DISCLAIMER: I do not claim ownership of the Hush, Hush Saga by Becca Fitzpatrick, including Hush, Hush, Crescendo, Silence, or any other installments of the Hush, Hush Saga not yet in publication. Additionally, Mint Soap is a pure work of fiction, mostly irrelevant to the ending of Crescendo and the events of Silence.

IMPORTANT WARNING: This piece is rated M for mature content, adult themes, and worst of all…SPOILERS! You have been generously warned.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I apologize for the delay, and I give my thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or subscribed to Mint Soap or me, as an author. I'm not traditionally a Lemon writer—I do get the vibe that reader traffic will slow if I discontinue the smut, which I'm hoping is a gross misconception. Incidentally, my creative genius leans towards fluff and romance…and all the things that come with it. It may make me look like a skeev (and I swan it has nothing to do with indecency; it's meant to be demonstrative, not obscene), but with the way Silence ended, I feel justified. You can't tell me that that's not the reason why you're reading this. You want more Patch x Nora, too!

NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER: There's a lot going on, which lends to the length. Hopefully that won't deter you. This chapter has seen so manyrevisions in the past several months, but updates won't traditionally be this infrequent. It still took upwards of ten pages to resolve this chapter, so I edited out some big scenes. If you're confused by any of the information in the last half of the chapter, pages 105 and 305 in Crescendo are good references.

I completed the rough draft long before the release of Silence, and I was nervous about introducing new fallen angels, but after meeting Gabe and his buddies in canon, I'm more open to the idea, and I think you will be, too. In the next few chapters, you'll meet Mikhail and Liam. Don't be cowed. OC's are necessary for plot progression. Keep in mind these characters are supposed to look teenaged. I'd say Mikhail is a straight-haired Catherine Zeta-Jones type, and Liam is a dark Gaspard Ulliel type, if you'd like my humble opinion. Hopefully you'll be able to enjoy them! The male is Liam, which means "strong-willed warrior," and the female is Mikhail, which means, "Who resembles God?"

Lastly, I was toying with the idea of Patch's heritage, and the abilities, human or inhuman, that being immortal and having all the time in the world to do whatever you want can lend to. There's some Italian in this chapter, and I don't speak Italian. I used lots of translators. The bottom line is that I put my all into the research, so I apologize if any of the Italian is still incorrect; I tried my best without being able to judge it for myself.

IMPORTANT MESSAGE: See the first chapter of Mint Soap for information on Mint Soap's timeline.


The longer I went on knowing about the archangels, murder, mysterious banishments, and disappearances to hell, the more and more my moral compass seemed to point directly south.


Mint Soap

A Hush, Hush Series Fanfiction by xXSoldierXx

I woke again in Patch's warm embrace.

I could feel him, all soft skin and hard muscle as I lay nestled with my back to his chest. His arm was curled possessively about my waist, holding me close, and I opened my eyes to the familiar sight of my bedroom blanketed in shade. The faintest hints of morning sunlight filtered in through the slats in the window blinds, painting streaks of white and gold across the floor. They left a radiant warmth on my skin, which settled leisurely into flesh and bone the way lapping waves hug a sandy beach.

Patch's soft exhalations were deep and steady by my ear. I breathed deeply of him and twisted at the hips, my eyes moving to memorize every part of his face, all tan skin and masculine angles that said he was certainly of an Italian bloodline. Then again, I pondered the notion of bloodlines and angels. Was it possible for angels to have babies with other angels, or could they only make Nephilim with the humans on Earth? Were there family resemblances in heaven? I traced the solid line of Patch's jaw, noticing that it was set in such a way that seemed inconsistent with sleep. Even so, he was the image of serenity—an epitomic blend of solace and really good genes, if he had any.

Patch's eyes opened to reveal twin orbs of an abysmal black, as if my gentle touch had roused him from slumber. "Angel," he murmured lowly, his voice hoarse with sleep. Patch's mouth held a curve that wasn't altogether a smirk. He rolled, trapping me beneath the cage of his body, and I stifled the squeal that rose up in me, meeting his intense gaze. I felt nailed down by those mesmerizing eyes, unable to move, even if I'd wanted to. There was a very thin margin of space between us, I in my flannel pajamas, Patch in much less. I noted this as he kissed a path from my neck to my collarbone. Without meaning to, I acquiesced.

He whispered softly, murmuring my name. The gentle, titillating lilt of his voice made promises to my desire that I knew only Patch could fulfill. The fluttering in my middle was a knee-jerk reaction, and it reminded me that Patch truly was a master of every trade—particularly seduction, among his myriad worldly talents; pool, theft, hotwiring, murder….

I pretended that his touch and murmurs had no effect on me, but I must not have been very convincing.

For just that moment, I lost myself in the thought that our destinies were inextricably intertwined—that once upon a time, Patch had fallen for another, but he'd stayed for me, and I was meant to be with him. I couldn't see it any other way. Not after Patch had been there for me, for better or for worse, through all of the confusion and pain of my mother's alleged affair, my illegitimacy, my father's death, and the numerous attempts on my life. Even if I couldn't always see it, Patch had had my best interests in mind. He'd always kept a watchful eye on me. Now that we were finally together, for what I thought was officially and permanently, I had closure—I had this satisfying sense of fruition.

I closed my eyes and succumbed to Patch's kisses, his lips on mine first playful, then sensual. Patch kissed a path from my mouth to my shoulder, one hand skimming my arm, the other tangled up in my unruly curls. I flexed my hands across hard muscle, skillfully avoiding the invisible junction where his wings joined at his back.

Patch's fingers expertly worked the top few buttons of my shirt, nipping and sucking the skin as he unearthed it, each inch a brand new find that stirred anew his lust for me.

I breathed heavily of his scent and let him taste my pulse, noticing for the first time that he lacked his usual mint fragrance. His lips tasted like me, and his scent was now reminiscent of sex and soap—my soap. The fruity tang of curl revitalizer was beneath it all, convincing me that I was slowly taking over every part of him. There wasn't a bit of Patch that wasn't redolent of me by now, which actually made me just the tiniest bit proud….

"Nora…," Patch intoned, speaking my name as if he'd caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.

I cracked my eyes open, just a little, and cocked my head curiously to one side. "What is it?" I asked softly, puzzled by the way Patch seemed to tear into me with his gaze.

Slowly, he grinned, and murmured a bemused, "You're moaning. Loudly."

I…was? A flush crept into my cheeks at the accusation. If I'd been moaning, especially loudly, I hadn't noticed. Not until Patch had said anything. As if to prove his point, he lowered his head to the crook of my neck and flicked his tongue over a tender bruise, sending shockwaves through me. My moan, though soft, was unsolicited. Oh god, I couldn't help it. Patch had a way with my body that I couldn't quite describe.

Patch chuckled in a way that sounded obviously self-satisfied, the gentle thrum of his laughter stirring interesting sensations in all the places where we touched—which was everywhere, since he expertly straddled me. His body fit so perfectly against mine. Even fully dressed, he had a way that made me feel naked from head to toe. His hands traced my hips, tickling me without meaning to—though honestly, he might have. Patch's mischievous black eyes were mere centimeters from mine, and as he held my gaze, I felt the blood vessels in my face slowly widen.

