I shuddered. “You’re scaring me. That night, after Bloody Mary’s, the two Nephilim who chased me mentioned devilcraft. But they said Hank had pronounced it a myth.”
“Could be Hank doesn’t want anyone knowing what he’s up to. Devilcraft might explain why he thinks he can overthrow fallen angels as early as Cheshvan. I’m not an expert in devilcraft, but it seems plausible that it could be used to combat an oath, even an oath sworn under heaven. He might be counting on it to break thousands upon thousands of oaths Nephilim have sworn to fallen angels over the centuries.”
“In other words, you don’t think it’s a myth.”
“I used to be an archangel,” he reminded me. “It wasn’t under my jurisdiction, but I know it exists. That’s about all any of us knew. It originated in hell, and most of what we knew was speculation. Devilcraft is forbidden outside of hell, and the archangels should be on top of this.” An edge of frustration crept into his tone.
“Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Hank found a way to hide it from them. Or maybe he’s using it in such little doses, they haven’t picked up on it.”
“Here’s a cheerful thought,” Patch said with a short, unamused laugh. “He could be using devilcraft to rearrange molecules in the air, which would explain why I’ve had a hard time tracking him. The whole time I’ve been spying for him, I’ve done my best to keep a tail on him, trying to figure out how he’s using the information I’ve fed him. Not easy, given he moves like a ghost. He doesn’t leave evidence the way he should. He could be using devilcraft to alter matter altogether. I have no idea how long he’s been using it or how good he’s gotten at harnessing it.”
We both contemplated this in chilling silence. Rearranging matter? If Hank was capable of tampering with the basic components of our world, what else could he manipulate?
After a moment, Patch reached under his shirt collar, unclasping a plain men’s chain. It was made of interlocking links of sterling silver and was slightly tarnished. “Last summer I gave you my archangel’s necklace. You gave it back to me, but I want you to have it again. It doesn’t work for me anymore. But it might come in useful.”
“Hank would do anything to get your necklace,” I protested, pushing Patch’s hands away. “Keep it. You need to hide it. We can’t let Hank find it.”
“If Hank puts my necklace on the archangel, she’ll have no choice but to tell him the truth. She’ll give him pure, unadulterated knowledge, and freely. You’re right about that. But the necklace will also record the encounter, imprinting it forever. Sooner or later, Hank’s going to get his hands on a necklace. Better he takes mine than finds another.”
“Imprint?”
“I want you to find a way to give this to Marcie,” he instructed, clasping the chain at the nape of my neck. “It can’t be obvious. She has to think she’s stolen it from you. Hank will grill her, and she has to believe that she outsmarted you. Can you do that?”
I pulled back, giving him an admonitory look. “What are you planning?”
His smile was faint. “I wouldn’t call this planning. I’d call this throwing a Hail Mary with seconds left on the clock.”
With great care, I thought through what he was asking of me. “I can invite Marcie over,” I said at last. “I’ll tell her I need help picking out jewelry to go with my homecoming dress. If she’s really helping Hank hunt down an archangel’s necklace, and if she thinks I have it, she’ll take advantage of having access to my bedroom. I’m not thrilled about having her poking around, but I’ll do it.” I paused meaningfully. “But first I want to know exactly why I’m doing it.”
“Hank needs the archangel to talk. So do we. We need a way to let the archangels in heaven know Hank is practicing devilcraft. I’m a fallen angel, and they aren’t going to listen to me. But if Hank touches my necklace, it will imprint on the necklace. If he’s using devilcraft, the necklace will record that, too. My word means nothing to the archangels, but that kind of evidence would. All we’d need to do is get the necklace into their hands.”
I still felt a tug of doubt. “What if it doesn’t work? What if Hank gets the information he needs, and we get nothing?”
He agreed with a slight nod. “What would you like me to do instead?”
I thought about it, and came up empty. Patch was right. We were out of time, out of options. It wasn’t the best position to be in, but something told me Patch had been making the best of risky decisions his entire existence. If I had to get dragged into a gamble as big as this, I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather be with.
CHAPTER 27
IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, A WEEK LATER, AND MY MOM and Hank were in the living room, cuddled on the couch and sharing a bowl of popcorn. I’d retreated to my room, having promised Patch I could keep my cool around Hank.
Hank had been infuriatingly charming the past few days, driving my mom home from the hospital, stopping by with takeout every night promptly at dinnertime, even cleaning our roof gutters earlier this morning. I wasn’t foolish enough to lower my guard, but I was driving myself mad trying to pull apart his motives. He was planning something, but when it came down to what, I was at a loss.
My mom’s laugh carried up the stairs, and it pushed me over the edge. I punched in a text to Vee.
YO, she answered a moment later.
I HAVE TICKETS 2 SERPENTINE. WANNA?
SERPEN-WHA???
FRIEND OF THE FAMILY’S NEW BAND, I explained. OPENING GIG IS TONIGHT.
PICK U UP IN 20.
Promptly twenty minutes later, Vee screeched into the driveway. I thundered down the stairs, hoping to make it out the door before I had to endure the torture of hearing my mom make out with Hank, who, I’d learned, was a very wet kisser.
“Nora?” Mom called down the hall. “Where are you going?”
“Out with Vee. I’ll be back by eleven!” Before she could veto, I raced outside and threw myself inside Vee’s 1995 purple Dodge Neon. “Go, go, go!” I ordered her.
Vee, who’d have a bright future as a getaway driver if college didn’t pan out, took my escape into her own hands, peeling out of the drive loud enough to frighten a flock of birds out of the nearest tree.
“Whose Avalon was in the driveway?” Vee asked as she sped across town, oblivious to road signs. She’d dramatically bawled her way out of three speeding tickets since getting her license, and was firmly convinced that when it came to the law, she was invincible.
“Hank’s rental.”
“I heard from Michelle Van Tassel, who heard from Lexi Hawkins, who heard from our good friend Marcie that Hank is offering up a big ol’ reward for any police tips that lead to the arrest of the freak shows who tried to run you off the road.”
Good luck with that.
But I smirked appropriately, not wanting to tip Vee off that anything was wrong. Ideally, I knew I should tell her everything, starting with having my memory erased by Hank. But … how? How did I explain things I could hardly comprehend myself? How did I make her believe in a world teeming with the stuff of nightmares, when I had nothing but my own word to offer up as proof?