CHAPTER 2
MY MOM AND I LIVE IN A DRAFTY EIGHTEENTHcentury
farmhouse on the outskirts of
Coldwater. It’s the only house on Hawthorne Lane, and the nearest neighbors are almost a mile away. I
sometimes wonder if the original builder realized that out of all the plots of land available, he chose to
construct the house in the eye of a mysterious atmospheric inversion that seems to suck all the fog off
Maine’s coast and transplant it into our yard. The house was at this moment veiled by gloom that
resembled escaped and wandering spirits.
I spent the evening planted on a stool in the kitchen in the company of algebra homework and Dorothea,
our housekeeper. My mom works for the Hugo Renaldi Auction Company, coordinating estate and
antique auctions all along the East Coast. This week she was in upstate New York. Her job required a
lot of travel, and she paid Dorothea to cook and clean, but I was pretty sure the fine print on Dorothea’s
job description included keeping a watchful, parental eye on me.
“How was school?” Dorothea asked with a slight German accent. She stood at the sink, scrubbing
overbaked lasagna off a casserole dish.
“I have a new biology partner.”
“This is a good thing, or a bad thing?”
“Vee was my old partner.”
“Humph.” More vigorous scrubbing, and the flesh on Dorothea’s upper arm jiggled. “A bad thing,
then.”
I sighed in agreement.
“Tell me about the new partner. This girl, what is she like?”
“He’s tall, dark, and annoying.” And eerily closed off. Patch’s eyes were black orbs. Taking in
everything and giving away nothing. Not that I wanted to know more about Patch. Since I hadn’t liked
what I’d seen on the surface, I doubted I’d like what was lurking deep inside.
Only, this wasn’t exactly true. I’d liked a lot of what I’d seen. Long, lean muscles down his arms, broad
but relaxed shoulders, and a smile that was part playful, part seductive. I was in an uneasy alliance with
myself, trying to ignore what had started to feel irresistible.
At nine o’clock Dorothea finished for the evening and locked up on her way out. I flashed the porch
lights twice to say goodbye;
they must have penetrated the fog, because she answered with a honk. I
was alone.
I took inventory of the feelings playing out inside me. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t even all
that lonely. But I was a little bit restless about my biology assignment. I’d told Patch I wouldn’t call,
and six hours ago I’d meant it. All I could think now was that I didn’t want to fail. Biology was my
toughest subject. My grade tottered problematically between A and B. In my mind, that was the
difference between a full and half scholarship in my future.
I went to the kitchen and picked up the phone. I looked at what was left of the seven numbers still
tattooed on my hand. Secretly I hoped Patch didn’t answer my call. If he was unavailable or uncooperative
on assignments, it was evidence I could use against him to convince Coach to undo the
seating chart. Feeling hopeful, I keyed in his number.
Patch answered on the third ring. “What’s up?”
In a matteroffact
tone I said, “I’m calling to see if we can meet tonight. I know you said you’re busy,
but—”
“Nora.” Patch said my name like it was the punch line to a joke. “Thought you weren’t going to call.
Ever.”
I hated that I was eating my words. I hated Patch for rubbing it in. I hated Coach and his deranged
assignments. I opened my mouth, hoping something smart would come out. “Well? Can we meet or
not?”
“As it turns out, I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“I’m in the middle of a pool game.” I heard the smile in his voice. “An important pool game.”
From the background noise I heard on his end, I believed he was telling the truth—about the pool
game. Whether it was more important than my assignment was up for debate.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Bo’s Arcade. It’s not your kind of hangout.”
“Then let’s do the interview over the phone. I’ve got a list of questions right—”
He hung up on me.
I stared at the phone in disbelief, then ripped a clean sheet of paper from my notebook. I scribbled Jerk
on the first line. On the line beneath it I added, Smokes cigars. Will die of lung cancer. Hopefully soon.
Excellent physical shape.
I immediately scribbled over the last observation until it was illegible.
The microwave clock blinked to 9:05. As I saw it, I had two choices. Either I fabricated my interview
with Patch, or I drove to Bo’s Arcade. The first option might have been tempting, if I could just block
out Coach’s voice warning that he’d check all answers for authenticity. I didn’t know enough about
Patch to bluff my way through a whole interview. And the second option? Not even remotely tempting.
