Crescendo by Becca Fitzpatrick

“You’ll get soaked. Wait inside. I’ll be back in ten.” Without giving me another chance to tag along, he hunched his shoulders against the rain, shoved his hands in his pockets, and jogged down the sidewalk.
    Slicking rain off my face, I tucked myself under the building’s overhang and summed up my options. I could go inside alone, or I could wait here for Scott. I hadn’t waited five seconds before my skin started to itch. While the sidewalk held little foot traffic, it wasn’t completely desolate. Those who were out in the weather wore flannel shirts and work boots. They looked bigger, tougher, meaner than the men who loitered around Main Street in Cold-water. A few gave me eyes as they passed.
    I looked down the sidewalk in the direction Scott had taken off and saw him round the building and disappear down the side alley. My first thought was that he was going to have a hard time finding an ATM in the alley next to the Z. My second thought was that maybe he’d lied to me. Maybe he wasn’t going in search of an ATMafter all. But then what was he doing in an alley, out in the rain? I wanted to follow him but didn’t know how I was going to stay out of sight. The last thing I needed was for him to catch me spying on him again. It certainly wouldn’t promote trust between us.
    Thinking maybe I could figure out what he was doing by watching through one of the windows inside the Z, I tugged on the door handle.
    The air inside was cool and coated with smoke and male perspiration. The ceiling was low, the walls concrete. A few posters of muscle cars, a
Sports Illustrated
calendar, and a Budweiser mirror offered the only decoration. No windows paneled the wall dividing me from Scott. I strolled down the center aisle, wading deeper into the shadowy hall, and kept my breathing shallow, trying to filter my intake of carcinogens. When I got to the back of the Z, I fixed my eyes on the exit leading into the rear alley. Not quite as convenient as a window, but it would have to do. If Scott caught me watching him, I could always feign innocence and claim I’d stepped out for fresh air. After making sure no one was watching, I opened the door and stuck my head out.
    Hands grabbed the collar of my jean jacket, yanked me out, and backed me against the brick exterior.
    “What are you doing here?” Patch demanded. Rain hissed down behind him, spilling off the metal awning.
    “Playing pool,” I stammered, my heart still frozen from the surprise of being ripped off my feet.
    “Playing pool,” he repeated, not sounding even close to buying it.
    “I’m here with a friend. Scott Parnell.”
    His expression hardened.
    “Do you have a problem with that?” I shot back. “We broke up, remember? I can go out with other guys if I want.” I was angry—at the archangels, at fate, at consequences. I was angry for being here with Scott, not Patch. And I was angry at Patch for not pulling me into his arms and telling me he wanted to put everything that had happened to us in the past twenty-four hours behind him. Everything dividing us was washed away, and it was just me and him from now on.
    Patch dropped his gaze to the ground and pinched the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was summoning patience from deep within. “Scott’s Nephilim. A first-generation purebred. Just like Chauncey was.”
    I blinked. It was true, then. “Thanks for the info, but I already suspected.”
    He made a disgusted gesture. “Quit with the bravery act. He’s
Nephilim
.”
    “Every Nephil isn’t Chauncey Langeais,” I said testily. “Every Nephil isn’t evil. If you’d give Scott a chance, you’d see he’s actually quite—”
    “Scott isn’t any old Nephil,” Patch said, cutting me off. “He belongs to a Nephilim blood society that has been growing inpower. The society wants to free Nephilim from bondage to fallen angels during Cheshvan. They’re recruiting members like crazy to fight back against fallen angels, and a turf war is