“If you don’t declare war on fallen angels, you’re going to instantly make enemies with thousands of Nephilim,” he responded.
And if I do, I thought weakly, I might as well declare war on the archangels. They’d allowed Hank to die because Patch promised them I’d quell the uprising.
I returned my attention to Patch, and I knew we were sharing the same grisly thought. Either way, war was coming.
All I had to do now was decide my opponent.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is always the most humbling part of writing a book.
First and foremost, a big shout of appreciation to my family for offering up support, encouragement, and most of all patience 365 days a year. Justin, I’m sure calling you my biggest cheerleader isn’t the manliest of endearments, but very fitting. You are my better half.
Thanks to the many friends who’ve helped out in immeasurable ways, from babysitting to reading early drafts of Silence to reminding me that laughter really is the best medicine. Sandra Roberts, Mary Louise Fitzpatrick, Shanna Butler, Lindsey Leavitt, Rachel Hawkins, Emily Wing Smith, Lisa Schroeder, Laura Andersen, Ginger Churchill, Patty Esden, Nicole Wright, and Meg Garvin — I am blessed to know you.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t say how grateful I am to Jenn Martin and Rebecca Sutton, the dynamic duo behind FallenArchangel.com. Thank you for keeping my fans in the know, and in a much more timely manner than I’d ever hope to accomplish. Your dedication truly astounds.
Thanks to James Porto, the creative genius behind my books’ stunning cover art.
Buckets of gratitude to Lyndsey Blessing, my foreign-rights agent, who has helped get my books into the hands of readers across the globe. Thanks to my agent, Catherine Drayton, for … everything (including talking me into buying that particularly stunning pair of shoes in Bologna).
As always, I am so very fortunate to have a devoted team behind me at Simon & Schuster BFYR. Thanks to Courtney Bongiolatti, Julia Maguire, and Venetia Gosling for your editorial prowess. Many thanks to Justin Chanda, Anne Zafian, Jenica Nasworthy, Lucy Ruth Cummins, Lucille Rettino, Elke Villa, Chrissy Noh, and Anna McKean for bringing so much excitement into my life. I truly feel that I have the easy job in all this.
A nod of appreciation to Valerie Shea, copyeditor extraordinaire. Without you, this book would be far more humorous. And not in a good way!
A big thank-you to Dayana Gomes Marques and Valentine Bulgakov for christening Silence characters Dante Matterazzi and Tono Grantham.
Last but never least, thank you to my readers, near and far. Writing for you has been immeasurably thrilling and satisfying. I’ve loved sharing Patch and Nora’s story with you.
AND NOW … A NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN LOOK AT
THE REAL FIRST TIME PATCH AND NORA MET …
FROM PATCH’S POINT OF VIEW!
Patch rocked his chair back on two legs, stretched out his arms, and folded them behind his neck. His gaze was nailed to the doors leading inside Enzo’s Bistro. He’d asked for a table at the back, in a shadowy corner where the light didn’t quite reach. A votive candle flickered on every other table, but Patch had snuffed his between his fingers upon sitting. Across the table, Rixon was sprawled in his chair, eyes tracing the ceiling in overdone boredom.
“I’ll wait for you till I turn blue,” Rixon sang in a mutter. “There’s nothing more a man can do. Ya drank with demons straight from”—he broke off and, arching a suggestive eyebrow, pointed beneath his feet—“hell. They almost nearly won as weeeell.”
Patch smiled. “Warming up for your American Idol audition?”
Rixon kicked him under the table. “When are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”
A waitress swept past, dropping off two coffees.
Patch took a drink. “Up to?”
“We’ve been coming here — Enzo’s, is it? — every Thursday night round eight. Five weeks in a row. And you thought I didn’t notice.”
“Four weeks.”
Rixon gave a theatrical eye roll. “The lad can count.”
“They have good coffee.”
“Right, then. Trouble with that is, you can’t taste it,” Rixon pointed out. “Moving on to lie number two, then?”
“I like the atmosphere.”
Rixon’s eyes bugged with astonishment. “Every girl in this place is under twenty. What do you say we scam up some birds a little closer to our own age … seven hundred, at least.”
“I’m not here for the girls.” Just one of them. His eyes flicked to his watch, then back to the doors. Any minute now.
“Not here for the girls,” Rixon echoed. “Not here for the gambling, the drinking, the fighting. By all accounts, we’re blowing a perfectly good night in a reputable establishment. Either you’ve started listening to the wee little angel on your shoulder, or that iniquitous brain of yours is tossing around some scheme.”
“And?”
“And I’m betting on the latter. What I want to know is what worthwhile scheme involves a squeaky-clean high school hangout?” he asked, casting a baleful eye about the place.
Outside, a familiar silhouette jogged past the bank of rain-splattered windows. The girl had her arms crossed over her head, doing an amusing job of trying to shield the rain. She hurried inside, giving the door an extra shove to allow her blond companion time to squeeze in before it slammed shut. They stood in the entrance a moment, shaking off rain and stamping their feet dry.
Rixon was still poking around for answers, but Patch had tuned him out. He was immensely conscious of the shorter of the two girls, a slim redhead with straight shoulders and a chin she held slightly raised in a gesture that could be mistaken for conceit. He’d watched her long enough to know it was something else. He toyed with words like “cagey,” “unassuming” … “prudent.” She’d raked her hair up into a stringent bun, but a few rogue pieces had fallen loose, and the effect brought the slightest curve to his mouth.
Even if he hadn’t memorized her schedule, the black span-dex running pants and wide-necked sweatshirt that she seemed engaged in a battle of tug-of-war with — one moment it would slide off her shoulder and the next she’d hitch it back into place — would have told him she’d come from the gym. Among the growing list of things he was discovering about her: She was a fair-weather exerciser. Once a week at most. And only when the blonde, a yo-yo dieter, dragged her along.
The hostess led the girls in Patch’s direction. Patch slouched, discreetly angling his baseball cap to shield his face. Every other week he’d watched the redhead from across the restaurant, making sure she never had reason to glance his way. She typically sat with her chin propped on laced fingers, listening attentively as the blonde went off on guys, miracle diets, celebrity breakups, or her horoscope.
The hostess weaved to the side suddenly, seating the girls a few tables down. A slippery feeling of anxiety tumbled inside Patch, and the sensation almost made him laugh. When was the last time he’d felt boyish nervousness over being caught in a reprobate act?
But he had to play this safe. When he finally introduced himself to the redhead, creating the illusion of meeting for the first time, it had to appear random. Only after he knew her inside and out would he nail down a strategy to gain her trust.
Then he’d drop the proverbial ax.