Hush, Hush (Hush, Hush #1)

I groaned.

“It’s the law of supply and demand,” Vee said. “Who would’ve thought economics would come in useful?”

I looked to the arcade doors. “I need something.”

“You need Elliot.”

“No, I need sugar. Lots of it. I need cotton candy.” What I needed was an eraser big enough to scrub away all evidence of Patch from my life. Particularly the mind­speaking. I shuddered. How was he doing it? And why me? Unless … I’d imagined it. Just like I’d imagined hitting someone with the Neon.

“I could use a little sugar myself,” Vee said. “I saw a vendor near the park entrance on our way in. I’ll stay here so Jules and Elliot don’t think we ran off, and you can get the cotton candy.”

Outside, I backtracked to the entrance, but when I found the vendor selling cotton candy, I was distracted by a sight farther down the walkway. The Archangel rose up above the treetops. A snake of cars zipped over the lighted tracks and dove out of view. I wondered why Patch wanted to meet. I felt a jab in my stomach and probably should have taken it for an answer, but despite my best intentions, I found myself continuing down the walkway toward the Archangel.

I stayed with the flow of foot traffic, keeping my eyes on the distant track of the Archangel looping through the sky. The wind had changed from chilly to icy, but that wasn’t the reason I felt increasingly ill at ease. The feeling was back. That cold, heart­stopping feeling that someone was watching me.

I stole a look to both sides. Nothing abnormal in my peripheral vision. I spun a full 180 degrees. A little ways back, standing in a small courtyard of trees, a hooded figure turned and disappeared into the darkness.

With my heart beating faster, I bypassed a large group of pedestrians, putting distance between me and the clearing. Several strides farther on, I glanced back again. Nobody stood out as following me.

When I faced forward again, I ran smack into someone. “Sorry!” I blurted, trying to regain my balance.

Patch grinned down at me. “I’m hard to resist.”

I blinked up at him. “Leave me alone.” I tried to sidestep him, but he caught me by the elbow.

“What’s wrong? You look ready to throw up.”

“You have that effect on me,” I snapped.

He laughed. I felt like kicking his shins.

“You could use a drink.” He still had me by the elbow, and he tugged me toward a lemonade cart.

I dug in my heels. “You want to help? Stay away from me.”

He brushed a curl off my face. “Love the hair. Love when it’s out of control. It’s like seeing a side of you that needs to come out more often.”

I smoothed my hair furiously. As soon as I realized I looked like I was trying to make myself more presentable for him, I said, “I have to go. Vee is waiting.” A frazzled pause. “I guess I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

“Ride the Archangel with me.”

I craned my neck, staring up at it. High­pitched screams echoed down as the cars thundered over the tracks.

“Two people to a seat.” His smile changed to a slow, daring grin.

“No.” No way.

“If you keep running from me, you’re never going to figure out what’s really going on.”

That comment right there should have sent me running. But it didn’t. It was almost as if Patch knew exactly what to say to pique my curiosity. Exactly what to say, at exactly the right moment.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

“I can’t. I’m afraid of heights. Besides, Vee’s waiting.” Only, suddenly the thought of going up that high in the air didn’t scare me. Not anymore. In an absurd way, knowing I’d be with Patch made me feel safe.

“If you ride the whole way through without screaming, I’ll tell Coach to switch our seats.”

“I already tried. He won’t budge.”

“I could be more convincing than you.”

I took his comment as a personal insult. “I don’t scream,” I said. “Not for carnival rides.” Not for you.

In step with Patch, I made my way to the back of the line leading up to the Archangel. A rush of screams lifted, then faded, far above in the night sky.

“I haven’t seen you at Delphic before,” Patch said.

“You’re here a lot?” I made a mental note not to take any more weekend trips to Delphic.

“I have a history with the place.”

We edged up the line as the cars emptied and a new set of thrill seekers boarded the ride.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You played hooky here instead of going to school last year.”

I was being sarcastic, but Patch said, “Answering that would mean shedding light on my past. And I’d like to keep it in the dark.”

“Why? What’s wrong with your past?”

“I don’t think now is a good time to talk about it. My past might frighten you.”

Too late, I thought.

He stepped closer and our arms met, a brushed connection that caused the hairs on my arm to rise.

“The things I have to confess aren’t the kind of things you tell your flippant bio partner,” he said.

The frigid wind wrapped around me, and when I breathed in, it filled me with ice. But it didn’t compare to the chill Patch’s words sent through me.

Patch jerked his chin up the ramp. “Looks like we’re up.”

I pushed through the revolving gate. By the time we made it to the boarding platform, the only empty cars were at the very front and the very back of the roller coaster. Patch headed toward the former.