Patch stared deep into me for a personal eternity, the silence so perfect that all I could hear was my pulse hammering in my ears, not even Patch's breathing, and not even my own. (I'm not sure, but I may have beenholding my breath.) The tension between us stretched and pulled to its capacity, like a rubber band that threatened to snap. Before I could finally draw a breath, the tension shattered, and the band simply broke.

Patch's lips came against mine so hard, I swallowed a gasp as it was forming.

The moment his skin made contact with mine under the covers, I found myself wondering if I'd only imagined that I'd been wearing pants a moment before…. Slowly, Patch leaned into me with intentions that were devious. My moan, lost in our stifling kiss, became low and sensual. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst inside my ribcage, the two of us coming together and loving every minute of passion in our timeless oblivion. His breath on my skin was exhilarating, and my voice gently rose to bounce off the walls in rolling peals. Patch's rare, low utterances marked the off-beats of my gentle exclamations.

I was immobilized prey, petrified into a position that rendered me defenseless against Patch, a predator. Even if I'd been able to move, nothing could have made me beg for him to stop his ministrations. After a few moments, Patch dropped, a satisfied sound marking his gratification, anesthetized as it was. He knelt astride me, his weight held off of me by a leg on either side, an elbow by either ear. I thought maybe I'd never understand how he did it—or why he did it. This majestic, unfeeling creature was mysteriously so attuned to my fragile, human body. He could make every fiber sing with ecstasy without even trying.

I sighed breathily, high off the remnants of my pleasure.

Patch's lips turned up in an arrogant grin, but not a word was said.

I complimented him gently, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. Patch kissed me back before rolling to one side, pillowing his head with one arm, wiping his free hand down his face. I faced him and chewed my bottom lip thoughtfully before asking, "Is it my birthday? Or maybe it's yours! What's got you so riled up anyway?"

Patch cracked his fingers slightly and shot me a sideways glance. His eyes skimmed over the parts of me above the coverlet, including the top few buttons he'd undone and the flannel shirt that was falling off of one shoulder. I was quivering on the inside under his predatory gaze, and I fought to trap in another involuntary moan when he said, "Your deadly legs, and that killer curvy mouth." He continued to appraise me, half to himself, half to me. My heart wiggled up into my throat, choking me. I drew a ragged breath, feeling an emotion hard to describe as Patch's expression slowly changed. "I thought it would be fairly obvious," Patch intoned said softly, sobering up. His arrogant smirk became a bittersweet smile. "It's you, Nora Grey; you mustbe aware of the effect you have on me."

I was.

The mattress sunk beneath us as his body shifted closer. A finely muscled arm grabbed me and held me flush against his body. Patch buried his face in my hair, breathing me in, and I pressed my forehead into the junction of his neck and shoulder, feeling more muscle there. He's got dynamite trapezii, I thought, and then proceeded to ask myself why in the world Patch was with someone like me...

"I wanted to make the best of today," Patch admitted solemnly. "Because of tonight… Have you changed your mind?"

My Cheshire grin suddenly faltered, reluctance making my stomach hard. I was grateful for Patch's face nuzzled into my hair, because I'd probably have disappointed him if he'd seen my less-than-stellar reaction with his own eyes. Licking my lips, I furiously grabbed for something to say. Nothing appropriate came to mind, so I hummed and whispered, "No, I haven't, Patch." I managed to sound earnest rather than put out. If Patch noticed anything off about my answer, he didn't say.

Instead, he kissed my hair, and I felt suddenly empty as he tore himself away. "I'm going to shower. Meet me downstairs."


I washed up in my mom's en suite bathroom before padding back to my room, toes sinking deep into the throw rug. I slid open the slatted closet doors, thinking back to the weather report the morning before and dressing lightly for an Indian summer. Maine is by no means a warm or tropical place, but if the weatherman said it would be in the eighties today, I took a gamble and pulled my outfit out of my closet. I'd always been a real big sucker for the underdog.

Even having taken the time to wash my curls and apply some makeup, I managed to beat Patch to the staircase. He was nowhere in sight, and if I my mind wasn't playing tricks on me, I thought I heard the shower still running down the hall.

I froze halfway down, a socked foot poised mid-step, when I heard Vee scream, "Holy freak show, Nora!"

My best friend, Vee Sky, was on the couch in the foyer, curled up before a muted television that was broadcasting some kind of National Geographic-type wildlife documentary. Her face and knuckles had gone white, one hand curled tightly around the remote control, the other fisted around a length of fluffy quilt. Her face held a look of mock-horror, but there was a hint of underlying curiosity as she took in my wet curls, Daisy Dukes, and off-the-shoulder, thin cotton sweater.

I felt a chastisement coming on, and I forged ahead, feeling exceptionally daring.

"You could have at least closed the door before you and Patch did the Big Deed last night," Vee teased, rolling her green eyes at the impulsive nature of human attraction. She threw off her quilt, revealing my pajama bottoms paired with the shirt she'd worn to Portland the night before. "And this morning. Geez, babe, you're an animal. Did he spank you hard? Did he turn you over on his knee and make you—"

"Ohmigod, Vee!" I exclaimed, unable to hide humiliated undertones. A furious blush crept into my face, and I turned away at the sight of two frisky caribou humping furiously on television. "It's not like that! I—"

Vee held up a silencing hand. "I don't want excuses," she said, and began to tick demands off on her fingers. "I want breakfast, the fee paid for my tow, and details, sans censorship—agreed?"

My expression went lax as Vee stifled diabolical laughter. "You must be delusional if you think I'm going to pay for your tow charge," I intoned, closing the distance between the sofa and the stairs. I dropped down beside her, and my body sunk deep into the cushions. An upward puff of air sent my curls floating, and I quickly rearranged them to hang correctly about my face. Vee was pouting, her bottom lip thrust out a hairsbreadth too far to be cute. "Portland was your doing, Vee, and you made me your alibi. I'm not paying for your tow charge."

A long silence elapsed, and I could see in her face that she was deliberating. Her lips formed a tight line, a smile threatening to surface every now and then. As she struggled against it, I saw all too well that she was putting on an act. Her real interest was in my gossip. "Fine by me," Vee consented too quickly, confirming my suspicions. "You still owe me those details, though."

"And you still owe me yours," I countered, dodging the limelight. "Portland? What was that all about?"

Vee hesitated, doing a full-on grimace. "It's no big deal—I got to talking with some guys at Enzo's." She made a rolling gesture with her hands, illustrating the progression of her relationship with her two new ruffian friends. "They invited me to a party in Portland," she explained, making more erratic hand gestures to paint an obscure picture in the space between us. "So I drove out there to meet them. We stayed a while. Things got dull. They bummed a ride back to Topsham. That's when the Neon ran out of gas. Enter Patch and Nora."

That was Vee for you, always getting into sticky situations. Given her standard, her Portland escapade erred on the milder side of miscreant behavior, and neither Patch nor I were very impressed. Even so, Vee looked surprised by my less-than-explosive reaction, probably expecting one of my high-strung chastisements of right versus wrong. What could I say? The longer I went on knowing about the archangels, murder, mysterious banishments, and disappearances to hell, the more and more my moral compass seemed to point directly south.

