Crescendo

Wake up, I ordered myself. Wake up.

I let the cloud consume me.

CHAPTER 18

I WOKE UP WITH A SHARP INTAKE OF AIR. MY ROOM was settled in shadow, the moon glowing like a crystal ball on the far side of the window. My sheets were hot and damp, tangled around my legs. The clock read nine thirty.

I flung myself out of bed and went to the bathroom, filling a cold glass of water. I gulped it down, then leaned against the wall. I couldn’t fall back asleep. Whatever I did, I couldn’t let Patch back in my dreams. I paced the upstairs hall, frantically trying to keep myself wide awake, but I was so worked up, I doubted I could have slept if I’d wanted to.

Several minutes later the throb of my pulse had died down, but my mind wasn’t as easy to settle. The Black Hand. Those three words haunted me. They were elusive, menacing, taunting. I couldn’t bring myself to look them straight on. Not without feeling my already flimsy world start to shatter. I knew I was avoiding finding a way to let the archangels know Patch was the Black Hand, and my father’s killer, to protect myself from the shameful truth: I’d fallen in love with a killer. I’d let him kiss me, lie to me, betray me. When he touched me in my dreams, all my strength crumbled, and I felt myself being tangled up in his net all over again. He still held my heart in his hand, and that was the biggest betrayal of all. What kind of person was I, when I couldn’t bring my own father’s killer to justice?

Patch had said I could tell the archangels I wanted him as my guardian angel again through the simple act of saying it out loud. It seemed logical, then, that I could shout out, “Patch killed my dad!” and be done with it. Justice would be served. Patch would be sent to hell, and I could slowly start to rebuild my life. But I couldn’t pull the words up, as if they were chained down someplace deep inside me.

Too many things weren’t adding up. Why was Patch, an angel, mixed up with a Nephilim blood society? If he was the Black Hand, why was he branding Nephilim recruits? Why was he recruiting them in the first place? It wasn’t just odd—it was illogical. The Nephilim race hated angels, and vice versa. And if the Black Hand was Chauncey’s successor and the new leader of the society … how could that person possibly be Patch?

I squeezed the bridge of my nose, feeling like my head might crack from chasing the same questions over and over. Why was it that everything surrounding the Black Hand seemed to be an endless maze of trapdoor, after trapdoor, after trapdoor?

Right now Scott was my only reliable link left to the Black Hand. He knew more than he was letting on, I was sure of it, but he was too scared to talk. The tone of his voice when he’d spoken of the Black Hand carried sheer panic. I needed him to tell me what he knew, but he was running from his past, and nothing I said was going to make him turn back and face it. I pressed my forehead into the palms of my hands, trying to think clearly.

I called Vee.

“Good news,” she said before I could get a word in edgewise. “I talked my dad into driving back to the beach with me and paying the fine to get the boot off my car. I’m back in business.”

“Good, because I need your help.”

“Help is my middle name.”

I was pretty sure she’d already told me bad was her middle name, but I kept my opinion to myself. “I need someone to help me look through Scott’s bedroom.” Chances were, Scott wasn’t going to keep any evidence detailing his involvement with the Nephilim blood society out in the open, but what alternative did I have? He had done a terrific job of not giving me direct answers in the past, and after our last encounter, I knew he was wary of me. If I wanted to find out what he knew, I was going to have to do a little legwork.

“Apparently Patch canceled our double date, so my schedule is wide open,” Vee said, a little too eagerly. I’d expected her to ask what we were snooping for in Scott’s bedroom.

“Going through Scott’s bedroom isn’t going to be dangerous or exciting,” I told her, just to make sure we were both on the same page. “All you’re going to do is sit in the Neon outside his apartment and call me if you see him coming home. I’m the one who’s going inside.”

“Just because I’m not doing the spying doesn’t mean it’s not exciting. It’ll be like watching a movie. Only, in the movies the good guy almost never gets caught. But this is real life, and there’s a strong chance you’ll get caught. See what I mean? The excitement factor is through the roof.”

Personally, I thought Vee was a little overanxious to see me caught.

“You are going to warn me if Scott comes home, right?” I asked.

“Heck yeah, babe. I’ve got you covered.”

My next call was to Scott’s home line. Mrs. Parnell picked up.

“Nora, so good to hear your voice! Scott tells me things have been heating up between the two of you,” she added in a conspirator’s voice.

“Well, uh—”

“I always thought it would be real nice if Scott married a local girl. I don’t much like the idea of him marrying into a family of strangers. What if his in-laws are nutcases? Your mom and I are such close friends, can you imagine the fun we’d have planning a wedding together? But I’m getting ahead of myself! All in good time, as they say.”

Oh boy.

“Is Scott there, Mrs. Parnell? I have some news I think he’ll be interested in.”

I heard her cup a hand over the mouthpiece and shout, “Scott! Pick up the phone! It’s Nora!”

A moment later Scott came on. “You can hang up now, Mom.” His voice held a drop of wariness.

“Just making sure you got it, hon.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Nora has some interesting news,” she said.

“Then hang up so she can tell me.”

There was a sigh of disappointment, and a click.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” Scott said.

“Have you found a band yet?” I asked, pushing forward, hoping to take control of the conversation and pique his interest before he hung up on me.

“No,” he said with that same guarded skepticism.

“I mentioned to a friend that you play the guitar—”

“I play bass.”

“—and he spread the word and found a band that wants to audition you. Tonight.”

“What’s the name of the band?”

I hadn’t anticipated that question. “Uh—the Pigmen.”

“Sounds like something out of 1960.”

“Do you want the audition or not?”

“What time?”

“Ten. At the Devil’s Handbag.” If I’d known of a warehouse farther away, I would have mentioned it. As it was, I would have to make do with the twenty minutes it would take him to drive round trip.

“I’ll need a contact name and number.”

He definitely was not supposed to ask that.

I said, “I told my friend I’d pass the information along to you, but I didn’t think to ask for names and numbers of the band members.”

“I’m not going to blow my night on an audition without first getting an idea of who these guys are, what style they play, and where they’ve gigged. Are they punk, indie-pop, metal?”

“What are you?”

“Punk.”

“I’ll get their numbers and call you right back.”