I delayed making a decision long enough to call my mom. Part of our agreement for her working and
traveling so much was that I act responsibly and not be the kind of daughter who required constant
supervision. I liked my freedom, and I didn’t want to do anything to give my mom a reason to take a
pay cut and get a local job to keep an eye on me.
On the fourth ring her voice mail picked up.
“It’s me,” I said. “Just checking in. I’ve got some biology homework to finish up, then I’m going to bed.
Call me at lunch tomorrow, if you want. Love you.”
After I hung up, I found a quarter in the kitchen drawer. Best to leave complicated decisions to fate.
“Heads I go,” I told George Washington’s profile, “tails I stay.” I flipped the quarter in the air, flattened
it to the back of my palm, and dared a peek. My heart squeezed out an extra beat, and I told myself I
wasn’t sure what it meant.
“It’s out of my hands now,” I said.
Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, I grabbed a map off the fridge, snagged my
keys, and backed my Fiat Spider down the driveway. The car had probably been cute in 1979, but I
wasn’t wild about the chocolate brown paint, the rust spreading unchecked across the back fender, or
the cracked white leather seats.
Bo’s Arcade turned out to be farther away than I would have liked, nestled close to the coast, a thirtyminute
drive. With the map flattened to the steering wheel, I pulled the Fiat into a parking lot behind a
large cinderblock
building with an electric sign flashing BO’S ARCADE, MAD BLACK PAINTBALL
& OZZ’S POOL HALL. Graffiti splashed the walls, and cigarette butts dotted the foundation. Clearly
Bo’s would be filled with future Ivy Leaguers and model citizens. I tried to keep my thoughts lofty and
nonchalant, but my stomach felt a little uneasy. Doublechecking
that I’d locked all the doors, I headed
inside.
I stood in line, waiting to get past the ropes. As the group ahead of me paid, I squeezed past, walking
toward the maze of blaring sirens and blinking lights.
“Think you deserve a free ride?” hollered a smokeroughened
voice.
I swung around and blinked at the heavily tattooed cashier. I said, “I’m not here to play. I’m looking for
someone.”
He grunted. “You want past me, you pay.” He put his palms on the counter, where a price chart had
been ducttaped,
showing I owed fifteen dollars. Cash only.
I didn’t have cash. And if I had, I wouldn’t have wasted it to spend a few minutes interrogating Patch
about his personal life. I felt a flush of anger at the seating chart and at having to be here in the first
place. I only needed to find Patch, then we could hold the interview outside. I was not going to drive all
this way and leave emptyhanded.
“If I’m not back in two minutes, I’ll pay the fifteen dollars,” I said. Before I could exercise better
judgment or muster up a tad more patience, I did something completely out of character and ducked
under the ropes. I didn’t stop there. I hurried through the arcade, keeping my eyes open for Patch. I told
myself I couldn’t believe I was doing this, but I was like a rolling snowball, gaining speed and
momentum. At this point I just wanted to find Patch and get out.
The cashier followed after me, shouting, “Hey!”
Certain Patch was not on the main level, I jogged downstairs, following signs to Ozz’s Pool Hall. At the
bottom of the stairs, dim track lighting illuminated several poker tables, all in use. Cigar smoke almost
as thick as the fog enveloping my house clouded the low ceiling. Nestled between the poker tables and
the bar was a row of pool tables. Patch was stretched across the one farthest from me, attempting a
difficult bank shot.
“Patch!” I called out.
Just as I spoke, he shot his pool stick, driving it into the tabletop.
His head whipped up. He stared at
me with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
The cashier clomped down the steps behind me, vising my shoulder with his hand. “Upstairs. Now.”
Patch’s mouth moved into another barelythere
smile. Hard to say if it was mocking or friendly. “She’s
with me.”
This seemed to hold some sway with the cashier, who loosened his grip. Before he could change his
mind, I shook off his hand and weaved through the tables toward Patch. I took the first several steps in
stride, but found my confidence slipping the closer I got to him.