"That's not so bad," I admitted, but I gave her a pointed look so she wouldn't think I'd gone soft. "They—Juice and Tripp, were they?—looked pretty, uh, shady."

"Oh, please," Vee drawled, rolling her eyes and cracking a smile. "I can't have my own personal Scott Parnells?"

My face grew warm at the reminder of my near-fling with the Nephil. "Juice and Tripp are not Scott Parnells," I hissed, and Vee gave me a look that spoke on all levels of skepticism.

"Right…" Sarcasm drew out the vowel. "And you didn't almost have sex with Scottie the Hottie just to make Patch eat crow. Someone's getting defensive," the minky blond rebutted, making me regret that I'd ever divulged that little gem of a secret. Vee raised her hands at my incensed scowl—I'm innocent, the gesture said—but I knew Vee's patchy track record all too well. Innocent was not a word I'd use to describe the eccentric girl.

I felt the stirrings of an argument coming on, but I didn't want to go there. Not today. I shook my head and mirrored her pose, my hands held up in acquiescence. "I am not defensive—Scott Parnell is in the past. Can we just let it go?"

Vee looked like she had a comeback on the tip of her tongue, but it died there at the sound of the floorboards creaking overhead. Our eyes turned simultaneously to the head of the staircase where Patch appeared, wearing a short towel draped over his broad, relaxed shoulders.

He descended the stairs, his wavy midnight hair still wet from his shower. Patch was barefoot, dressed in a fresh pair of dark wash jeans that hung low on his hips. I noticed Vee taking in the way his white t-shirt—a far cry from his usual black—clung to the muscles of his chest, a little tight from extreme exercise.

I hear morning sex will do that to you.

Beside me, Vee whimpered in sheer bliss. I cleared my throat, not surprised when she returned the gesture but never averted her gaze.

"What's up?" Patch said, reaching the foot of the stairs. He crossed the foyer in a few broad strides, feet so silent on the hardwood floor that I actually wondered if he was really there or just a figment of my imagination.

"Morning," Vee said. She clambered out of the deep cushions and was hot on Patch's heels.

I joined her.

"I have something special planned for you both," Patch hinted mysteriously, steering left into the kitchen at the end of the hall.

"Ooh, what might that be?" Vee stage whispered, shooting me a sly look that promised mischief. She nudged me a little too hard, discreetly wagging her hips and murmuring incoherently about strip teases and calendar models. My eyes stretched at the thought. I gave Vee a pointed look that said there would be no such talk with Patch around.

No need to give him any crazy ideas, after all...

We emerged into the kitchen and seated ourselves at the center island, prying eyes free to take in the sights as Patch opened and closed cabinets. I ogled him in silence as his long fingers selected cylindrical canisters from the spice rack. When he reached, his thin tee-shirt rose to reveal that slight slip of skin just above the waistband of his jeans (and the navy blue boxers peeking out above his belt).

I lost the strength to elbow Vee when Patch bent over, searching the contents of a cupboard low to the ground. Vee was practically drooling beside me. "His ass is awesome," she whispered.

I found myself nodding in wordless agreement. Patch did have an awesome ass.

I might have nudged Vee and cleared my throat at her and pretended it bothered me that she checked Patch out from time to time, but truth be told, I really wasn't bothered by her tendencies to openly ogle my boyfriend—not really.

In my mind, Vee was something of a mourning widow. Immediately after Rixon's disappearance from Coldwater, she just hadn't been the same old Vee. The public was pretty clear on the fact that Rixon had been the shooter that day at Delphic—not Scott Parnell. Overwhelming though it may have been, the media coverage actually helped sway Vee to believe that her ex-boyfriend had been bad news—that he didn't deserve her sympathy, and that he shouldn't have been missed. Homicidal repeat-offender track record aside, I couldn't have made Vee forget the feelings she'd had for Rixon once upon a time. By that same token, there was no denying that what Rixon had felt for Vee was real.

I thought I could understand how hard it must have been for Vee to find out that her boyfriend was homicidal. I remembered sitting in the Jeep outside of Sea Dog Brewing Co. on my first date with Patch, putting my nose where it hadn't belonged all in the name of a dangerous attraction. I remembered snooping around in his glove compartment, holding my breath and hoping for the best while he went inside for sandwiches. The red-splattered flashlight I'd found hadn't been a murder weapon… But the terror I'd felt before realizing this had been immense—and heartbreaking.

I had known I wasn't going to be the one to tell Vee the truth about Rixon—how could I have possibly explained that he was a fallen angel and Patch had chained him up in hell? In fact, I'd thought I was going to take Rixon's secret to the grave with me. But I hadn't known any better. Not then. My decision had begun to take its toll on my best friend. Day by day, I'd watched her lose her mind a little bit at a time, until the weight of the unknown had become too much for her to bear.

It killed me to do it, but I'd turned to Patch—asked him if there was some way he could alleviate Vee's pain. He'd said that he could, and without my consent, he wiped her memories of the knowledge that she'd ever loved Rixon.

Today, Vee knew nothing more of Rixon than the average Coldwater resident. She'd overheard the shooting coverage on the news one morning at breakfast, and that had been the end of it. "Rixon who?" she'd asked me one day, and that was the last time I ever said "Rixon" out loud.

It was eerie how effective Patch's fallen angel powers were. The notion of mind-manipulation unnerved me, and I admit that I'd been upset with Patch for choosing to do what he did. Eventually though, I became grateful that Vee was no longer carrying the burden of Rixon's betrayal. It took me a little longer to forgive Patch for toying with her mind, but, in the end, I couldn't undo what he'd done. His explanation that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission had somehow placated me, though it should have had me running scared or at the very least angry, but it was too easy to stay positive after Vee was back to her usual self.

By usual, I mean that Vee wasn't so anti-Patch without Rixon around to influence her opinions. She was back to the same old best friend of mine who'd fantasized about ravishing Patch on top of a lab table, back in the days when he'd only been a mysterious transfer student and my biology partner. Vee wouldn't be ravishing Patch anytime soon, but the least I could do was let her dream.

Patch's voice cut through our fantasies with a softly spoken, "Are these eggs still good?"

My eyes flicked to the carton in Patch's hands, and I nodded. "Yeah, they should be," I said. Vee raised an eyebrow, causing Patch to pause in whatever he was about to do. He raised an eyebrow back, disturbed by whatever innuendo Vee had just thought of. When she grinned, he turned his back on us, flipped on all the necessary appliances, and began to cook us breakfast.

My memories catapulted me back into the Saturday mornings in the recesses of my mind. I floated through images of Dorothea, my mom's former housekeeper, standing before the stove, just like Patch was now, cooking for me. Any visions I saw of the kindly German-born housekeeper disappeared with each tantalizing shift of Patch's hips.

"It looks great!" Vee exclaimed, snapping me out of my stupor, and mysterious undertones suggested she might not have been talking about the breakfast he'd prepared.

I glanced down at the counter, which was covered in a delicious spread of breakfast foods: eggs of a couple different preparations, syrup-drenched pancakes, bacon, sliced fruits, yogurt, and waffles. Waffles? We don't have a waffle iron…

I shook my head and echoed Vee, sanding my hands together and hungrily licking my lips.

