A hint of a smile crept to Patch’s mouth. “Are you going to take point on this operation, or are you going to babysit Marcie?”

I shook my head. “You do the dirty work, and I’ll keep tabs on Marcie.”

Patch leaned sideways and kissed me. “As much as I’m going to enjoy questioning Blakely, I’m disappointed I won’t get to watch you battle it out with Marcie.”

“There’s not going to be a battle. I’m going to calmly explain to her that she can come along for the ride, but that she’ll have to wait with me in the car while you face off with Blakely. That’s our final offer. She can take it or leave it.” As I said it, I realized just how stupid I sounded for believing it would actually be that easy. Marcie hated taking orders. In her book, the only thing worse than taking orders was taking them from me. On the other hand, she might very well come in useful in the future. She was Hank’s legal daughter, after all. If Patch and I were going to build an alliance, now was the time.

“I’ll be firm,” I promised Patch, adopting a no-nonsense expression. “No backing down.”

By now Patch was full-on grinning. He kissed me again, and I felt my mouth soften its resolve. “You look cute when you’re trying to be tough,” he said.

Trying? I could be tough. I could! And Friday night, I’d prove it.

Watch out, Marcie.

I was a few miles from home when I passed a police car tucked out of sight on a side street. I hadn’t gotten fifty feet beyond the intersection when the cop switched on his siren and wailed after me.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just great!”

While I waited for the officer to approach the window, I mentally added up my babysitting money, wondering if I’d have enough to pay off the ticket.

He rapped his pen on my window and motioned for me to lower it. I glanced through the glass at his face—and stared. Not just any cop, but my least favorite one. Detective Basso and I had a long-standing history of mutual suspicion and strong dislike.

I lowered my window. “I was only going three over!” I argued before he got a word out.

He was chewing on a toothpick. “I didn’t pull you over for speeding. Left taillight is broken. That’s a fifty-dollar fine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He scribbled on his pad and passed my ticket through the window. “Safety hazard. Nothing to joke about.”

Do you follow me around looking for ways to bust me?” I asked, half sarcastically, half under my breath.

“You wish.” With that, he sauntered back to his patrol car. I watched him steer onto the road and cruise past. He waved as he did, but I couldn’t bring myself to make a rude gesture in response. Something wasn’t right.

My spine tingled, and my hands felt like I’d plunged them into ice water. I’d felt a cold vibe rolling off Detective Basso, chilly as a blast of winter air, but I had to have imagined it. I was getting paranoid. Because—

Because I only felt that way around nonhumans.

Chapter 13

FRIDAY NIGHT I TRADED OUT MY SCHOOL CLOTHES FOR cords, my warmest merino wool sweater, a coat, hat, and mittens. The football game wouldn’t start until dusk, and by then the outside temperature would have plunged. As I tugged the sweater over my head, I caught a flash of muscle in the mirror. Halting, I took a closer look. Sure enough, there was definition in both my biceps and triceps. Unbelievable. I’d trained one week, and it was already showing. It seemed my Nephil body developed muscle at a much faster rate than I ever could have hoped for as a human.

Loping down the stairs, I kissed my mom on the cheek and hurried out. The Volkswagen’s engine protested against the cold, but eventually turned over. “You think this is bad? Wait until February,” I told it.

I drove to the high school, parked on a side road just south of the football stadium, and called Patch.

“I’m here,” I said. “Are we still going with plan A?”

“Unless you hear from me, yes. I’m in the crowd. No sign of Blakely yet. Have you heard from Marcie?”

I glanced at my watch—the one I’d synchronized to Patch’s earlier tonight. “She’s meeting me by the concession stand in ten.”

“Do you want to go over the plan one last time?”

“If I see Blakely, I call you right away. I don’t approach him, but I don’t let him out of my sight, either.” At first I’d been a little disgruntled that Patch wanted me to stay a safe distance from the action, but the truth was, I didn’t want to take Blakely down on my own. I didn’t know how strong he was, and let’s face it, I didn’t even know my own strength. It seemed like letting Patch, who was far more experienced in this kind of tactic, handle the take-down was the smartest move.

“And Marcie?”

“I stick to her all night. After you grab Blakely, I drive her to your cabin near Sebago Lake. I’ve got the directions right here. I take the long route, giving you time to question and incapacitate Blakely before we get there. That’s everything, right?”

“One more thing,” Patch said. “Be careful.”

“Always,” I said, and pushed out of quo whe crowd.the car.

I flashed my student ID at the ticket booth, bought a ticket, and meandered toward the concession stand, eyes alert for Blakely. Patch had given me a thorough description, but as soon as I was inside the stadium, mingling with the crowd, half the men in sight could have passed for Blakely. Tall and distinguished-looking with gray hair, a wiry build, and the intelligent but slightly nerdy appearance of a stereotypical chemistry professor. I wondered if, like Patch, he’d be in disguise, which would only make picking him out of the crowd that much more challenging. Would he be dressed in lumberjack clothes? Standard CHS Razorbills garb? Would he go so far as to dye his hair? If nothing else, he would be in the top percentile when it came to height. I’d start with that.

