“What’s the occasion?”

“Homecoming,” I said, twirling. “Like?”

“Last I heard, homecoming requires a date.”

“About that,” I hedged. “I’m sort of … going with Scott. We both figure a high-school dance is the last place Hank will be patrolling.”

Patch smiled, but it was tight. “I take that back. If Hank wants to shoot Scott, he has my blessing.”

“We’re just friends.”

He tipped my chin up and kissed me. “Keep it that way.” He unhooked his aviator sunglasses from his shirt and slid them over his eyes. “Don’t tell Scott I didn’t warn him. I have to roll, but I’ll be in touch.”

He ducked out. And he was gone.

CHAPTER 24

AFTER PATCH LEFT, I DECIDED IT WAS TIME TO STOP playing princess and change back into my ordinary clothes. I’d just tugged my shirt over my head when I knew something wasn’t right. And then it hit me. My handbag was gone.

I looked under the plush bench, but it wasn’t there. Even though I was almost positive I hadn’t hung it on a hook, I looked behind the red dress. Shoving my feet into my shoes, I flung back the drape and hustled out to the main store area. I found Marcie tearing her way through a rack of push-up bras.

“Have you seen my handbag?”

She paused long enough to say, “You took it into the dressing room with you.” A saleslady bustled over. “Was it a brown leather saddlebag?” she asked me.

“Yes!”

“I just saw a man leaving the store with it. He came in without saying a word, and I assumed he was your father.” She touched her head, frowning. “In fact, I could have sworn he said he was … but maybe I imagined the whole thing. The whole moment felt so strange. My head feels fuzzy. I can’t explain it.”

A mind-trick, I thought.

She added, “He had gray hair and was wearing an argyle sweater… .”

“Which way did he go?” I cut her off.

“Out the front doors, heading toward the parking lot.”

I ran outside. I could hear Marcie on my heels.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” she panted. “I mean, what if he has a gun? What if he’s mentally unstable?”

“What kind of man steals a purse from under a dressing room door?” I demanded out loud.

“Maybe he was desperate. Maybe he needed cash.”

“Then he should have taken your bag!”

“Everyone knows Silk Garden is posh,” Marcie rationalized. “He probably figured he’d score big no matter which bag he grabbed.”

What I couldn’t tell Marcie was that he was most likely either Nephilim or a fall en angel. And instinct told me he was motivated by something bigger than a potential handful of cash.

We ran into the parking lot just as a black sedan backed out of a parking space. The glare of its headlights made it impossible to see behind the windshield. The engine revved and the car gunned toward us.

Marcie yanked on my sleeve. “Move, you idiot!”

Tires squealing, the car floored past us onto the street. The driver ran the stop sign, switched off his lights, and vanished into the night.

“Did you see what kind of car it was?” asked Marcie.

“An Audi A6. I got a partial on the license plate.”

Marcie appraised me up and down. “Not bad, Tiger.”

I gave her a look of pure irritation. “Not bad? He got away with my handbag! Don’t you find it a little odd that a guy who drives a flashy Audi needs to steal handbags? My handbag in particular?” Which begged the question, what did an immortal want with my handbag?

“Was it designer?”

“Try Target!”

Marcie hitched her shoulders. “Well, that was exciting. What now? Drop it and get back to shopping?”

“I’m calling the police.”

Thirty minutes later a patrol car pulled to the curb in front of Silk Garden and Detective Basso swung out. Suddenly I wished I’d taken Marcie’s advice and dropped the whole thing. My night had just gone from bad to worse.

Marcie and I were inside, pacing by the windows, and Detective Basso came in and found us. His eyes showed initial surprise upon seeing me, and when he ran his hand over his mouth, I was pretty sure it was to hide a smile.

“Someone stole my handbag,” I informed him.

“Walk me through this,” he said.

“I went into the fitting room to try on homecoming dresses. When I finished, I noticed my handbag wasn’t on the floor where I’d left it. I came out, and the saleslady told me she’d seen a man running off with it.”

“He had gray hair and an argyle sweater,” the saleslady offered helpfully.

“Any credit cards in the purse?” Detective Basso asked.

“No.”

“Cash?”

“No.”

“Total value of missing items?”

“Seventy-five dollars.” The handbag had cost only twenty, but standing in line for two hours to get a new driver’s license had to be worth at least fifty.

“I’ll file a report, but there’s not a lot we can do. Best-case scenario, the guy ditches the bag and someone turns it in. Worst case, you buy yourself a new bag.” Marcie linked her arm through mine. “Look on the bright side,” she said, patting my hand. “You lost a cheap bag, but you’re getting a swanky dress.” She handed me a dress bag with the Silk Garden logo. “It’s all taken care of. You can thank me later.”

