The memory opened on a murky street corner outside Hank’s warehouse. It wasn’t the one I’d successfully broken into, rather the one Scott and I had first attempted to take pictures of. The air was damp and heavy, the stars hidden behind cloud cover. Patch moved silently down the sidewalk, approaching what could only be Hank’s guard from behind. He leaped at him, dragging him backward in a punishing embrace before the guard could so much as squawk. Patch deprived the man of his weapons, tucking them into the waistband of his jeans.
To my amazement, Gabe—the same Gabe who’d tried to kill me behind 7-Eleven—strolled out of the shadows ahead. Dominic and Jeremiah followed. All three shared a wicked smile.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Gabe asked in a mocking undertone, brushing dirt off the Nephil guard’s collar.
“Keep him quiet until I give the signal,” Patch said, handing the guard over to Dominic and Jeremiah.
“Better not fail me, bro,” Gabe said to Patch. “I’m counting on the Black Hand being on the other side of that door.” He lifted his chin at the warehouse’s side door. “You come through for me, and I’ll forget any past grievances. You end up wrong about this, and I’ll show you what it feels like to have a tire iron rammed into your wing scars … every day for a solid year.” Patch merely answered with a cool, measured look. “Wait for my signal.” He edged up to the small window encased in the door. I followed, peering through the glass.
I saw the caged archangel. I saw a handful of Hank’s Nephilim men. But to my surprise, Marcie Mill ar stood just feet away, her posture withdrawn, her eyes wide and frightened. What could only be Patch’s archangel’s necklace dangled from her bloodless hands, and her gaze flicked surreptitiously to the door Patch and I hid behind.
There was a loud commotion as the archangel bucked wildly, kicking at the bars of her cage.
Hank’s men instantly lashed back with blue-glowing chains, no doubt enchanted with devilcraft, sending them whipping against her body. After repeated strikes, her skin adopted the same unearthly bluish glow as the chains, and she crouched in submission.
“Would you like the honors?” Hank proposed to Marcie, holding his hand out to indicate the necklace. “Or if you’d rather, I’ll place it on her neck.” By now, Marcie was trembling. Her complexion was ashen and she cowered, saying nothing.
“Come, darling,” Hank urged her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. My men have secured her. She won’t hurt you. This is what it means to be Nephilim. We have to take a stand against our enemies.”
“What are you going to do to her?” Marcie stammered.
Hank laughed, but he sounded weary. “Put the necklace on her, of course.”
“And then?”
“And then she’ll answer my questions.”
“Why does she have to be in the cage if you only want to talk to her?” Hank’s smile thinned. “Give me the necklace, Marcie.”
“You said you wanted me to get the necklace as a prank. You said it was a joke we’d play on Nora together. You never said anything about her.” Marcie sent a terrified glance at the caged archangel.
“The necklace,” Hank ordered, hand out.
Marcie backed along the wall, but her eyes gave her away—they flashed briefly to the door. Hank made a convulsive movement toward her, but she was faster. She shoved through the door, almost running headlong into Patch.
He steadied her, his eyes briefly locking on his archangel’s necklace dangling from her hand. “Do the right thing, Marcie,” he told her in a low voice. “That doesn’t belong to you.” I suddenly realized that the events of this memory must have happened moments after I’d left the warehouse with my mom—and just before I’d picked up Marcie off the streets. I’d missed Patch by a matter of minutes. All that time he’d been busy rounding up Gabe and his crew to go against Hank.
Chin quivering, Marcie nodded and stretched forth her hand. Wordlessly, Patch pocketed his necklace. Then he commanded her in a steely tone, “Go.”
Not a moment later, he signaled to Gabe, Jeremiah, and Dominic. They rushed forward, swarming through the door and into the warehouse. Patch brought up the rear, shoving Hank’s guard in with him.
At the sight of the band of fall en angels, Hank made a throttled sound of incredulity.
“Not a single Nephil in here has sworn fealty,” Patch told Gabe. “Have at it.” Gabe flashed a grin around the room, eyes landing on each Nephil individually. His gaze lingered longest on Hank, burning with something almost greedy. “He meant to say none of you strapping lads have sworn fealty … yet.”
“What’s this?” Hank seethed.
“What does it look like?” Gabe answered, cracking his knuckles. “When my buddy Patch here said he knew where I could find the Black Hand, he sparked my interest. Did I mention I’m in the market for a new Nephilim vassal?”
The Nephilim in the room held their places, but I could read the dread and tension on every one of their faces. I wasn’t sure what Patch had planned, but clearly this was part of it. He’d told me he’d have a hard time finding fall en angels who’d help him rescue an archangel, but maybe he’d found a way to recruit their help after all. By offering up spoils of war.
Gabe motioned Jeremiah and Dominic to spread out, each taking a side of the room.
“Ten of you, four of us,” Gabe told Hank. “Do the math.”