“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. Now.”

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 I the one over here playing referee? This was Vee’s business, not mine.

“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 say anything about it?” she pressed. “What to expect, how to cope, that kind of thing.”

“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 commun [er nyone spity, 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 her indifference was an act to get me to divulge.

I wasn’t going to walk into a trap, if that’s what this was.

“It’s not easy losing your dad, believe me,” I said. “The pain never really goes away, but it does eventually become bearable. And somehow, life moves on.”

“I’m not looking for a sympathy card, Nora.”

“Okay,” I said with a reluctant shrug. “If you ever need to talk, I guess you can call me.”

“I won’t have to. I’m moving in with you,” Marcie announced. “I’ll bring my stuff over later this week. My mom is driving me crazy, and we both agree I need somewhere else to crash for a while. Your place is as good as any. Well, I for one am so glad we had this talk. If there’s one thing my dad taught me, it’s that Nephilim stick together.”

Chapter 6

NO,” I BLURTED AUTOMATICALLY. “NO, NO, NO. YOU can’t just—move in with me.” A feeling of pure panic escalated from my toes to the tips of my ears, blowing up faster than I could contain it. I needed an argument. Now. But my brain kept spitting out the same frantic and completely unhelpful thought—No.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Marcie said, and disappeared inside.

“What about me?” I called out. I kicked the door, but what I really felt like doing was kicking myself around for an hour or two. I’d done Vee a favor and look where it had gotten me.

I flung open the door and marched inside. I found Vee at our booth.

“Which way did she go?” I demanded.

“Who?”

“Marcie!”

“I thought she was with you.”

I shot Vee my best bristled look. “This is all your fault! I have to find her.”

Without further explanation, I pushed through the crowd, eyes alert and attentive for any sign of Marcie. I needed to sort this out before it got wildly out of hand. She’s testing you, I told myself. Putting feelers out. Nothing is set in stone. Besides, my mom had final say in this. And she wouldn’t let Marcie move in with us. Marcie had her own family. She was short one parent, sure, but I was a living testament that family was about more than numbers. Buoyed by this line of thinking, I felt my breathing start to relax.

The lights dimmed and the lead singer for Serpentine grabbed the mic, pounding his head in a silent cadence. Taking the cue, the drummer hammered out an intro, and Scott and the other guitarist joined in, kicking off the show with a violent and angsty number. The crowd went wild, head-banging and chanting the lyrics.

I gave one last frustrated glance around for Marcie, then dropped it. I’d have to sort things out with her later. The start of the show was my signal to meet Patch at the bar, and just like that, my heart was back to lurching in my chest.

I made my way over to the bar and took the first bar stool I saw. I sat down a little too hard, losing my balance at the last second. My legs felt like they were made of rubber, and my fingers shook. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this.

“ID, sweetheart?” the bartender asked. An electric-like current vibrated off him, alerting me that he was Nephilim. Just as Patch had said he’d be.

I shook my head. “Just a Sprite, please.”

Not a moment later, I felt Patch move behind me. The energy radiating off him was far stronger than the bartender’s, skimming like heat under my skin. He always had that effect on me, but unlike usual, tonight the sizzling current made me sick with anxiety. It meant Patch had arrived, and I was out of time. I didn’t want to go through with this, but I understood that I didn’t really have a choice. I had to play this smart and factor in my safety, and that of those I loved most dearly.

Ready? Patch asked me in the privacy of our thoughts.

If feeling like I’ll throw up at any minute constitutes ready, sure.

I’ll come over to your place later and we’ll talk it over. Right now, let’s just get through this.

I nodded.

Just like we rehearsed, he spoke calmly to my mind.

Patch? Whatever happens, I love you. I wanted to say more, those three words pitifully inadequate for the way I felt about him. And at the same time, so simple and accurate, nothing else would do.

No regrets, Angel.

None, I returned solemnly.

The bartender finished up with a customer and walked over to take Patch’s order. His eyes raked over Patch, and by the scowl that immediately appeared on his face, it was obvious he’d discerned that Patch was a fallen angel. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his tone clipped, as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.