I peered inside the bag. The floor-length red gown hung neatly inside.

I was in my bedroom, and I was forking down a piece of chocolate cake. I was evil-eyeing the red dress, which I’d hung on the closet door. I hadn’t tried it on yet, but I had the distinct vision that I was going to look eerily like Jessica from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Minus the D cups.

I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and dabbed on eye cream. Saying good night to my mom, I padded down the hall to my bedroom, buttoned myself into a cute pair of flannel pj’s from Victoria’s Secret, and cut the lights.

Taking Patch’s advice, I cleared my mind and prepared for sleep. Patch said he could come inside my dreams, but I had to be open to the idea. I was a little bit skeptical, a little bit hopeful. And not the least bit opposed. After the night I’d had, the only thing I could imagine making me feel better was having Patch take me into his arms. Better in a dream than not at all.

Lying in bed, I reflected on my day, letting my subconscious twist the memories into phantoms of dreams. My mind toyed with bits of dialogue, flashes of color. Suddenly I was standing in the dressing room at Silk Garden with Patch. Only in this version, he had his fingers hooked in the belt loops of my jeans and my fingers were mussing up his hair. Our mouths were an inch apart, and I could feel the warmth of his breath.

The dream had almost towed me under completely when I felt my blankets being dragged off my body.

I sat up to find Patch standing over my bed. He was wearing the same jeans and white tee I’d seen him in earlier, and he balled up my blankets, tossing them aside.

A smile lit his eyes. “Sweet dreams?”

I looked around. Everything in my room was just as it should be. The door was shut, the night-light on. My clothes were draped over the rocking chair where I’d left them, and the Jessica Rabbit dress still hung from the closet door. Despite no visible evidence, something felt … not quite right.

“Is this real,” I asked Patch, “or a dream?”

“Dream.”

I gave an appreciative laugh. “Wow. Could’ve fooled me. It’s so real.”

“Most dreams are. It isn’t until you wake up that you see all the plot holes.”

“Talk me through this.”

“I’m in the landscape of your dream. Imagine that your subconscious and mine walked through a door you created in your mind. We’re in the room together, but it’s not a physical place. The room is imagined, but our thoughts aren’t. You decided the setting and the clothes you’re wearing, and you decide everything you say. But since I’m actually in the dream with you, as opposed to a version of myself that you dreamed up, the things I say and do aren’t the work of your imagination. I control those things.”

I was pretty sure I understood enough to get by. “Are we safe here?”

“If you’re asking if Hank will spy on us, no, most likely not.”

“But if you can do this, what’s stopping him from doing it? I know he’s Nephilim, and unless I’m way off here, it seems like fall en angels and Nephilim have a lot of the same powers.”

“Until I tried invading your dreams a few months ago, I didn’t know much about how the process works. I’ve since learned it requires a strong connection between both subjects. I also know the dreaming subject has to be deep under. The timing can get tricky and requires patience. If you invade too early, the subject will wake up. If two angels, or Nephilim, or any combination of the two, invade a dream at the same time, pushing and pulling with their own agendas, the dreamer is far more likely to wake up. Whether or not you like it, Hank has a strong connection to you. But if he hasn’t tried invading your dreams yet, I don’t think he’ll start this late in the game.”

“How did you learn all of this?”

“Trial and error.” He hesitated, as though meaning to tread carefully with his next words. “I also got a little outside help from a fall en angel who recently fell. Unlike me, she had a strong grasp on angel law before she fell. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has the Book of Enoch, a tome about the history of angels, memorized. I knew if anyone had answers, she did. After a little arm-twisting, she told me.” His face was a mask of indifference. “She meaning Dabria.” My heart gave an unpleasant twist. I didn’t want to be jealous of Patch’s ex—obviously I understood there was no way he didn’t have some kind of romantic history—but I felt an overpowering aversion to Dabria. Maybe residual anger—she had tried to kill me. Or maybe instinct telling me she wouldn’t hesitate to betray us again.

“So you met her in person after all?” I asked accusingly.

“We ran into each other today, and while I had her, I decided to get to the bottom of a few questions that have been weighing on my mind. I’ve been looking for a way to communicate with you undetected, and I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity that she might provide answers.” I hardly heard him. “Why did she track you down?”

“She didn’t say, and it’s not important. We got what we wanted, and that’s what I care about. We now have a private form of communication.”

“Did she still look doughy around the middle?”

Patch rolled his eyes.

I was acutely aware that he’d dodged my question. “Has she been to your studio?”

“This is starting to feel like Twenty Questions, Angel.”

“In other words, she has.”

“No, she hasn’t,” Patch answered patiently. “Can we be done talking about Dabria?”