“No way. I have got to see the interior,” Marcie said, hopping out before I could stop her. “Does Dante have a girlfriend?” She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, blatantly admiring Dante’s wealth.

Yeah, me, I thought. And I was clearly doing a stellar job keeping up the charade. Even my half sister who slept down the hall knew nothing of my “boyfriend.”

We climbed the porch and rang the bell. I waited, then rang it again. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I peered through the dining room window into shadowy darkness. Just my luck I’d stop by when he wasn’t home.

“Yoo-hoo! Are you girls looking for the young man who used to live here?”

Marcie and I turned to find an elderly woman standing on the sidewalk. She had pink slippers on her feet, pink rollers in her hair, and a little black dog at the end of a leash.

“We’re looking for Dante,” I said. “Are you a neighbor?”

“I moved in with my daughter and her husband at the beginning of summer. Just down the street,” she said, gesturing behind her. “My husband, John, is gone now, bless his soul, and it was either a nursing home or my son-in-law’s residence. He never puts the toilet seat down,&rt s have she informed us.

What is she yapping about? Marcie asked my thoughts. And, hello. That dog needs a bath. I can smell it from here.

I affected a neighborly smile and walked down the porch steps. “I’m Nora Grey. I’m friends with the guy who lives here, Dante Matterazzi.”

“Matterazzi? I knew it! I knew he was Italian. Name like that screams Italian. They’re invading our shores,” the woman said. “Next thing you know, I’ll be sharing a garden wall with Mussolini himself.” As if to weigh in, the dog gave a snarling bark of agreement.

Marcie and I shared a look, and Marcie rolled her eyes. I said to the woman, “Have you seen Dante today?”

“Today? Why would I have seen him today? I just told you he moved out. Two days ago. Did it in the middle of the night, just like an Italian would. Sneaky and wily as a Sicilian mobster. Up to no good, I’ll tell you what.”

“You must be mistaken. Dante still lives here,” I said, trying to hold a pleasant tone.

“Ha! That boy is a goner. Always kept to himself and was about as unneighborly as they come. Was from the day he moved in. Wouldn’t so much as say hello. Sneaky boy like that in this nice, respectable neighborhood. It just wasn’t right. He only lasted a month, and I can’t say I’m sad to see him go. Ought to be laws against renters in this neighborhood, dragging down home values like they do.”

“Dante wasn’t renting. He owns this house. His friends left it to him in their will.”

“Is that what he told you?” She wagged her head, staring at me with sharp blue eyes like I was the biggest sucker the world had ever seen. “My son-in-law owns this house. Been in his family for years. Rented it out during the summertime, back before the economy crashed. Back when you could make a buck off tourism. Now we have to rent to Italian mobsters.”

“You must be mistaken—” I began a second time.

“Check the county land records! They don’t lie. Can’t say the same for shady Italians.”

The dog was running circles around the woman’s legs, tying her up in the leash. Every once in a while he stopped to give Marcie and me a guttural growl of warning. Then he went right back to sniffing and chasing circles. The woman untangled herself and shuffled down the sidewalk.

I stared at her from behind. Dante owned this house. He wasn’t renting.

A terrifying sensation vised my chest. If Dante was gone, how would I get more devilcraft? I was almost out. I had a day’s supply left, two if I cut back.

“Well, someone’s lying,” Marcie said. “I think it’s her. I never trust old women. Especially the cranky ones.”

I hardly heard her. I tried Dante’s cell, praying he’d pick up, but I got nothing. Not even his voice mail.

I helped Marcie carry her shopping bags inside, and my mom came downstairs to meet us. “One of your friends dropped this off,” she said, extending a manila envelopeaniped M. “He said his name was Dante? Should I know him?” she prodded.

I tried not to look too eager as I snatched the envelope. “He’s a friend of Scott’s,” I explained.

My mom and Marcie kept their eyes on the envelope, watching me expectantly.

“It’s probably just something he wants me to pass on to Scott,” I lied, not wanting to draw extra attention to the situation.

“He looked older than your friends. I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of you hanging out with older guys,” Mom said doubtfully.

“Like I said, he’s Scott’s friend,” I responded evasively.

In my bedroom I drew a deep breath and broke the envelope’s seal. I shook out several blown-up photographs. All black and white.

The first several were taken at night. Patch strolling down a deserted street. Patch doing what appeared to be surveillance from his motorcycle. Patch talking on a pay phone. Nothing new there, since I already knew he was working around the clock to find Pepper’s blackmailer.

The next photo was of Patch and Dabria.

They were in Patch’s new black Ford F-150 pickup truck. Little needles of rain sliced through the streetlight above them. Dabria had her arms around Patch’s neck, a coy smile dancing on her lips. They were locked in an embrace, and Patch didn’t appear to be offering resistance.