I was immediately aware of something different about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I
could feel it like electricity. More animosity?
More confidence.
More freedom to be himself. And those black eyes were getting to me. They were like magnets clinging
to my every move. I swallowed discreetly and tried to ignore the queasy tap dance in my stomach. I
couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something about Patch wasn’t right. Something about him wasn’t
normal. Something wasn’t … safe.
“Sorry about the hangup,”
Patch said, coming beside me. “The reception’s not great down here.”
Yeah, right.
With a tilt of his head, Patch motioned the others to leave. There was an uneasy silence before anybody
moved. The first guy to leave bumped into my shoulder as he walked past. I took a step back to balance
myself and looked up just in time to receive cold eyes from the other two players as they departed.
Great. It wasn’t my fault Patch was my partner.
“Eight ball?” I asked him, raising my eyebrows and trying to sound completely sure of myself, of my
surroundings. Maybe he was right and Bo’s wasn’t my kind of place. That didn’t mean I was going to
bolt for the doors. “How high are the stakes?”
His smile widened. This time I was pretty sure he was mocking me. “We don’t play for money.”
I set my handbag on the edge of the table. “Too bad. I was going to bet everything I have against you.” I
held up my assignment, two lines already filled. “A few quick questions and I’m out of here.”
“Jerk?” Patch read out loud, leaning on his pool stick. “Lung cancer? Is that supposed to be prophetic?”
I fanned the assignment through the air. “I’m assuming you contribute to the atmosphere. How many
cigars a night? One? Two?”
“I don’t smoke.” He sounded sincere, but I didn’t buy it.
“Mmhmm,”
I said, setting the paper down between the eight ball and the solid purple. I accidentally
nudged the solid purple while writing Definitely cigars on line three.
“You’re messing up the game,” Patch said, still smiling.
I caught his eye and couldn’t help but match his smile—briefly. “Hopefully not in your favor. Biggest
dream?” I was proud of this one because I knew it would stump him. It required forethought.
“Kiss you.”
“That’s not funny,” I said, holding his eyes, grateful I didn’t stutter.
“No, but it made you blush.”
I boosted myself onto the side of the table, trying to look impassive. I crossed my legs, using my knee
as a writing board. “Do you work?”
“I bus tables at the Borderline. Best Mexican in town.”
“Religion?”
He didn’t seem surprised by the question, but he didn’t seem overjoyed by it either. “I thought you said
a few quick questions. You’re already at number four.”
“Religion?” I asked more firmly.
Patch dragged a hand thoughtfully along the line of his jaw. “Not religion … cult.”
“You belong to a cult?” I realized too late that while I sounded surprised, I shouldn’t have.
“As it turns out, I’m in need of a healthy female sacrifice. I’d planned on luring her into trusting me
first, but if you’re ready now …”
Any smile left on my face slid away. “You’re not impressing me.”
“I haven’t started trying yet.”
I edged off the table and stood up to him. He was a full head taller. “Vee told me you’re a senior. How
many times have you failed tenthgrade
biology? Once? Twice?”
“Vee isn’t my spokesperson.”
“Are you denying failing?”
“I’m telling you I didn’t go to school last year.” His eyes taunted me. It only made me more determined.
“You were truant?”
Patch laid his pool stick across the tabletop and crooked a finger for me to come closer. I didn’t. “A
secret?” he said in confidential tones. “I’ve never gone to school before. Another secret? It’s not as dull
as I expected.”
He was lying. Everyone went to school. There were laws. He was lying to get a rise out of me.
“You think I’m lying,” he said around a smile.
“You’ve never been to school, ever? If that’s true—and you’re right, I don’t think it is—what made you
decide to come this year?”
“You.”
The impulse to feel scared pounded through me, but I told myself that was exactly what Patch wanted.
Standing my ground, I tried to act annoyed instead. Still, it took me a moment to find my voice. “That’s
not a real answer.”
He must have taken a step closer, because suddenly our bodies were separated by nothing more than a
shallow margin of air. “Your eyes, Nora. Those cold, pale gray eyes are surprisingly irresistible.” He
tipped his head sideways, as if to study me from a new angle. “And that killer curvy mouth.”
