Hush, Hush Chapter 1

For Heather, Christian, and Michael.
Our childhood was nothing if not imaginative.
And to Justin. Thanks for not choosing
the Japanese cooking class—love you.
… GOD SPARED NOT THE ANGELS THAT SINNED,
BUT CAST THEM DOWN TO HELL,
AND DELIVERED THEM INTO CHAINS OF DARKNESS,
TO BE RESERVED UNTO JUDGMENT …
—2 PETER 2:4
PROLOGUE
LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE NOVEMBER 1565
CHAUNCEY WAS WITH A FARMER’S DAUGHTER ON the grassy banks of the Loire River when
the storm rolled in, and having let his gelding wander in the meadow, was left to his own two feet to
carry him back to the château. He tore a silver buckle off his shoe, placed it in the girl’s palm, and
watched her scurry away, mud slinging on her skirts. Then he tugged on his boots and started for home.
Rain sheeted down on the darkening countryside surrounding the Château de Langeais. Chauncey
stepped easily over the sunken graves and humus of the cemetery; even in the thickest fog he could find
his way home from here and not fear getting lost. There was no fog tonight, but the darkness and
onslaught of rain were deceiving enough.
There was movement along the fringe of Chauncey’s vision, and he snapped his head to the left. At first
glance what appeared to be a large angel topping a nearby monument rose to full height. Neither stone
nor marble, the boy had arms and legs. His torso was naked, his feet were bare, and peasant trousers
hung low on his waist. He hopped down from the monument, the ends of his black hair dripping rain. It
slid down his face, which was dark as a Spaniard’s.
Chauncey’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword. “Who goes there?”
The boy’s mouth hinted at a smile.
“Do not play games with the Duc de Langeais,” Chauncey warned. “I asked for your name. Give it.”
“Duc?” The boy leaned against a twisted willow tree. “Or bastard?”
Chauncey unsheathed his sword. “Take it back! My father was the Duc de Langeais. I’m the Duc de
Langeais now,” he added clumsily, and cursed himself for it.
The boy gave a lazy shake of his head. “Your father wasn’t the old duc.”
Chauncey seethed at the outrageous insult. “And your father?” he demanded, extending the sword. He
didn’t yet know all his vassals, but he was learning. He would brand the family name of this boy to
memory. “I’ll ask once more,” he said in a low voice, wiping a hand down his face to clear away the
rain. “Who are you?”
The boy walked up and pushed the blade aside. He suddenly looked older than Chauncey had
presumed, maybe even a year or two older than Chauncey. “One of the Devil’s brood,” he answered.
Chauncey felt a clench of fear in his stomach. “You’re a raving lunatic,” he said through his teeth. “Get
out of my way.”
The ground beneath Chauncey tilted. Bursts of gold and red popped behind his eyes. Hunched with his
fingernails grinding into his thighs, he looked up at the boy, blinking and gasping, trying to make sense
of what was happening. His mind reeled like it was no longer his to command.
The boy crouched to level their eyes. “Listen carefully. I need something from you. I won’t leave until I
have it. Do you understand?”
Gritting his teeth, Chauncey shook his head to express his disbelief—his defiance. He tried to spit at
the boy, but it trickled down his chin, his tongue refusing to obey him.
The boy clasped his hands around Chauncey’s; their heat scorched him and he cried out.
“I need your oath of fealty,” the boy said. “Bend on one knee and swear it.”
Chauncey commanded his throat to laugh harshly, but his throat constricted and he choked on the
sound. His right knee buckled as if kicked from behind, though no one was there, and he stumbled
forward into the mud. He bent sideways and retched.
“Swear it,” the boy repeated.
Heat flushed Chauncey’s neck; it took all his energy to curl his hands into two weak fists. He laughed at
himself, but there was no humor. He had no idea how, but the boy was inflicting the nausea and
weakness inside him. It would not lift until he took the oath. He would say what he had to, but he swore
in his heart he would destroy the boy for this humiliation.
“Lord, I become your man,” Chauncey said venomously.
The boy raised Chauncey to his feet. “Meet me here at the start of the Hebrew month of Cheshvan.
During the two weeks between new and full moons, I’ll need your service.”
“A … fortnight?” Chauncey’s whole frame trembled under the weight of his rage. “I am the Duc de
Langeais!”
“You are a Nephil,” the boy said on a sliver of a smile.
Chauncey had a profane retort on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. His next words were spoken
with icy venom. “What did you say?”