I flipped through the last three pictures rapidly. My stomach heaved, and I knew I was going to be sick. Kissing.

Dabria kissing Patch. Right there in the photos.

Chapter 25

I WAS SITTING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR, MY BACK against the shower door. My knees were drawn up, and even though the space heater was running, I felt cold and clammy. An empty bottle of devilcraft lay beside me. It was the last of my supply. I hardly remembered drinking it. A whole bottle gone, and it had done nothing for me. Even it couldn’t make me immune to heart-sickening despair.

I trusted Patch. I loved him too much to believe he’d hurt me this way. There had to be a reason, an explanation.

An explanation. The word echoed in my head, empty and taunting.

A knock sounded on the door.

“We have to share this thing, remember? And I have a bladder the size of a squirrel’s,” Marcie said.

I was slow to climb to my feet. Of all the absurd things to worry about, I wondered if Dabria was a better kisser. If Patch wished I was more like her. Crafty, icy, sophisticated. I wondered the precise moment he’d gone back to her. I wondered whether he hadn’t broken things off with me yet because he knew how devastated I’d be.

Yet.

A heavy feeling of uncertainty pressed gown on me.

I opened the door and brushed past Marcie. I’d made it five steps down the hall when I felt her eyes on my back.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hey, wait up. Nora? Are you crying?”

I swiped my fingers under my eyes, surprised to find I had been crying. The whole moment felt frozen and distant. As if it were happening far away, in a dream.

Without turning I said, “I’m going out. Can you cover for me? I might not make curfew.”

I stopped once on my way to Patch’s place. I veered the Volkswagen sharply to the roadside, swung out, and paced the shoulder. It was full dark, and cold enough that I wished I’d brought my coat. I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw him. I didn’t want to launch into a raving outburst. I didn’t want to reduce myself to bawling, either.

I’d brought the pictures with me, and in the end, I decided they could do the talking. I’d hand them to him and limit my question to a succinct, “Why?”

The icy detachment that had settled over me like frost melted the moment I saw Dabria’s Bugatti parked outside Patch’s townhouse. I braked a half block away, swallowing hard. A knot of anger swelled in my throat, and I shoved out of the car.

I jammed my key into the house lock and marched in. The only light came from a lamp on an end table in the living room. Dabria was pacing the balcony window but stopped when she saw me.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, visibly startled.

I shook my head angrily. “Nope. That’s my line. This is my boyfriend’s house, which makes that my line, exclusively. Where is he?” I demanded, already striding to the hallway leading back to the master bedroom.

“Don’t bother. He’s not here.”

I whirled around. I gave Dabria a look that was incredulity, disgust, and menace all wrapped into one. “Then what. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I enunciated each word. I could feel rage bubbling up inside me, and I didn’t try to temper it. Dabria had this coming.

“I’m in trouble, Nora.” Her lip quivered.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” I flung the envelope of pictures at her. It landed near her feet. “How does it feel knowing you’re a boyfriend stealer? Is that what makes you feel good, Dabria? Taking what doesn’t belong to you? Or is it just the act of ripping apart a good thing that you enjoy?”

Dabria bent to retrieve the envelope, but she held my eyes the whole way. Her eyebrows furrowed with guarded uncertainty. I couldn’t believe she had the audacity to act like she didn’t know.

“Patch’s truck,” I raged. “You and him, some night earlier this week, together in his truck. You kissed him!”

She broke eye contact just long enough to peer inside the envelope. She set it on a sofa cushion.

“Oh, I think I do. You’re not that hard to figure out. You have no sense of respect or dignity. You take what you want, forget everyone else. You wanted Patch, and it looks like you got him.” Now my voice caught and my eyes burned. I tried to blink the tears away, but they were coming too fast.

“I’m in trouble because I made a mistake while doing a favor for Patch,” Dabria said in a soft, worried voice, clearly oblivious to my accusations. “Patch told me Blakely is developing devilcraft for Dante, and that the lab needs to be destroyed. He said if I ever came across information that might lead him to Blakely, or the lab, I was to immediately tell him.

“A couple nights ago, very late, a group of Nephilim came to me, wanting their fortunes told. I quickly learned they were employed as bodyguards in the Black Hand’s army. Up until that night, they had served as guards for a very powerful and important Nephil named Blakely. They had my attention. They went on to tell me their work was tedious and uneventful, and the hours long. Earlier that night, they had agreed to play a game of poker to pass the time, even though games or distractions of any kind were forbidden.

“One of the men left his post to buy a deck of cards. They played only a few minutes before they were discovered by their commander. He immediately dismissed and dishonorably discharged them from the army. The leader of the dismissed soldiers, Hanoth, was desperate to get his job back. He has family here and worries about supporting them, and about their safety if they are punished or cast out for his crimes. He came to me, hoping I could tell him whether there was a chance he would get his job back.