Patch smirked and laid a plate down before me. I knew what he was thinking before he even whispered it to my unsuspecting mind. You look great, Angel. His voice floated around like a butterfly in the recesses of my mind. Patch's mouth was at that relaxed stage just before a grin. I couldn't hide the flush that crept into my cheeks, so I raised a glass of orange juice to my lips, trying to draw the attention away from my burning cheeks.

Patch looked away out of respect, but I knew he was amused. The smirk never left his lips.

He pushed a loaded plate at Vee, and I shoveled waffle into my mouth, appeased.


Patch and I sat in the Jeep outside of Enzo's Bistro.

I didn't have to explain to him that I felt like I'd stayed out boozing all night, and I thought I might as well have been. I was, without a doubt, irrevocably drunk on Patch. The headache hit me like a wrecking ball—intense, arbitrary, gravity defying—not necessarily in that order. When I looked over, Patch was staring at me, his black eyes hard with concern.

"I'll call you in sick, Nora," he said, sounding like he meant it. Patch killed the engine and reached for his door.

"Don't," I pleaded, making a grab for him and trapping his hand beneath mine. I smiled through sharp pangs as they manifested behind my eyes. "It's just a little headache, Patch. I can still work."

But I couldn't, and not because of my little migraine. I thought I'd be sick after a whole day of furiously grappling with my uncertainty. Was I was content with the cards I'd been dealt? Was I confident with the play I was fixing to make with them? I realized that I didn't know. I couldn't know.

In the end, the night was fast approaching. It all boiled down to time. There was no more time to think—no more time to change my mind. In a few hours, I'd be in the Commander with Patch, Southbound out of Coldwater. It's the only way to keep him safe, I reasoned, staving off the doubts as they crept into my mind. Keep running. Buy some time. It won't be forever. Just until Patch—

Perish the thought.

"I'll be fine, Patch. See you at ten?"

Patch hesitated, eventually easing back into the driver's seat. He nodded firmly, as if to convince himself that I was telling him the truth—I'd be fine. He grunted.

I smiled at him across the front seat, taking his fingers gently in mine. I will. I really will. I'll be fine, the gesture said.

He seemed to sense it. Our lips met briefly—a soft brush of a kiss—before I pulled back, my hand on my door. I loved how easy it was to fall into Patch, his mouth on mine always a slow and confident reminder that I was never alone—that he would always be there to support and protect me. It was too easy to forget myself when I kissed Patch. I wanted to keep a clear mind about running away with him. So I stopped.

Patch's hand skimmed down my arm as I withdrew, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

Exhaling slowly, I breathed a soft "I love you, Patch."

His lips twitched briefly in a smile. "Call me if it gets worse," he said, relinquishing his hold on me. "I mean it. I'll pick you up."

I slipped from the Jeep and gave him a nod. "Thanks, Patch," I murmured, feeling his eyes on me all the way into the bistro. I paused outside with my hand on the door, staring a long time at my dad's ring on my finger—the one with Patch's name—his real name—carved into its underside. I sucked in a deep breath, forced a smile, pushed the door open, and prepared to start my last shift; prepared to kiss my life as I knew it goodbye.


I worked the next three hours with a quiet determination. The end of my shift was approaching, but I still caught myself casting too many unnecessary glances at the clock on the wall. The second hand seemed to move five times too slow. An hour would pass, and I'd look up at the clock to see that really only a minute had gone by. I was suspended in a strange state of oblivion where time elapsed so slowly, and yet it still felt too fast.

My thoughts of Patch's fate and our plan to leave Coldwater weighed heavily on my mind all night. I'd been grateful for the mild distraction that work provided, but with only a half-hour until closing, the crowd at Enzo's had whittled down to a thin scattering of patrons. Rush hour foot traffic was over. The burdening thoughts returned.

I was about to grab a rag to bus tables with when a woman came in and seated herself in my station. Another quick glance at the clock told me it was now nine thirty-one.

I weaved through tables to reach her, noticing as I approached that she was a teenager rather than a woman, dressed androgynously in boyfriend jeans and a black pullover. She wore the hood low over brown-black tresses, concealing both the length and style. A pair of overly-large designer sunglasses was perched on the bridge of her nose, and those huge Gucci shades at nearly ten at night in a dimly-lit restaurant raised warning flags in my mind.

An irrational part of me suspected that, since it obviously wasn't Jules, I might have been looking at Dabria. I thought on that in the moment it took me to reach her table, but the hair was all wrong, even if she'd dyed it, and the nose had a different, more delicate curve. Besides, I reminded myself, it was Patch's opinion that I was a match for the angel of death since he'd recently stripped her wings.

I sobered up enough to give the girl a winning smile. Coming within hailing distance revealed a lot of things to me—she had golden, honey-colored skin, looking like the result of a few hours in the sun each day rather than a natural complexion. Her jeans lacked shape or definition, baggy about the hips and feet. The denim was marked with holes and tears all the way up the leg—a tasteful kind of distress that only money can buy. Her black hoodie was completely unmarked, not a logo or emblem of any kind to be seen, and though she wore her hood like a curtain, a side-swept fringe of hair over her forehead gave the impression of a fashion-conscious individual. Overall, her whole appearance advertised a clear desire for anonymity.

My name is Nora, and I'll be your server tonight, I almost said, but on second thought, I omitted my identity. "What can I get you?" I asked, the tip of my pen pressed to the top page of my notepad. I pressed a little harder to keep my hand from visibly shaking.

Her Jackie Onassis-style shades were black and opaque. I couldn't be sure she was looking at me, but her face was turned my way, and her lips were pursed thoughtfully. A strange silence elapsed—not quite awkward, not quite meaningful, either. Finally, the girl shifted in her chair, crossing her legs at the knees. When she spoke, her voice was clear and strong but undeniably feminine. "Cipriano," she said, hitting the "C" a little hard.

I stifled a flinch. "Excuse me?"

Her lips twitched in a smile. "Ci—pri—a—no," she repeated, accenting each syllable. Though she'd said it harshly, the name rolled off of her tongue, sounding indigenously Italian. Her face remained slack as she peered at me, and she lowered her chin to peer with olive green eyes over the frames of her sunglasses. Without the barest hint of an accent, she tipped her head sideways, as if to study me from a new angle, and said, "Does that name mean anything to you?"

I stared into those Jackie O's and saw my reflection, small and distorted. "No… it doesn't," I lied, and bit the inside of my cheek, praying that my poker-face stayed concrete. "Sorry. Can I get you anything," I tried again, and even though I'd meant it to sound like a question, it came out sounding just this side of a threat.

Her smile tipped a little higher at the slightest hint of menace in my voice, but I doubted I'd really goaded her. She appeared to be debating on something—likely whether or not to pursue the inquiry. I gave her a look that said I wasn't interested in soliciting conversation.

"…No, I don't think you can," the girl said, not unkindly. She took the hint and delivered it with a smile too slight to be genuine.

My mind fooled me into thinking that, after her tight-lipped smile, I'd witnessed something like disappointment in her halcyon features. I instantly wrote it off and tucked my notepad into my back pocket. Slowly, I backpedaled toward the kitchen. "Okay then. Have a nice night," I imparted, twisting on my toes. I put as much distance as I could between the girl and me, trying to retreat at a deliberate, natural pace.

