Becca Fitzpatrick - Silence

ALSO BY BECCA FITZPATRICK
Hush, Hush
Crescendo

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Childrens Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or
real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Becca Fitzpatrick

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Book design by Lucy Ruth Cummins
The text for this book is set in Seria.

Manufactured in the United States of America

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4424-2664-1 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4424-4960-2 (proprietary hc)
ISBN 978-1-4424-2666-5 (eBook)

To Riley and Jace
xoxo

T HE SLEEK BLACK AUDI ROLLED TO A STOP IN THE parking lot overlooking the cemetery, but none of the three men inside had any intention of paying respects to the dead. The hour burned past midnight, and the grounds were officially closed. A strange summer fog hung thin and dreary, like a string of rising ghosts. Even the moon, a slender waxing crescent, resembled a drooping eyelid. Before the road dust settled, the driver leaped out, promptly opening the two rear car doors.

Blakely exited first. He stood tall with graying hair and a hard, rectangular facenearly thirty in human years, though markedly older by Nephilim count. He was followed by a second Nephil named Hank Millar. Hank, too, was uncommonly tall with blond hair, snapping blue eyes, and charismatic good looks. His creed was Justice over mercy, and that, combined with his quick rise to power in the Nephilim underworld during the last few years, had earned him the nicknames the Fist of Justice, Iron Fist, and most famously, the Black Hand. He was hailed among his people as a visionary leader, a savior. But in smaller backroom circles, he was quietly referred to as the Blood Hand. Hushed voices murmured not of a redeemer, but of a ruthless dictator. Hank found their nervous chatter amusing; a true dictator had absolute power and no opposition. Hopefully, someday he could live up to their expectations.

Hank stepped out and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. Are my men assembled?

Ten men in the woods above us, Blakely answered. Another ten in cars at both exits. Five are hiding at various points within the cemetery; three just inside the doors of the mausoleum, and two along the fence. Any more, and wed give ourselves away. Undoubtedly, the man you are meeting tonight will come with his own backup.

Hank smiled in the darkness. Oh, I rather doubt that.

Blakely blinked. You brought twenty-five of your best Nephilim fighters to go against one man?

Not a man, Hank reminded him. I dont want anything to go wrong tonight.

We have Nora. If he gives you trouble, put him on the phone with her. They say angels cant feel touch, but emotions are fair game. Im certain hell feel it when she screams. Dagger is standing by, at the ready.

Hank turned to Blakely, giving him a slow, appraising smile. Dagger is watching her? Hes hardly sane.

You said you wanted to break her spirit.

I did say that, didnt I? Hank mused. It had been four short days since hed taken her captive, dragging her out of a maintenance shed inside Delphic Amusement Park, but hed already determined precisely which lessons she needed to learn. First, never to undermine his authority in front of his men. Second, devotion to her Nephilim bloodline. And perhaps most important, to show her own father respect.

Blakely handed Hank a small mechanical device with a button at the center that glowed an unearthly shade of blue. Put this in your pocket. Press the blue button and your men will swarm in from every direction.

Has it been enhanced with devilcraft? Hank asked.

A nod. Upon activation, it is designed to temporarily immobilize the angel. I cant say for how long. This is a prototype, and I havent thoroughly tested it.

Have you spoken of this to anyone?

You ordered me not to, sir.

Satisfied, Hank pocketed the device. Wish me luck, Blakely.

His friend patted his shoulder. You dont need it.

Flicking aside his cigarette, Hank descended the stone steps leading to the cemetery, a rather foggy patch of land that made his vantage point useless. Hed hoped to see the angel first, from above, but was comforted by the knowledge that he was backed by his own handpicked and highly trained militia.

At the base of the steps, Hank peered through the shadows warily. It had started to drizzle, washing out the fog. He could make out towering gravestones and trees that twisted wildly. The cemetery was overgrown and almost mazelike. No wonder Blakely had suggested the spot. The likelihood of human eyes accidentally witnessing tonights events was negligible.

There. Ahead. The angel leaned on a gravestone, but at the sight of Hank, he straightened. Dressed strictly in black, including a leather motorcycle jacket, he was difficult to distinguish from the shadows. He hadnt shaved in days, his hair was unruly and unkempt, and there were lines of worry around his mouth. Mourning the disappearance of his girlfriend, then? All the better.

You look a little worse for wear Patch, is it? Hank said, stopping a few feet away.

The angel smiled, but it wasnt pleasant. And here I thought maybe youd had a few sleepless nights yourself. After all, shes your own flesh and blood. From the looks of it, youve been getting your beauty sleep. Rixon always said you were a pretty boy.

Hank let the insult roll off. Rixon was the fallen angel who used to possess his body every year during the month of Cheshvan, and he was as good as dead. With him gone, there was nothing left in the world that frightened Hank. Well? What do you have for me? It had better be good.