“You belong to the biblical race of Nephilim. Your real father was an angel who fell from heaven.
You’re half mortal.” The boy’s dark eyes lifted, meeting Chauncey’s. “Half fallen angel.”
Chauncey’s tutor’s voice drifted up from the recesses of his mind, reading passages from the Bible,
telling of a deviant race created when angels cast from heaven mated with mortal women. A fearsome
and powerful race. A chill that wasn’t entirely revulsion crept through Chauncey. “Who are you?”
The boy turned, walking away, and although Chauncey wanted to go after him, he couldn’t command
his legs to hold his weight. Kneeling there, blinking up through the rain, he saw two thick scars on the
back of the boy’s naked torso. They narrowed to form an upsidedown
V.
“Are you—fallen?” he called out. “Your wings have been stripped, haven’t they?”
The boy—angel—whoever he was did not turn back. Chauncey did not need the confirmation.
“This service I’m to provide,” he shouted. “I demand to know what it is!”
The air resonated with the boy’s low laughter.
CHAPTER 1
COLDWATER, MAINE PRESENT DAY
I WALKED INTO BIOLOGY AND MY JAW FELL OPEN. Mysteriously adhered to the chalkboard
was a Barbie doll, with Ken at her side. They’d been forced to link arms and were naked except for
artificial leaves placed in a few choice locations. Scribbled above their heads in thick pink chalk was
the invitation:
WELCOME TO HUMAN REPRODUCTION (SEX)
At my side Vee Sky said, “This is exactly why the school outlaws camera phones. Pictures of this in the
eZine would be all the evidence I’d need to get the board of education to ax biology. And then we’d
have this hour to do something productive—like receive oneonone
tutoring from cute upperclass
guys.”
“Why, Vee,” I said, “I could’ve sworn you’ve been looking forward to this unit all semester.”
Vee lowered her lashes and smiled wickedly. “This class isn’t going to teach me anything I don’t
already know.”
“Vee? As in virgin?”
“Not so loud.” She winked just as the bell rang, sending us both to our seats, which were side by side at
our shared table.
Coach McConaughy grabbed the whistle swinging from a chain around his neck and blew it. “Seats,
team!” Coach considered teaching tenthgrade
biology a side assignment to his job as varsity basketball
coach, and we all knew it.
“It may not have occurred to you kids that sex is more than a fifteenminute
trip to the backseat of a car.
It’s science. And what is science?”
“Boring,” some kid in the back of the room called out.
“The only class I’m failing,” said another.
Coach’s eyes tracked down the front row, stopping at me. “Nora?”
“The study of something,” I said.
He walked over and jabbed his index finger on the table in front of me. “What else?”
“Knowledge gained through experimentation and observation.” Lovely. I sounded like I was auditioning
for the audiobook of our text.
“In your own words.”
I touched the tip of my tongue to my upper lip and tried for a synonym. “Science is an investigation.” It
sounded like a question.
“Science is an investigation,” Coach said, sanding his hands together. “Science requires us to transform
into spies.”
Put that way, science almost sounded fun. But I’d been in Coach’s class long enough not to get my
hopes up.
“Good sleuthing takes practice,” he continued.
“So does sex,” came another backoftheroom
comment. We all bit back laughter while Coach pointed
a warning finger at the offender.
“That won’t be part of tonight’s homework.” Coach turned his attention back to me. “Nora, you’ve been
sitting beside Vee since the beginning of the year.” I nodded but had a bad feeling about where this was
going. “Both of you are on the school eZine together.” Again I nodded. “I bet you know quite a bit
about each other.”
Vee kicked my leg under our table. I knew what she was thinking. That he had no idea how much we
knew about each other. And I don’t just mean the secrets we entomb in our diaries. Vee is my untwin.
She’s greeneyed,
minky blond, and a few pounds over curvy. I’m a smokyeyed
brunette with volumes
of curly hair that holds its own against even the best flatiron. And I’m all legs, like a bar stool. But there
is an invisible thread that ties us together; both of us swear that tie began long before birth. Both of us
swear it will continue to hold for the rest of our lives.
Coach looked out at the class. “In fact, I’ll bet each of you knows the person sitting beside you well
enough. You picked the seats you did for a reason, right? Familiarity. Too bad the best sleuths avoid
familiarity. It dulls the investigative instinct. Which is why, today, we’re creating a new seating chart.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Vee beat me to it. “What the crap? It’s April. As in, it’s almost the
end of the year. You can’t pull this kind of stuff now.”