I walked towards the kitchen, ready to grab my purse and my phone and dial Patch as soon as I could. I had to warn him about the mysterious girl. I couldn't just let him come inside when a shady stranger was asking around for him. I made my way back to my locker, pulled my phone out, punched in the speed dial, and sent the call. I'd just narrowly lifted the phone to my ear when I heard the chirp of his cell through the kitchen doors.

My stomach did a painful flip. Patch was already inside.

I ran back to the register in time to see Patch looking for me, my book bag slung over his shoulder. He was in the same dark jeans and tee-shirt, looking casual and sexy standing with his weight on one hip. "Hey," he said when he saw me. Patch reached up with one hand, gripped his trademark baseball cap by the bill, and adjusted it to sit low over his eyes. "You ready to go?"

He smiled rakishly.

If I'd been calm enough, I might have lost myself in that sexy, lopsided grin, windblown hair, and minty fragrance.

I was nowhere near calm enough. Instead, my heart hammered mercilessly in my ribcage, threatening to explode in my chest. My face went slack with dismay, but when I turned to point out the hooded girl…

Patch looked at me with worry in his cold, black eyes, tilting his head to one side. "You okay, Angel?" he asked, taking in my slack jaw and floored expression. She was gone.

Patch brushed up against me, his hand on my arm stroking gently to give comfort.

I couldn't believe that this was happening again. If I chalked the girl's disappearance up to hallucinations, or perhaps a Nephil playing on my mind again, I thought I had something to be afraid of. My brain flipped through memories like a photo album, showing me unsolicited images of the man in the ski mask pouncing on Vee's car, the girl in the hooded sweater breaking Vee's arm by the cemetery, the masked stranger jumping out of my bedroom window, leaving behind confusion and destruction. But I'd never spoken to any of them—not like I had to the girl in the sunglasses.

Slowly, the tension eased from my body, the rush of adrenaline warranting the return of a violent, stabbing headache. "Just fine," I managed, but I was frowning with my bottom lip between my teeth. "I think someone is out to get me—well, no, out to get you."

Patch looked at me askance, an infuriatingly sexy smirk slowly replacing his look of worry. I got mad at myself for feeling butterflies when I should have felt a mix of fear and annoyance. "Nora, there's a whole legion of avenging angels out to get me. This isn't exactly news."

"I know that, Patch, but—!" Before I could say more, Patch raised a finger to his lips, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at me. His black eyes sliced into mine, not out of anger, but challenging me to say more. I sucked in a breath and glanced around the bistro, understanding his concerns. A few people still lingered to have drinks as the day wound down and the night swept in, and it went without saying that Patch's world operated a lot more smoothly when humans were ignorant of it—his words, not mine.

I rolled my eyes, showing Patch my acceptance, however reluctant it was. It wasn't yet ten o' clock, but one of my coworkers had been waiting silently behind the register, watching Patch a little covetously as he'd listened to me babble about the hooded girl. Interestingly generously, she offered to close without me and giggled nervously when Patch winked and thanked her for her kindness. I slid my phone into my pocket and rolled my eyes at the way she fell apart under Patch's hot gaze. I didn't even pause to admit to myself that he had the same effect on me.

He laid a hand on my shoulder and walked me out of the bistro before I could change my mind about leaving with him. I wouldn't be coming back to Coldwater for a while. That much I knew.


Patch and I were barely out of the restaurant when I started having second thoughts. He wore my backpack over one shoulder. Knowing that my clothes and personal possessions were in that tiny little bag made me sick to my stomach. "Is that really going to be enough?" I asked, wringing my hands and hoping that he would say no, it isn't, so he could take me home and I could sleep in my bed for just one more night.

My new life, however temporary, was in that little bag. It felt…inadequate.

He nodded, fingers grasping the handle of the rear curbside door. I felt my spirits sink a little and accepted defeat. I was about to put my purse in the passenger seat when I noticed that Patch hadn't moved. There were no words exchanged, but I saw his moment of hesitation before I knew that something was very wrong. Fear choked my throat closed as I relived something terrible. I stepped away from the car and looked wildly around the street for any indication that a Nephil might be manipulating my thoughts.

"Nora," Patch intoned. He said my name like a threat. My eyes flicked to Patch, and I noticed the muscles of his back rippling beneath his thin tee-shirt. "Go back inside."

It seemed like my head was the only responsive part of me, bobbing in a nod even though my legs refused to move. Fear and an unwillingness to abandon Patch kept me rooted to the spot, and just being there made me feel stupid and perversely noble. By that same token, I wasn't exactly useful to Patch just standing there like a lamppost, so I willed movement into my legs, all in vain.

Patch stood between the Jeep and my body, a black silhouette against the bright amber glare of an overhead streetlamp. Patch looked every bit like the angel I knew him to be with a sunburst of light casting a halo around his form, but in the pitch black of night, he looked fallen, veiled in the blackness of sin and desire.

Beneath his fingers, the door swung open. Patch reared back a step, firmly planting a boot against the sidewalk. His stance was unsettlingly predatory. His hands made fists at his sides. I sensed a heightened level of danger, but of what nature, I wasn't sure.

"Questo non è come me la immaginavo ci saremmo incontrati di nuovo, Cipriano."

I went cold down to my toes, thinking there was something eerily familiar about the voice of the unveiled speaker. Italian, I thought, unable to hide my frustration when none of the bells rung in my head. It threw me into a reeling state of confusion. One, I didn't speak Italian, and two, neither did Patch, as far as I knew.

Converse high-tops and the tattered hems of baggy jeans appeared beneath the half-open door.

Patch took two placating steps backward, his posture significantly more relaxed. How he remained so calm was beyond me, but he straightened, for the most part unruffled, and sucked a deep breath in through his mouth.

"Patch?" I whispered, my voice wavering with uncertainty.

If this was friend or foe, he wasn't going to tell me. The mystery left me in a suspended state of shock.

Resigned to something, he murmured, "Quali sono le circostanze?"

My jaw went slack. Fluency in Italian was not one of the many talents I knew Patch to be capable of, yet her I was, listening to him converse in Italian. As if sensing my disbelief and awe, a laugh like black silk permeated the night, fluttering in the wind. I felt it to my core, as well as on the surface, like ice on my flesh. A phantom presence invaded my mind, and I couldn't deny that for the shortest of moments, it felt good. What are the circumstances? the voice whispered in a woman's musical lilt. The cadence, both familiar and alien, was hard to put my finger on.

"La circostanze potrebbe essere peggiore," the disembodied voice said aloud, sounding matter-of-fact. Whoever she was, the speaker was confident—maybe even a little smug."Ho una buona notizia e una cattiva notizia. Che cosa vuoi sapere prima, Jev?"

I sucked in a sharp breath as the voice stabbed at my brain again, translating. The circumstances could be worse. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first, Jev?

No….

I was sure I understood the situation. Given this, my mind still reeled against the abruptness of it all. I felt violated—invaded—by the thoughts I was sure the ambusher was projecting onto me. I swallowed hard and pushed the impingement aside long enough to focus on my own concerns, of which I had several. The first was that Patch seemed unperturbed in the face of this unexpected threat. The second was that—threat notwithstanding—a mugger, ruffian, ambusher, or something of that nature had been waiting for us in the back of Patch's car. He'd ousted her. All that remained was to see who would attack first—Patch or the woman?