I found Marcie at the concession stand, shivering in pink jeans, a white turtleneck, and a matching pink puffer vest. Seeing her dressed this way made something in my brain click.

“Where’s your cheerleading costume? Don’t you have to cheer tonight?” I asked.

“It’s a uniform, not a costume. And I quit.”

“You quit the team?”

“I quit the squad.”

“Wow.”

“I have bigger things to worry about. Everything else kind of pales in comparison to finding out that you’re”—she glanced around uneasily—“Nephilim.”

Quite unexpectedly, I felt a strange sense of kinship with Marcie. The moment quickly dissolved when I ran down the list of various ways Marcie had made my life miserable in the past year alone. We might both be Nephilim, but any similarities ended there. And I’d be smart to remember it.

“Do you think you’ll recognize Blakely if you see him?” I asked her, keeping my voice down.

She shot me a look of irritation. “I said I know him, didn’t I? Right now I’m your best shot at finding him. Don’t question me.”

“When and if you see him, keep it discreet. Patch will grab Blakely, and we’ll follow him up to his cabin, where we can all question Blakely together.” Except by that point, Blakely would be passed out and no good to Marcie. Minor detail.

“I thought you broke up with Patch.”

“I did,” I lied, trying to ignore the guilt twisting my stomach. “But I also don’t trust anyone else to help me deal with Blakely. Just because Patch and I aren’t together doesn’t mean I can’t call in a favor.” If she didn’t buy my explanation, I wasn’t too worried. Patch would erase her memory of this conversation shortly.

“I want to question Blakely before Patch does,” Marcie said.

“You can’t. We have a plan and we have to stick to it.”

Marcie hitched her shoulder in a really snooty way. “We’ll see.”

Mentally, I did some deep breathing. And quashed the urge to grind my teeth. Time to show Marcie she wasn’t running the show. “If you mess this up, I will make yll

“Do you really think Blakely has information about who killed my dad?” Marcie asked, fixing her eyes on me in a calculating, almost perceptive way.

My heart stumbled, but I held my expression in check. “Hopefully tonight we’ll find out.”

“What now?” Marcie said.

“Now we walk around and try not to draw attention.”

“Speak for yourself,” Marcie said with a snort.

Okay, so maybe she was right. Marcie did look fantastic. She was cute and annoyingly confident. She had money, and it showed in everything from her tanning-salon glow, to her so-natural-they-passed-as-real highlights, to her push-up bra. A mirage of perfection. As we marched up the bleachers, eyes flicked in our direction, and they weren’t looking at me.

Think about Blakely, I directed myself. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than energy-sucking envy.

We strode along the bleachers, past the restrooms, and cut across the track circling the football field, heading toward the visitors’ section. Much to my chagrin, I saw Detective Basso in uniform standing on the top row of the bleachers, gazing down at the rowdy visiting crowd with hard, skeptical eyes. His gaze shifted to me, and the doubt in his expression deepened. Remembering the strange feeling he’d given me two nights ago, I grabbed Marcie’s elbow and forced her to walk away with me. I couldn’t accuse Basso of following me—he was clearly on the clock—but that didn’t mean I wanted to remain the subject of his scrutiny any longer.

Back and forth along the track Marcie and I walked. The stands were crowded, night had settled in, the game had started, and other than Marcie’s throngs of male admirers, I didn’t think we drew any unwanted attention, despite the fact that we hadn’t taken a seat in over thirty minutes.

“This is getting old,” Marcie complained. “I’m tired of walking. In case you didn’t notice, I’m wearing wedge boots.”

Not my problem! I wanted to scream. Instead I said, “Do you want to find Blakely or not?”

She huffed, and the sound scraped my nerves. “One more walk-through, and then I’m done.”

Good riddance! I thought.

On our way back to the student section, I felt an eerie tingle slink over my skin. Automatically I turned, following the sensation to its origin. A few men loitered in the darkness outside the high fence surrounding the stadium, hanging their fingers on chain links. Men who hadn’t bought tickets but still wanted to watch the game. Men who preferred sticking to the shadows rather than showing their faces under the stadium lights. One man in particular, lean and tall despite the way he slumped his shoulders, caught my attention. A vibe of nonhuman energy whipped off him, sending my sixth sense into overdrive.

I kept walking, but I said to Marcie, “Look over by the fence. Do any of the men over there look lr ther thanike Blakely?”

To her credit, Marcie limited her glance to a surreptitious flick of her eyes. “I think so. In the middle. The guy who’s hunching his shoulders. That could be him.”