Coach hinted at a smile. “I can pull this stuff clear up to the last day of the semester. And if you fail my
class, you’ll be right back here next year, where I’ll be pulling this kind of stuff all over again.”
Vee scowled at him. She is famous for that scowl. It’s a look that does everything but audibly hiss.
Apparently immune to it, Coach brought his whistle to his lips, and we got the idea.
“Every partner sitting on the lefthand
side of the table—that’s your left—move up one seat. Those in
the front row—yes, including you, Vee—move to the back.”
Vee shoved her notebook inside her backpack and ripped the zipper shut. I bit my lip and waved a small
farewell. Then I turned slightly, checking out the room behind me. I knew the names of all my
classmates … except one. The transfer. Coach never called on him, and he seemed to prefer it that way.
He sat slouched one table back, cool black eyes holding a steady gaze forward. Just like always. I didn’t
for one moment believe he just sat there, day after day, staring into space. He was thinking something,
but instinct told me I probably didn’t want to know what.
He set his bio text down on the table and slid into Vee’s old chair.
I smiled. “Hi. I’m Nora.”
His black eyes sliced into me, and the corners of his mouth tilted up. My heart fumbled a beat and in
that pause, a feeling of gloomy darkness seemed to slide like a shadow over me. It vanished in an
instant, but I was still staring at him. His smile wasn’t friendly. It was a smile that spelled trouble. With
a promise.
I focused on the chalkboard. Barbie and Ken stared back with strangely cheerful smiles.
Coach said, “Human reproduction can be a sticky subject—”
“Ewww!” groaned a chorus of students.
“It requires mature handling. And like all science, the best approach is to learn by sleuthing. For the rest
of class, practice this technique by finding out as much as you can about your new partner. Tomorrow,
bring a writeup
of your discoveries, and believe me, I’m going to check for authenticity. This is
biology, not English, so don’t even think about fictionalizing your answers. I want to see real interaction
and teamwork.” There was an implied Or else.
I sat perfectly still. The ball was in his court—I’d smiled, and look how well that turned out. I wrinkled
my nose, trying to figure out what he smelled like. Not cigarettes. Something richer, fouler.
Cigars.
I found the clock on the wall and tapped my pencil in time to the second hand. I planted my elbow on
the table and propped my chin on my fist. I blew out a sigh.
Great. At this rate I would fail.
I had my eyes pinned forward, but I heard the soft glide of his pen. He was writing, and I wanted to
know what. Ten minutes of sitting together didn’t qualify him to make any assumptions about me.
Flitting a look sideways, I saw that his paper was several lines deep and growing.
“What are you writing?” I asked.
“And she speaks English,” he said while scrawling it down, each stroke of his hand both smooth and
lazy at once.
I leaned as close to him as I dared, trying to read what else he’d written, but he folded the paper in half,
concealing the list.
“What did you write?” I demanded.
He reached for my unused paper, sliding it across the table toward him. He crumpled it into a ball.
Before I could protest, he tossed it at the trash can beside Coach’s desk. The shot dropped in.
I stared at the trash can a moment, locked between disbelief and anger. Then I flipped open my
notebook to a clean page. “What is your name?” I asked, pencil poised to write.
I glanced up in time to catch another dark grin. This one seemed to dare me to pry anything out of him.
“Your name?” I repeated, hoping it was my imagination that my voice faltered.
“Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me.”
He winked when he said it, and I was pretty sure he was making fun of me.
“What do you do in your leisure time?” I asked.
“I don’t have free time.”
“I’m assuming this assignment is graded, so do me a favor?”
He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head. “What kind of favor?”
I was pretty sure it was an innuendo, and I grappled for a way to change the subject.
“Free time,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I take pictures.”
I printed Photography on my paper.
“I wasn’t finished,” he said. “I’ve got quite a collection going of an eZine columnist who believes
there’s truth in eating organic, who writes poetry in secret, and who shudders at the thought of having
to choose between Stanford, Yale, and … what’s that big one with the H?”
I stared at him a moment, shaken by how dead on he was. I didn’t get the feeling it was a lucky guess.
He knew. And I wanted to know how—right now.
“But you won’t end up going to any of them.”
“I won’t?” I asked without thinking.
He hooked his fingers under the seat of my chair, dragging me closer to him. Not sure if I should scoot
away and show fear, or do nothing and feign boredom, I chose the latter.