Next, I decided that the would-be ambusher was an angel—maybe even a fallen angel, which might have explained why Patch hadn't already thrown me in the car and driven away. My last concern was that she'd used Patch's real name. Even I hadn't learned Patch's real name until recently. She must have been very old to know him by "Jev," seeing as Rixon was the first to call him "Patch," and they'd been together perhaps as early as the 1500s.

In the short moment it took me to register all of these things, the teenager from the bistro—black hoodie, brown tresses, overly-large sunglasses and all—stepped out from the cover of the car door. She wore no hood, revealing side-parted glossy locks that hung in pin-straight layers around her face. Her longest layer ended just beneath the modest curve of her breasts. Razored bangs fell side-swept over one side of her face. The girl wore a tight-lipped, arrogant little smirk, one corner of her mouth tugged up in a self-satisfied way. It did something interesting to her lips and promised things that I didn't feel comfortable being promised.

Patch regarded her mildly as she gently shut the door. "Chi ti ha mandato, Mikhail? Gli arcangeli?" he said, and from the inflection, I thought he was asking a question. I looked to the girl without meaning to, expecting her—daring her—to speak to my thoughts again and tell me what he'd said.

Like clockwork, her voice sang out to my conscience. Who sent you, Mikhail? The archangels? However, this thought, unlike all the others, was dripping with rancor and venom. The malice sent chills up and down my spine, the bitter emotion showing physically on the girl's—Mikhail's—face.

"Please," Mikhail scoffed, leaning back against the Commander. She slowly removed her sunglasses, revealing seductive eyes, thick black lashes, and raised brows. She was either amused or skeptical—I didn't know her well enough to be sure. Those calculating olive orbs drifted lazily towards me, and I stifled a rippling shudder as she estimated me for the second time that evening. God, she knew I'd lied about Patch. I considered that maybe she'd known all along. "When's the last time I was on speaking terms with the archangels?" she finished in clear, unaccented English.

Even under the circumstances, I couldn't help but marvel at the abrupt transition—at how American Mikhail sounded, as if Italian were only a class she'd taken in high school rather than a native tongue. The pithy brunette didn't even look Italian. She had an all-American veneer, from the edgy hairstyle down to her trendy, modish Chuck Taylors. Taking in her tan skin and windswept hair, she looked like she might have just migrated northeast from New Hampshire, disheveled by the east coast surf. Mikhail looked like she might have even been a high school student, probably old enough to buy her own cigarettes but not quite old enough to buy herself a beer.

I mulled it over in my head until I realized that she and Patch were easily the same—Patch looked the part of the typical all-American teenaged lady killer, his dark clothes, great body, killer smile, and wavy midnight hair painting a picture that promised heartbreak for any girl who dared to play too recklessly. He spoke perfect, unaccented English. And he was apparently fluent in Italian.

"You used to have more trust in people," Mikhail said. "What happened?"

I raised my eyebrows at the thought of Patch putting blind faith in anyone.

"The Book of Enoch happened," Patch retorted, his face set in a scowl. He looked annoyed, but not quite angry.

Hurt registered on Mikhail's face, followed by a split second of realization. She made a sound of understanding, her lips forming a smirk and her eyes flashing dangerously as an insight dawned on her. "Not the Book of Enoch. Rixon happened, didn't he?" She relented long enough to snicker before mirroring Patch's stance, crossing her arms over her middle. "Did the Mickey finally pull the wool over your eyes?" she goaded, affecting Rixon's Irish brogue. In her own voice, she said, "The others said as much."

"That's not your business," Patch muttered, unable to hide angry undertones as he uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.

Mikhail's smirk was gone, her expression exhibiting the barest shade of sympathy. "I'm sorry about Rixon. He was just a different brand of fallen." Mikhail pushed hair from her face, looking more tired than before. "My point, Patch, is that I'm not Rixon. I've been looking for you…but I wasn't sent by anyone. I was warned, and it concerns you. I just want to help, Patch, I swear. My being here is my decision, not the archangels'. I need your trust."

Patch lingered on uncertainty, his shoulders squared with a stern defensiveness. "Why? Why do you need my trust?"

"Because I'm as good as condemned without you," Mikhail admitted. Well, at least she wasn't falsely modest. "I'm here just as much for myself as I am for you. Call me self-serving, but when the time comes, I'm not trying to buy myself a first-class ticket to hell. I have ambitions. I have goals for this life."

I could tell just by looking at Patch that he was grappling with a decision, gauging Mikhail to see if she could be trusted. I bowed my head, brushing my fingers along the cool silver of Patch's chain about my neck. Just the mystery of Mikhail scared the hell out of me, but something about her felt right, even if I couldn't quite place it.

Patch grunted noncommittally, expressing neither agreement nor disagreement. He flipped midnight hair from his hard eyes and narrowed them at her. "I wasn't born yesterday, Mikhail. What are they promising you?—your wings?—guardianship?"

Annoyance registered on the brunette's face. Her mouth held a neutral line, but I detected a frown trapped behind it. Realizing that winning Patch's trust wasn't going to be easy quickly soured her patience and it showed. "Not at all," Mikhail said, tone flat. "I haven't had direct contact with the archangels in years. It was a Hashmal who brought me the warning, and there was no such promise attached."

Patch's jaw jumped, his body suddenly ramrod straight. "One of the Hashmallim spoke to you. Really." He gave Mikhail a pointed look, no real question in his voice. He sounded doubtful, in fact—sarcastic—as if he put absolutely no store by Mikhail's claim.

I glanced between the two, feeling out of the loop. Who or what were the Hashmallim, and why was Patch so unconvinced? I could tell he was expecting Mikhail to defend her claim, and if not that, gratuitously come forth with the truth.

Mikhail's olive eyes glinted with something like amusement, but it was quickly overshadowed by displeasure at Patch's cynicism. "Don't sound so dubious. If the matter is pressing enough, even a Hashmal will personally deliver a message—to a fallen, human, Nephil, or otherwise." She buffed her fingernails on the shoulder of her pullover, pursing her lips as she examined them for imaginary, microscopic flecks of dust.

Mikhail was giving Patch time to absorb her words. So it wasn't typical of Hashmallim to be bringing messages to Nephilim or fallen angels. What was so critical that Mikhail was the exception? "That's why I'm here now. God knows there's no getting through to you, Patch—not given your delicate…situation."

"So what's so important?" Patch demanded, echoing my thoughts. He looked too casual for what the circumstances warranted, just standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking nonchalant.

"That's the fork in the road," Mikhail said, given her turn to sound annoyed. "Heaven has been trying to get your attention, Patch, but they know you're not listening. I'm trying to help you."

Patch snorted, nearly rolling his eyes as he scuffed a black steel-toed boot against the sidewalk. "Heaven's right. I'm not listening," he confirmed, and I saw the patience literally vanish from Mikhail.

"God forbid we discuss the archangels," she spat, openly mocking Patch. She didn't stick around to hear a rebuttal if there was one, pushing off of the Commander to leave us alone beneath a streetlamp.

Patch glared after her. I could tell he was resisting the great urge to spit. His fingers closed on my upper arm, and he jerked his head at the car. "Get in the Jeep," he muttered, urging me with gentle force as he yanked open my door. I licked my lips, fingers still gliding along the smooth silver of Patch's necklace.