The roller coaster’s construction didn’t inspire my confidence, remodeled or not. It looked more than a century old and was made of wood that had spent a lot of time exposed to Maine’s harsh elements. The artwork painted on the sides was even less inspiring.

The car Patch chose had a grouping of four paintings. The first depicted a mob of horned demons ripping the wings off a screaming male angel. The next painting showed the wingless angel perched on a headstone, watching children play from a distance. In the third painting, the wingless angel stood close to the children, crooking a finger at one little green­eyed girl. In the final painting, the wingless angel drifted through the girl’s body like a ghost. The girl’s eyes were black, her smile was gone, and she’d sprouted horns like the demons from the first painting. A slivered moon hung above the paintings.

I averted my eyes and assured myself it was the frigid air making my legs tremble. I slid into the car beside Patch.

“Your past wouldn’t frighten me,” I said, buckling my seat belt across my lap. “I’m guessing I’d be more appalled than anything.”

“Appalled,” he repeated. The tone of his voice led me to believe he’d accepted the accusation. Strange, since Patch never degraded himself.

The cars rolled backward, then lurched forward. Not in a smooth way, we headed away from the platform, climbing steadily uphill. The smell of sweat, rust, and saltwater blowing in from the sea filled the air. Patch sat close enough to smell. I caught the slightest trace of rich mint soap.

“You look pale,” he said, leaning in to be heard above the clicking tracks.

I felt pale, but did not admit it.

At the crest of the hill there was a moment’s hesitation. I could see for miles, noting where the dark countryside blended with the sparkle of the suburbs and gradually became the grid of Portland’s lights.

The wind held its breath, allowing the damp air to settle on my skin.

Without meaning to, I stole a look at Patch. I found a measure of consolation in having him at my side.

Then he flashed a grin.

“Scared, Angel?”

I clenched the metal bar drilled into the front of the car as I felt my weight tip forward. A shaky laugh slipped out of me.

Our car flew demonically fast, my hair flapping out behind me. Swerving to the left, then to the right, we clattered over the tracks. Inside, I felt my organs float and fall in response to the ride. I looked down, trying to concentrate on something not moving.

It was then that I noticed my seat belt had come undone.

I tried to shout at Patch, but my voice was swallowed up in the rush of air. I felt my stomach go hollow, and I let go of the metal bar with one hand, trying to secure the seat belt around my waist with the other. The car lunged to the left. I slammed shoulders with Patch, pressing against him so hard it hurt.

The car soared up, and I felt it lift from the tracks, not fully riveted to them.

We were plunging. The flashing lights along the tracks blinded me; I couldn’t see which way the track turned at the end of the dive.

It was too late. The car swerved to the right. I felt a jolt of panic, and then it happened. My left shoulder slammed against the car door. It flung open, and I was ripped out of the car while the roller coaster sped off without me. I rolled onto the tracks and grappled for something to anchor myself. My hands found nothing, and I tumbled over the edge, plunging straight down through the black air. The ground rushed up at me, and I opened my mouth to scream.

The next thing I knew, the ride screeched to a stop at the unloading platform.

My arms hurt from how tightly Patch held me. “Now that’s what I call a scream,” he said, grinning at me.

In a daze, I watched him place a hand over his ear as if my scream still echoed there. Not at all certain what had just happened, I stared at the place on his arm where my nails had left semicircles tattooed on his skin. Then my eyes moved to my seat belt. It was secured around my waist.

“My seat belt … ,” I began. “I thought—”

“Thought what?” Patch asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“I thought … I flew out of the car. I literally thought … I was going to die.”

“I think that’s the point.”

At my sides, my arms trembled. My knees wobbled slightly under the weight of my body.

“Guess we’re stuck as partners,” said Patch. I suspected a small degree of victory in his voice. I was too stunned to argue.

“The Archangel,” I murmured, looking back over my shoulder at the ride, which had started its next ascent.

“It means high­ranking angel.” There was a definite smugness to his voice. “The higher up, the harder the fall.”

I started to open my mouth, meaning to say again how I was sure I’d left the car for a moment and forces beyond my ability to explain had put me safely back behind my seat belt. Instead I said, “I think I’m more of a guardian angel girl.”

Patch smirked again. Guiding me down the walk, he said, “I’ll take you back to the arcade.”

CHAPTER 9

I CUT THROUGH THE CROWD INSIDE THE ARCADE, PASSING the concession counter and restrooms. When the foosball tables came into view, Vee wasn’t at any of them. Neither were Elliot or Jules.

“Looks like they left,” Patch said. His eyes might have held a sliver of amusement. Then again, with Patch, it could just as easily have been something entirely different. “Looks like you need a ride.”

“Vee wouldn’t leave me,” I said, standing on my tiptoes to see over the top of the crowd. “They’re probably playing table tennis.”