He said, “Even though you’d thrive at all three schools, you scorn them for being a cliché of
achievement. Passing judgment is your third biggest weakness.”
“And my second?” I said with quiet rage. Who was this guy? Was this some kind of disturbing joke?
“You don’t know how to trust. I take that back. You trust—just all the wrong people.”
“And my first?” I demanded.
“You keep life on a short leash.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re scared of what you can’t control.”
The hair at the nape of my neck stood on end, and the temperature in the room seemed to chill.
Ordinarily I would have gone straight to Coach’s desk and requested a new seating chart. But I refused
to let Patch think he could intimidate or scare me. I felt an irrational need to defend myself and decided
right then and there I wouldn’t back down until he did.
“Do you sleep naked?” he asked.
My mouth threatened to drop, but I held it in check. “You’re hardly the person I’d tell.”
“Ever been to a shrink?”
“No,” I lied. The truth was, I was in counseling with the school psychologist, Dr. Hendrickson. It wasn’t
by choice, and it wasn’t something I liked to talk about.
“Done anything illegal?”
“No.” Occasionally breaking the speed limit wouldn’t count. Not with him. “Why don’t you ask me
something normal? Like … my favorite kind of music?”
“I’m not going to ask what I can guess.”
“You do not know the type of music I listen to.”
“Baroque. With you, it’s all about order, control. I bet you play … the cello?” He said it like he’d pulled
the guess out of thin air.
“Wrong.” Another lie, but this one sent a chill rippling along my skin. Who was he really? If he knew I
played the cello, what else did he know?
“What’s that?” Patch tapped his pen against the inside of my wrist. Instinctively I pulled away.
“A birthmark.”
“Looks like a scar. Are you suicidal, Nora?” His eyes connected with mine, and I could feel him
laughing. “Parents married or divorced?”
“I live with my mom.”
“Where’s dad?”
“My dad passed away last year.”
“How did he die?”
I flinched. “He was—murdered. This is kind of personal territory, if you don’t mind.”
There was a count of silence and the edge in Patch’s eyes seemed to soften a touch. “That must be
hard.” He sounded like he meant it.
The bell rang and Patch was on his feet, making his way toward the door.
“Wait,” I called out. He didn’t turn. “Excuse me!” He was through the door. “Patch! I didn’t get
anything on you.”
He turned back and walked toward me. Taking my hand, he scribbled something on it before I thought
to pull away.
I looked down at the seven numbers in red ink on my palm and made a fist around them. I wanted to tell
him no way was his phone ringing tonight. I wanted to tell him it was his fault for taking all the time
questioning me. I wanted a lot of things, but I just stood there looking like I didn’t know how to open
my mouth.
At last I said, “I’m busy tonight.”
“So am I.” He grinned and was gone.
I stood nailed to the spot, digesting what had just happened. Did he eat up all the time questioning me
on purpose? So I’d fail? Did he think one flashy grin would redeem him? Yes, I thought. Yes, he did.
“I won’t call!” I called after him. “Not—ever!”
“Have you finished your column for tomorrow’s deadline?” It was Vee. She came up beside me, jotting
notes on the notepad she carried everywhere. “I’m thinking of writing mine on the injustice of seating
charts. I got paired with a girl who said she just finished lice treatment this morning.”
“My new partner,” I said, pointing into the hallway at the back of Patch. He had an annoyingly
confident walk, the kind you find paired with faded Tshirts
and a cowboy hat. Patch wore neither. He
was a darkLevi’sdarkhenleydarkboots
kind of guy.
“The senior transfer? Guess he didn’t study hard enough the first time around. Or the second.” She gave
me a knowing look. “Third time’s a charm.”
“He gives me the creeps. He knew my music. Without any hints whatsoever, he said, ‘Baroque.’ “ I did
a poor job of mimicking his low voice.
“Lucky guess?”
“He knew … other things.”
“Like what?”
I let go of a sigh. He knew more than I wanted to comfortably contemplate. “Like how to get under my
skin,” I said at last. “I’m going to tell Coach he has to switch us back.”
“Go for it. I could use a hook for my next eZine article. ‘Tenth Grader Fights Back.’ Better yet, ‘Seating
Chart Takes Slap in the Face.’ Mmm. I like it.”
At the end of the day, I was the one who took a slap in the face. Coach shot down my plea to rethink the
seating chart. It appeared I was stuck with Patch.
For now.