"No," I said, digging my heels into the ground and anchoring myself to the sidewalk.

Patch jerked. Black eyes slicing into mine, he leveled a firm stare at me. "Nora," he repeated, his words measured. Each utterance carried a note of underlying warning. "Don't even think about it," he continued. "Get in the car." His tone was enough to make me hesitate, but before he could change my mind, I shrugged his hand off and hit the sidewalk at a brisk walk.

Patch swore gently, and my heart squeezed out an extra beat. I quickened my pace to a light jog, knowing that if Patch decided to give chase, I couldn't outrun him. "Mikhail!" I shouted, my eyes on the fallen angel's silhouette in the distance.

I wasn't quite sure how she'd gotten so far in the course of a few seconds, but I was grateful that she waited for me, her hands in her pockets, her olive eyes downcast. As I came within hailing distance, I saw that she was trembling.

I panted and cursed myself for being so out of shape. I was winded after such a short jog, but, short as it felt, when I looked back, Patch was a million miles away. "Patch's fate is hanging in the balance of whatever the archangels are planning." I bent over my knees and sucked in a shuddering breath, stray curls falling over my face. "If there's any news at all—even bad news—at least tell me. Please."

I half expected her to laugh and leave me standing there like an idiot, but she turned to me with a raised brow, lips tugged up on one side. Mikhail was considering me carefully, eyes flicking between my tired face and Patch, a black spot in the distance. "Is Patch okay with this?"

I looked over my shoulder at his shape against the darkness. "No. But that's never stopped me before."

I turned back to see Mikhail with her hands stacked on her stomach. Her real laughter shocked me. After several seconds, Mikhail sucked in a breath, cheeks flush. "You're not bad," she said, and I refrained from telling her how I didn't like the patronizing sound of that. "So, do you want the good news or the bad news first, Grey?"

Letting go of a sigh, I felt the first remnants of hope stir within me. "Good news first," I said, almost too quickly. I hid my hands behind my back so she wouldn't see my fingers crossed.

Despite the fact that Mikhail seemed to approve of my choice, she looked suddenly more morose. "The archangels have postponed Patch's trial," she intoned. "He's got a little over a month before they resume trying to convict him."

"Wait—what?" My face went slack as I struggled to comprehend the news. My heart picked its pace up in my chest. "How? Why?"

"Are you ready for the bad news?" Mikhail continued, but she didn't pause long enough for me to respond. "The trial has been postponed because the archangels will have their hands full for the next couple of weeks. You've heard about the Nephilim blood society, right?" She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, feeling the night's breeze on her face. "They want to free Nephilim from bondage to fallen angels during the Hebrew month of Cheshvan. There's a nasty turf war going on between its members and the fallen—"

"And the fallen angels will turn to human vassals if the society becomes too powerful," I finished, impatient. "Tell me something I don't know."

Mikhail didn't seem impressed by my knowledge of the archaic politics of her world. She dropped her chin to look me over, more than obviously amused by my mettle. "I've heard things about you, Nora." And it didn't surprise methat the fallen angel knew my name, either. She'd already called me Grey. "There are less than five months until Cheshvan, and the balance of power between Nephilim and fallen angels has shifted…to favor the Nephilim."

I nodded slowly, and by the look on her face, I clearly didn't register the threat the same way she did. She cocked her head and scowled. "That's a very bad thing. To my understanding, it's all the incentive fallen angels need to finally lead their invasion. Tens of thousands of human lives could be lost—will be lost—and the archangels won't interfere where Nephilim are concerned, even for something like this. Nephilim are vile, decadent creatures, anyway." She turned her head and spat, dragging her sleeve over her mouth. "I can't say I blame the archangels."

My face warmed at Mikhail's brand of bigotry, which I'd seen so many times from Patch. I wondered if all angels were so radical in their hatred of Nephilim or if it was just the fallen. On second thought, if the archangels were willing to step aside and let tens of thousands of humans die for their want of immaculacy, I had a hunch that it was a mutual, uniform hatred. "The archangels want to eliminate the Nephilim, and this is their opportunity, right?"

Mikhail nodded. "Right—a trap," she confirmed. "But—the archangels are only archangels. To sit back and watch a tragedy of biblical proportions unfold, especially at the risk of the lives of countless innocents, would be less than…heavenly behavior. Heaven may no longer be responsible for the Nephilim, but it's still responsible for angels—even the rejects."

I furrowed my brow when she discontinued her explanation, my thirst for knowledge driving me to press Mikhail for more. "I don't understand. What does this mean for humans?"

Mikhail shifted her gaze to stare intently over my shoulder. I felt Patch at my back, dark and silent like a shadow.

"It means, theoretically, they're lucky as hell," Mikhail muttered. I had to wonder what she meant by "theoretically."

Mikhail kept her eyes on me, for the time being disregarding Patch. "There's schism within the hierarchy where Nephilim are concerned. The archangels believe the eradication of the Nephilim race will justify thousands of humans perishing, but the only order lower than the archangels is the angels," she explained, painting an idea in my head of just how big the picture really was. I'd thought all this time that I knew all I needed to know about Patch and his mystical world. I realized now that the archangels were merely the tip of an iceberg that I was only beginning to comprehend. "It's the Hashmallim's responsibility to regulate the duties of the lower angels," Mikhail said. "And the archangels have been overruled."

Unable to stop myself, I shouted with joy. "Overruled!" My face lit up with a renewed hope that was short-lived. Mikhail shook her head at me, lips pressed tight, and I felt the smile instantly leave my face.

"I said the humans are lucky in theory. It's one thing to say that the archangels will involve themselves with the invasion; it's another thing to say that they'll give their best effort to stop it. There's going to be an invasion no matter what. If the Nephilim begin to overpower us, the fallen angels will turn to human vassals, and people are still going to die. Including Nephilim."

"But why?" I interjected. "You said the archangels were overruled—they have to involve themselves and stop the invasion. Can they really just…fail on purpose?"

Patch made a bitter sound, raised his ball cap, and dragged a hand through his hair. "The archangels are involving themselves because they're being commanded to," he said, speaking for the first time since he'd joined us in the middle of the street. "They want nothing to do with the Nephilim, except to eradicate them, which I'm sure they still intend to do. It's just that not every order in the hierarchy thinks it's worth the risk of so many humans dying needlessly—or being otherwise possessed."

"That's so…unethical," I said, brow furrowing.

Mikhail said, "The outcome is unclear, Nora. I can't say for sure that I know how the archangels will act. If anything, the number of casualties will be smaller, but nonexistent? I just don't think it's possible." She gave me an apologetic look. "If it's any consolation, the virtues are involved—and the Hashmallim." She gave Patch a pointed look, as if to ask him if he still had his doubts about her earlier claims. "And the second sphere is considerably less close-minded about the Nephilim. Its involvement alone will make a difference in the outcome." She made a motion with her hands that said, there you have it.

A sideways glance at Patch reminded me that he truly was a product of this mystical world. All of the hierarchal jargon and terminology was giving me a killer headache, but heaven was Patch's beginning, and it would also be his end. "Okay…," I said, feeling a train of logic fire up inside my brain. If there was a second sphere, there had to be a first, right? "So you're saying that the second sphere's involvement aloneis affecting the number of human casualties—making them fewer, right?" Mikhail looked at me askance, slowly nodding her confirmation. "So…what happens if the first sphere becomes involved—?"