Startled not so much by his comment, but that part of me responded positively to it, I stepped back.
“That’s it. I’m out of here.”
But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they weren’t true. I felt the urge to say
something more. Picking through the thoughts tangled in my head, I tried to find what it was I felt I had
to say. Why was he so derisive, and why did he act like I’d done something to deserve it?
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I said, making the understatement
of the year. “More than you
should. You seem to know exactly what to say to make me uncomfortable.”
“You make it easy.”
A spark of anger fired through me. “You admit you’re doing this on purpose?”
“This?”
“This—provoking me.”
“Say ‘provoking’ again. Your mouth looks provocative when you do.”
“We’re done. Finish your pool game.” I grabbed his pool stick off the table and pushed it at him. He
didn’t take it.
“I don’t like sitting beside you,” I said. “I don’t like being your partner. I don’t like your condescending
smile.” My jaw twitched— something that typically happened only when I lied. I wondered if I was
lying now. If I was, I wanted to kick myself. “I don’t like you,” I said as convincingly as I could, and
thrust the stick against his chest.
“I’m glad Coach put us together,” he said. I detected the slightest irony on the word “Coach,” but I
couldn’t figure out any hidden meaning. This time he took the pool stick.
“I’m working to change that,” I countered.
Patch thought this was so funny, his teeth showed through his smile. He reached for me, and before I
could move away, he untangled something from my hair.
“Piece of paper,” he explained, flicking it to the ground. As he reached out, I noticed a marking on the
inside of his wrist. At first I assumed it was a tattoo, but a second look revealed a ruddy brown, slightly
raised birthmark. It was the shape of a splattered paint drop.
“That’s an unfortunate place for a birthmark,” I said, more than a little unnerved that it was so similarly
positioned to my own scar.
Patch casually but noticeably slid his sleeve down over his wrist. “You’d prefer it someplace more
private?”
“I wouldn’t prefer it anywhere.” I wasn’t sure how this sounded and tried again. “I wouldn’t care if you
didn’t have it at all.” I tried a third time. “I don’t care about your birthmark, period.”
“Any more questions?” he asked. “Comments?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll see you in bio.”
I thought about telling him he’d never see me again. But I wasn’t going to eat my words twice in one
day.
Later that night a crack! pulled me out of sleep. With my face mashed into my pillow, I held still, all my
senses on high alert. My mom was out of town at least once a month for work, so I was used to sleeping
alone, and it had been months since I’d imagined the sound of footsteps creeping down the hall toward
my bedroom. The truth was, I never felt completely alone. Right after my dad was shot to death in
Portland while buying my mom’s birthday gift, a strange presence entered my life. Like someone was
orbiting my world, watching from a distance. At first the phantom presence had creeped me out, but
when nothing bad came of it, my anxiety lost its edge. I started wondering if there was a cosmic
purpose for the way I was feeling. Maybe my dad’s spirit was close by. The thought was usually
comforting, but tonight was different. The presence felt like ice on the skin.
Turning my head a fraction, I saw a shadowy form stretching across my floor. I flipped around to face
the window, the gauzy shaft of moonlight the only light in the room capable of casting a shadow. But
nothing was there. I squeezed my pillow against me and told myself it was a cloud passing over the
moon. Or a piece of trash blowing in the wind. Still, I spent the next several minutes waiting for my
pulse to calm down.
By the time I found the courage to get out of bed, the yard below my window was silent and still. The
only noise came from tree branches scraping against the house, and my own heart thrumming under my
skin.
วันศุกร์ที่ 8 เมษายน พ.ศ. 2554
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.
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.
