Crescendo

Scott parked in an angled slot near the doors. “I’m going to run down a couple blocks and find an ATM,” he said, killing the engine.

I studied the storefront sign hanging above the window. THE Z POOL HALL. The name tickled my memory.

“Why does this place sound familiar?” I asked.

“Couple weeks back a guy bled out on one of the tables. Bar brawl. It was all over the news.”

Oh.

“I’ll come with you,” I offered quickly.

He swung out, and I followed suit. “Nah,” he called over the rain. “You’ll get soaked. Wait inside. I’ll be back in ten.” Without giving me another chance to tag along, he hunched his shoulders against the rain, shoved his hands in his pockets, and jogged down the sidewalk.

Slicking rain off my face, I tucked myself under the building’s overhang and summed up my options. I could go inside alone, or I could wait here for Scott. I hadn’t waited five seconds before my skin started to itch. While the sidewalk held little foot traffic, it wasn’t completely desolate. Those who were out in the weather wore flannel shirts and work boots. They looked bigger, tougher, meaner than the men who loitered around Main Street in Cold-water. A few gave me eyes as they passed.

I looked down the sidewalk in the direction Scott had taken off and saw him round the building and disappear down the side alley. My first thought was that he was going to have a hard time finding an ATM in the alley next to the Z. My second thought was that maybe he’d lied to me. Maybe he wasn’t going in search of an ATM after all. But then what was he doing in an alley, out in the rain? I wanted to follow him but didn’t know how I was going to stay out of sight. The last thing I needed was for him to catch me spying on him again. It certainly wouldn’t promote trust between us.

Thinking maybe I could figure out what he was doing by watching through one of the windows inside the Z, I tugged on the door handle.

The air inside was cool and coated with smoke and male perspiration. The ceiling was low, the walls concrete. A few posters of muscle cars, a Sports Illustrated calendar, and a Budweiser mirror offered the only decoration. No windows paneled the wall dividing me from Scott. I strolled down the center aisle, wading deeper into the shadowy hall, and kept my breathing shallow, trying to filter my intake of carcinogens. When I got to the back of the Z, I fixed my eyes on the exit leading into the rear alley. Not quite as convenient as a window, but it would have to do. If Scott caught me watching him, I could always feign innocence and claim I’d stepped out for fresh air. After making sure no one was watching, I opened the door and stuck my head out.

Hands grabbed the collar of my jean jacket, yanked me out, and backed me against the brick exterior.

“What are you doing here?” Patch demanded. Rain hissed down behind him, spilling off the metal awning.

“Playing pool,” I stammered, my heart still frozen from the surprise of being ripped off my feet.

“Playing pool,” he repeated, not sounding even close to buying it.

“I’m here with a friend. Scott Parnell.”

His expression hardened.

“Do you have a problem with that?” I shot back. “We broke up, remember? I can go out with other guys if I want.” I was angry—at the archangels, at fate, at consequences. I was angry for being here with Scott, not Patch. And I was angry at Patch for not pulling me into his arms and telling me he wanted to put everything that had happened to us in the past twenty-four hours behind him. Everything dividing us was washed away, and it was just me and him from now on.

Patch dropped his gaze to the ground and pinched the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was summoning patience from deep within. “Scott’s Nephilim. A first-generation purebred. Just like Chauncey was.”

I blinked. It was true, then. “Thanks for the info, but I already suspected.”

He made a disgusted gesture. “Quit with the bravery act. He’s Nephilim.”

“Every Nephil isn’t Chauncey Langeais,” I said testily. “Every Nephil isn’t evil. If you’d give Scott a chance, you’d see he’s actually quite—”

“Scott isn’t any old Nephil,” Patch said, cutting me off. “He belongs to a Nephilim blood society that has been growing in power. The society wants to free Nephilim from bondage to fallen angels during Cheshvan. They’re recruiting members like crazy to fight back against fallen angels, and a turf war is brewing between the two sides. If the society becomes powerful enough, fallen angels will back off … and start relying on humans as their vassals instead.”

I bit my lip and looked up at him uneasily. Without wanting to, I remembered last night’s dream. Cheshvan. Nephilim. Fallen angels. I couldn’t escape any of it.

“Why don’t fallen angels usually possess humans?” I asked. “Why do they choose Nephilim?”

“Human bodies aren’t as strong or resilient as Nephilim bodies,” Patch replied. “A two-week-long possession will kill them. Tens of thousands of humans would die every Cheshvan.

“And it’s a lot harder to possess a human,” he continued. “Fallen angels can’t force humans to swear fealty, they have to convince them to turn over their bodies. That takes time and persuasion. Human bodies also deteriorate faster. Not many fallen angels want to go to the trouble of possessing a human body if it could be dead in a week.”

A shiver of foreboding crept through me, but I said, “That’s a sad story, but it’s hard to blame Scott or any Nephilim, for that matter. I wouldn’t want a fallen angel taking control of my body two weeks out of every year either. This doesn’t sound like a Nephilim problem. It sounds like a fallen angel problem.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “The Z isn’t your kind of place. Go home.”

“I just got here.”

“Bo’s is mild compared to this place.”

“Thanks for the tip, but I’m not really in the mood to hang out at home all night feeling sorry for myself.”

Patch folded his arms and studied me. “You’re putting yourself in danger to get back at me?” he guessed. “In case you forgot, I’m not the one who called things off.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about you.”

Patch dug in his pocket for his keys. “I’m taking you home.” His tone told me I was a huge inconvenience, and that if he saw any way around it, he’d gladly opt out.

“I don’t want a ride. I don’t need your help.”

He laughed, but the sound lacked humor. “You’re getting in the Jeep, even if I have to drag you inside, because you’re not staying here. It’s too dangerous.”

“You can’t order me around.”

He merely looked at me. “And while you’re at it, you’re going to stop hanging out with Scott.”

I felt my anger bubbling up. How dare he assume I was weak and helpless. How dare he try to control me by telling me where I could and couldn’t go, and who I could spend time with. How dare he act like I’d meant nothing to him.

I sent him a look of cool defiance. “Don’t do me any more favors. I never asked. And I don’t want you as my guardian angel anymore.”

Patch stood over me, and a drop of rain slid from his hair, landing like ice on my collarbone. I felt it slide along my skin, disappearing beneath the neckline of my shirt. His eyes followed the raindrop, and I began to quiver on the inside. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for everything I’d said. I wanted to tell him I didn’t care about Marcie, or what the archangels thought. I cared about us. But the cold hard truth was, nothing I said or did could realign the stars. I couldn’t care about us. Not if I wanted to keep Patch close. Not if I didn’t want him banished to hell. The more we fought, the easier it was to get swallowed up in hatred and convince myself that he meant nothing to me, and that I could move on without him.

“Take it back,” Patch said, his voice low.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, and I couldn’t bring myself to take it back. I tipped my chin up and pinned my eyes on the blur of rain over his shoulder. Damn my pride, and damn his, too.

“Take it back, Nora,” Patch repeated more firmly.

“I can’t do the right thing with you in my life,” I said, hating myself for allowing my chin to tremble. “This will