Patch jerked beside me, and Mikhail's eyes suddenly stretched.

I found myself quivering inside, responding to their collective horror.

"No, that's a bad idea," Patch said, giving a firm shake of his head.

I quashed the feeling of sinking dread within me in favor of pressing on. "Why is that a bad idea?" I demanded. "Tell me the casualties before you tell me it's a bad idea."

"It's not that simple," Mikhail insisted. "Angels of the first sphere just don't show themselves to humans. The Hashmal warned me that things will end badly for any race if the first sphere has to get involved."

"'End badly,' how?" I pressed, growing impatient. That Patch and Mikhail were withholding information was really starting to tick me off.

"'End badly' as in potentially apocalyptic 'end badly'."

"…you don't mean that," I hedged, but I felt Patch's silver necklace heavy around my neck.

"Think about it," Mikhail said. I did, and it made sense.

"If the first sphere completely wipes out the Nephilim race," Mikhail said, spreading her hands like a book, "fallen angels will have no vassals left to possess. They'll turn to humans as their last and only resort. More humans would die this way than any other way, Nora. The causality would transcend time."

I wiped a hand down my face, understanding. "So then what?" I asked. My voice sounded small to my own ears.

"The only way to keep balance in the world is to keep the Nephilim blood society in check," Mikhail offered. "Not looking good for us, presently. Even if the fallen angels were to initiate a preemptive strike on the Nephilim, it would mean the death of many innocents. The Nephilim are too much an integral part of the world of humans to be cleanly separated. There will be carnage."

"So it's a war that can't be won."

"Not likely," Patch answered. He dropped his gaze for the smallest fraction of a second.

"So that's it?" I asked in a low voice. "You're just going to accept it so easily?" Patch looked at me, his black eyes somehow even blacker. I held his gaze, having to swallow hard not to cower at the intensity of his stare.

"What would you have me do, Nora?"

Admittedly, I hadn't been counting on him to ask for my opinion. "I…I don't know. Just somethingmore than nothing," I whispered, feeling my last remnants of hope slip away.

Patch's eyes were alight with a fiery determination. "This war is bigger than me, Nora," he said. "There's no exemption—no immunity—not even for you. There will be murder and possession long before the war even begins. My only job is to protect you, archangels and imminent doom notwithstanding."

Knowing that Patch was worried about me—wanted to shield me from the harsh reality of his world—made me warm inside. But what he didn't realize was that I didn't want to be a priority over the fate of the rest of the world. Nothing made my life that much more important than the lives of seven billion others.

Beside me, Mikhail sighed, brushing hair from her face. "Patch is right, Nora," she said, her voice a soft whisper. "If there's more that we can do…we will. The solution just hasn't presented itself yet."

I glanced at Patch at Mikhail's words, half imagining that he was muttering a sarcastic "speak for yourself" to his own thoughts. It was the vibe he gave off as Mikhail settled into a stance that suggested she had nothing more to say. "Thank you, Mikhail," I said slowly, accepting that. "Patch, take me home."

I left him standing there.

In reality, I didn't want Patch to see me cry. Hot tears sprung to my eyes the moment I accepted Mikhail's consolation. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing anyone could do—or at least nothing anyone capable of making a difference was actually willing to do. I felt as if I'd accepted defeat—as if I'd simply agreed to the decadence of life as I knew it.

"Wait, Nora!"

I stopped. I looked back over my shoulder. Mikhail stood alone in the light of a streetlamp, her hand extended to me. My eyes moved down her arm to her slender piano fingers and her too-long sweater sleeves. I calmly inserted my hand into hers, feeling her warm, firm grip as we shook. She smiled, nodding her approval. "You're welcome," the fallen angel said.

At Patch's impatient grunt, I withdrew.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and gave Patch a nod. We walked back to the Commander, and the scrap of paper Mikhail had slipped me felt like a shard of glass in the palm of my hand.


"I thought we were leaving Coldwater," Patch muttered as he bounced the Jeep into my driveway. He looked solemn and ice-cold in the moonlight. Patch had been silent the entire drive home, and it came as no surprise to me that when he finally spoke, his tone was harsh and bitter.

"We were, but that was when I thought you only had a week left on Earth," I countered, and though I hadn't meant to hurt him, a muscle jumped in his jaw. He was upset.

"Nora," he warned. "I'm not the enemy here."

"No," I agreed, blinking several times when I realized that my eyes had gone bleary. I pinched myself to keep from yawning, watching as Patch killed the engine and switched off the headlights. "Maybe not, but you've got something to lose, Patch. I wish you'd stop pretending that this war has nothing to do with you."

I shoved the door open and climbed out of the Jeep, the wind cold on my face as I crossed the yard. I stifled another yawn, quickening my pace when I heard the driver's side door shut. Grass rustled behind me. I didn't get far before Patch caught up, his hand heavy on my shoulder as I ascended the porch steps. "Nora, I don't want to hurt you."

"You're only hurting me if you try to run away from this."

I unlocked the door and stepped into the blackness of my house, his hand falling free of my shoulder. "Nora, don't leave like this." I stepped further into the house, waiting for him to say more. When he didn't, I turned to see him lingering in the doorway, slumped against the frame.

"You can come in," I said, with neither apathy nor enthusiasm.

He made a sound that was almost a sigh as he stepped into the house. The door snicked shut, immersing us in a perfect darkness that I blindly felt my way through. I made it only a couple of steps before Patch's arms encircled me, grabbed me under the knees, and cradled me to his chest. I tucked my head under his chin and let him carry me to my room.

He moved up the stairs and down the hall with liquid grace. I felt like I was floating. Patch found my room at the end of the hall and slipped in without a sound. I was barely awake when he laid me down on my bed, stripped me out of my work clothes, and put me into pajamas. He pulled a light coverlet over my body.

"Nora, your mom will be home tomorrow," he murmured. I felt his hand in my hair, stroking my curls.

"I know," I murmured back, snuggling into the soft down of my pillow. It smelled like Patch, not surprisingly.

"I can't stay with you tonight."

"I know." His hand in my hair went still.

"I love you."

"I know… I love you, too."

Patch pushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me right above my eyebrows, his breath tickling my lashes. "Good night, Angel," was his quiet goodbye. The mattress shifted as his weight rose off the bed.

I lay in silence, counting each moment until I heard the gentle purr of an engine outside the farmhouse. Patch got into the Jeep and drove away.

My last thoughts before I fell asleep were of my handshake with Mikhail. I thought briefly of the scrap of paper the brunette had inconspicuously pressed into my palm, and the way Patch hadn't seemed to notice as I slipped it into my pocket.

Mikhail's message had been entirely clear, and I thought with conviction that Enzo's wasn't the last I'd be seeing of the fallen angel Mikhail. I exhaled slowly and allowed sleep to claim me, feeling suddenly lighter for the knowledge that Patch and I might no longer be alone in this battle where the odds were so disparate.

For the umpteenth time in my life, I owed my thanks to a fallen angel.


And there you have Mint Soap, chapter 2! Thanks for reading.