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ชั้น ม. 3/6 เลขที่ 6
สิ่งที่ได้เรียนรู้จากการเรียนการสอนในวันนี้ วิธีการใช้งานโปรแกรม Ulead VideoStudio 11 เพื่อตัดต่อภาพนิ่ง โดยใช้ Option ต่างๆที่มีอยู่ เช่น การเลือกรูปภาพจากโฟลเดอร์ต่างๆ และ การใส่ Effect ให้กับภาพนิ่ง เพื่อให้วีดีโอมีความลื่นไหลมากขึ้น
ประโยชน์ที่จะนำไปใช้ในการทำงานกลุ่ม นำความรู้ที่ได้ในวันนี้ไปใช้ในการตัดต่อกับงานที่ทำ เพื่อให้งานที่ได้มีความน่าสนใจมากขึ้น
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วิชา ง30206 การตัดต่อภาพยนตร์ ภาคเรียนที่2 ปีการศึกษา 2550
อาจารย์ประจำวิชา อาจารย์ชยการ คีรีรัตน์ อาจารย์นิสิต กันตพงศ์ ปิ่นปัทมเรขา
อาจารย์นิสิตมารีน่า จงเลิศเจษฎาวงศ์
บันทึกประจำวันที่ 5 /11 /2550
ชื่อ-นามสกุล จักรพัชร์ จิตต์นิลวงศ์
ชั้น ม. 3/6 เลขที่ 6
สิ่งที่ได้เรียนรู้จากการเรียนการสอนในวันนี้ วิธีการใช้งานโปรแกรม Ulead VideoStudio 11 เพื่อตัดต่อภาพนิ่ง โดยใช้ Option ต่างๆที่มีอยู่ เช่น การเลือกรูปภาพจากโฟลเดอร์ต่างๆ และ การใส่ Effect ให้กับภาพนิ่ง เพื่อให้วีดีโอมีความลื่นไหลมากขึ้น
ประโยชน์ที่จะนำไปใช้ในการทำงานกลุ่ม นำความรู้ที่ได้ในวันนี้ไปใช้ในการตัดต่อกับงานที่ทำ เพื่อให้งานที่ได้มีความน่าสนใจมากขึ้น
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LEARNING LOG
LEARNING LOG
วิชา ง30206 การตัดต่อภาพยนตร์ ภาคเรียนที่2 ปีการศึกษา 2550
อาจารย์ประจำวิชา อาจารย์ชยการ คีรีรัตน์ อาจารย์นิสิต กันตพงศ์ ปิ่นปัทมเรขา อาจารย์นิสิตมารีน่า จงเลิศเจษฎาวงศ์
บันทึกประจำวันที่ 12/ 11 /2007
ชื่อ-นามสกุล ด.ช.จักรพัชร์ จิตต์นิลวงศ์
ชั้น ม.3/6 เลขที่ 6
สิ่งที่ได้เรียนรู้จากการเรียนการสอนในวันนี้ ได้รู้ถึงวิธีการตัดต่อภาพยนต์ขั้นสูง เช่นการใส่ Effect ให้ภาพยนต์ และได้รู้ส่วนประกอบต่างๆของ Ulead VideoStudio 11 อย่างละเอียด
ประโยชน์ที่จะนำไปใช้ในการทำงานกลุ่ม สามารถนำความรู้ที่ได้ในวันนี้ไปใช้ในการตัดต่องานของกลุ่มได้
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วิชา ง30206 การตัดต่อภาพยนตร์ ภาคเรียนที่2 ปีการศึกษา 2550
อาจารย์ประจำวิชา อาจารย์ชยการ คีรีรัตน์ อาจารย์นิสิต กันตพงศ์ ปิ่นปัทมเรขา อาจารย์นิสิตมารีน่า จงเลิศเจษฎาวงศ์
บันทึกประจำวันที่ 12/ 11 /2007
ชื่อ-นามสกุล ด.ช.จักรพัชร์ จิตต์นิลวงศ์
ชั้น ม.3/6 เลขที่ 6
สิ่งที่ได้เรียนรู้จากการเรียนการสอนในวันนี้ ได้รู้ถึงวิธีการตัดต่อภาพยนต์ขั้นสูง เช่นการใส่ Effect ให้ภาพยนต์ และได้รู้ส่วนประกอบต่างๆของ Ulead VideoStudio 11 อย่างละเอียด
