordered Cokes from a waitress who swept past. I surreptitiously glanced around for Patch, but he hadn’t surfaced. I’d rehearsed my lines too many times to count, but my palms were still slick with sweat. I wiped them on my thighs, wishing I were a better performer. Wishing I liked drama and attention.
“You don’t look so good,” Vee said.
I was about to quip that I was probably carsick from her lack of finesse at driving, when Vee’s eyes swiveled past me and her expression soured. “Oh heck no. Tell me that isn’t Marcie Millar flirting with my man.”
I craned my neck toward the stage. Scott and the other members of Serpentine were onstage warming up for the show, while Marcie propped her elbows prettily on the stage, singling out Scott for conversation.
“Your man?” I asked Vee.
“Soon to be. Same difference.”
“Marcie flirts with everyone. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Vee did some deep breathing that actually made her nostrils flare. Marcie, as if sensing Vee’s negative vibe like voodoo, looked our way. She gave us her best beauty pageant wave.
“Do something,” Vee told me. “Get her away from him.
I jumped up and strolled over to Marcie. On the way over, I worked up a smile. By the time I reached her, I was pretty sure it looked almost genuine. “Hey,” I told her.
“Oh, hey, Nora. I was just telling Scott how much I love indie music. Nobody in this town ever amounts to anything. I think it’s cool he’s trying to make it big.”
Scott winked at me. I had to shut my eyes briefly to keep from rolling them.
“So . . . ,” I drew out, struggling to fill the lapse in conversation. At Vee’s command, I’d come over here, but now what? I couldn’t just drag Marcie away from Scott. And why was
“Can we talk?” Marcie asked me, saving me from having to come up with a tactic on my own.
“Sure, I have a minute,” I said. “Why don’t we go somewhere more quiet?”
As if reading my mind, Marcie grabbed my wrist and propelled me out the back door and into the alley. After glancing both ways to make sure we were alone, she said, “Did my dad tell you anything about me?” She dropped her voice further. “About being Nephilim, I mean. I’ve been feeling funny lately. Tired and crampy. Is this some kind of weird Nephilim menstruation thing? Because I thought I already went through that.”
How was I supposed to tell Marcie that purebred Nephilim, like her parents, rarely mated together successfully, and when they did, the offspring were weak and sickly, and that some of Hank’s final words to me included the somber truth that Marcie would in all likelihood not live much longer?
In short, I couldn’t.
“Sometimes I feel tired and crampy too,” I said. “I think it’s normal—”
“Yeah, but did my dad
“I think your dad loved you and would want you to keep living your life, not stressing about the whole Nephilim thing. He’d want you to be happy.”
Marcie looked at me incredulously. “Happy? I’m a freak. I’m not even human. And don’t think for one minute I’ve forgotten you aren’t either. We’re in this together.” She jabbed her finger accusingly at me.
Oh boy. Just what I needed. Solidarity . . . with Marcie Millar.
“What do you really want from me, Marcie?” I asked.
“I want to make sure you understand that if you so much as hint to anyone that I’m not human, I will burn you. I will bury you alive.”
I was running out of patience. “First off, if I wanted to announce to the world that you’re Nephilim, I already would have. And second, who would believe me? Think about it. ‘Nephilim’ isn’t an everyday word in the vocabulary of most people we know.”
“Fine,” Marcie huffed, apparently satisfied.
“Are we done here?”
“What if I need someone to talk to?” she persisted. “It’s not like I can dump this on my psychiatrist.”
“Um, your mom?” I suggested. “She’s a Nephil too, remember?”
“Ever since my dad disappeared, she’s refused to accept the truth about him. Big-time denial issues going on there. She’s convinced he’s coming back, that he still loves her, that he’ll annul the divorce, and our lives will go back to being peachy keen.”
Denial issues, maybe. But I wouldn’t put Hank above mind-tricking his ex-wife with a memory-altering enchantment so powerful that its effects lasted beyond his death. Hank and vanity went together like matching socks. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone speaking ill of his memory. And as far as I knew, no one in Coldwater had. It was as if a numbing fog had settled over the community, keeping human and Nephilim residents alike from asking the big question of what had happened to him. There wasn’t a single story going around town. People, when they spoke of him, simply murmured, “What a shock. Rest his soul. Poor family, ought to ask how I can help . . .”
Marcie continued, “But he’s not coming back. He’s dead. I don’t know how or why or who did it, but there is no way my dad would drop off the grid unless something happened. He’s dead. I know it.”
I tried to keep my expression sympathetic, but my palms started to sweat again. Patch was the only other person on Earth who knew I’d sent Hank to the grave. I had no intention of adding Marcie’s name to the insider list.
“You don’t sound too broken up about it,” I said.
“My dad was messed up in some pretty bad stuff. He deserved what he got.”
I could have opened up to Marcie then and there, but something didn’t feel right. Her cynical gaze never wavered from my face, and I got the feeling she suspected I knew vital information about her father’s death, and