ประโยชน์ที่จะนำไปใช้ในการทำงานกลุ่ม สามารถนำความรู้ที่ได้ในวันนี้ไปใช้ในการตัดต่องานของกลุ่มได้
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ข้อคิดเห็นเพิ่มเติม ไม่มี
วันอาทิตย์ที่ 5 สิงหาคม พ.ศ. 2550
มหัศจรรย์ทางประวัติศาสตร์มนุษย์ลำปาง-โฮโมอีเร็คตัส 500,000 ปี
หาดปู่ด้าย หมู่ที่ 1 ตำบลนาแส่ง อำเภอเกาะคา จังหวัดลำปาง
ในความเป็นมาในการค้าพบโบราณวัตถุสำคัญ
โดยเฉพาะฟอสซิลโฮโมอิเร็คตัสอายุประมาณ 5 แสนปี นับเป็นครั้งแรกของโลกที่พบฟอสซิล มนุษย์โบราณ โดยคนพื้นเมืองเจ้าของประเทศและเป็นการเปิดเผยโฉมหน้าใหม่ของประวัติศาสตร์ เกี่ยวกับวิวัฒนาการ การเกิดขึ้นเป็นมนุษย์ในแผ่นดินไทยและในทวีปเอเชีย
โดยเฉพาะฟอสซิลโฮโมอิเร็คตัสอายุประมาณ 5 แสนปี นับเป็นครั้งแรกของโลกที่พบฟอสซิล มนุษย์โบราณ โดยคนพื้นเมืองเจ้าของประเทศและเป็นการเปิดเผยโฉมหน้าใหม่ของประวัติศาสตร์ เกี่ยวกับวิวัฒนาการ การเกิดขึ้นเป็นมนุษย์ในแผ่นดินไทยและในทวีปเอเชีย
โฮโม อิเร็คตัส ที่ค้นพบได้จากจังหวัดลำปาง น่าจะได้รับการขนานนามว่า “ มนุษย์สยาม “ (Siam Man) “ มนุษย์ลำปาง ” ( Lampang Man ) หรือ “ มนุษย์เกาะคา ” (KO-KHA Man) ตามแหล่งที่ค้นพบ
ที่ตั้งของแหล่งที่ทำการสำรวจและขุดค้นอยู่ที่บริเวณเขาป่าหนามใกล้บ้านหาดปู่ด้าย ตำบลนาแส่ง อำเภอเกาะคา จังหวัดลำปาง ลักษณะ ที่ตั้งเป็นซอกหลืบหินปูน หรือโพลงถ้ำที่บริเวณเพดานพังลงมาทีหลังในภูมิประเทศแบบคาสต์ (relative open rockshelter, kast cave in filling) ใกล้แม่น้ำวัง แหล่งซากดึกดำบรรพ์เขาป่าหนามนี้ มีสภาพพิเศษที่เอื้ออำนวยให้ซากดึกดำบรรพ์ถูกเก็บรักษาไว้ให้อยู่ในสภาพที่ดีพอสมควร โดยสารฟอสเฟตซึ่งเกิดจากมูลค้างคาวสลายตัวและห่อหุ้มซากกระดูกทั้งหลายเอาไว้ภายในหลืบ – ซอกของพื้นถ้ำ ทั้งนี้ เนื่องจากสารฟอสเฟต เป็นสารที่ไม่ละลายน้ำผิวดินหรือใต้ดิน
โฮโม อิเร็คตัส (Homo erectus) เป็นสายพันธ์มนุษย์ (Huminoid) มีวิวัฒนาการเมื่อประมาณ 1ล้านถึง 5 แสนปีมาแล้วของสมัยไพลสโตซีน (Pleistocene Epoch) มีลักษณกะโหลกค่อนข้างหนาเทอะทะและมีหน้าผากลาด มีสันเหนือกระบอกตา (Supra-Orbital Ridge) เป็นสันนูนหนา แต่ขนาดความหนาย้อยกว่ามนุษย์นีแอนเดอธัลเล็กน้อยมีความจุขนาดสมองปริมาตร 800 – 1,200 ซีซี
ที่มา แผ่นพับแนะนำแหล่งท่องเที่ยวขององค์การบริหารส่วนจังหวัดลำปาง
วันอาทิตย์ที่ 8 กรกฎาคม พ.ศ. 2550
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