Crescendo

Après une année tourmentée, Nora peut enfin savourer le bonheur dans les bras de Patch, son âme soeur, son ange gardien. Mais le meurtre de son père revient la hanter et Nora est à la recherche de réponses. Alors même que Patch est de plus en plus énigmatique, et distant... Et si le père de Nora était une victime du conflit ancestral opposant anges déchus et Néphilims? Et si Patch était lié de près à sa mort? Secrets, dissimulation, ambivalence... Nora est seule face aux zones d'ombre qui l'entourent et lever le voile sur la vérité peut parfois se révéler fatal...

Dans la ville brumeuse de Portland, Nora tente de mener une vie ordinaire depuis la mort violente de son père quelques mois auparavant. Lors d'un cours de biologie, elle fait la connaissance de Patch, qui vient d'arriver en ville. Il est séduisant, mystérieux, toutes les filles en sont folles, mais la vie de Nora est déjà bien trop remplie. Comment Patch peut-il en savoir autant d'argent sur son compte? Pourquoi se retrouve-t-il toujours sur sa route quand elle cherche à l'éviter? Alors que les deux adolescents se rapprochent, Nora prend peur: un inconnu masqué attaque sa voiture, sa chambre est fouillée, mise à sac; et quand elle appelle la police, tout est miraculeusement rentré dans l'ordre. Sans le savoir, Nora est devenue l'objet de la guerre qui agite les anges déchus et les Nephilim. Et en tombant amoureuse de Patch, elle va découvrir que la passion peut être fatale...

Extrait CHAPTER 1 TONIGHT I’M NOT A PARTY GIRL. THE EARSPLITTING MUSIC, THE gyrating bodies, the inebriated smiles—not my thing. My ideal Saturday night would be at home, snuggling on the sofa and watching a rom-com with my boyfriend, Patch. Predictable, low-key . . . normal. My name is Nora Grey, and while I used to be an average American teen, buying my clothes at the J. Crew outlet and spending my babysitting money on iTunes, normal and I have recently become perfect strangers. As in, I wouldn’t know normal if it marched up and poked me in the eye. Normal and I parted ways when Patch strolled into my life. Patch has seven inches on me, operates on cold, hard logic, moves like smoke, and lives alone in a supersecret, superswanky studio beneath Delphic Amusement Park. The sound of his voice, low and sexy, can melt my heart in three seconds flat. He’s also a fallen angel, kicked out of heaven for his flexibility when it comes to following rules. I personally believe Patch scared the pants off normal, and it took off running for the far side of the world. I might not have normalcy, but I do have stability. Namely, in the form of my best friend of twelve years, Vee Sky. Vee and I have an unshakable bond that even a laundry list of differences can’t break. They say opposites attract, and Vee and I are proof of the validity of the statement. I am slender and tallish—by human standards—with big curly hair that tests my patience, and I’m a type A personality. Vee is even taller, with ash-blond hair, serpentine-green eyes, and more curves than a roller coaster track. Almost always, Vee’s wishes trump mine. And unlike me, Vee lives for a good party. Tonight Vee’s wish to seek out a good time took us across town to a four-story brick warehouse throbbing with club music, swimming with fake IDs, and jam-packed with bodies producing enough sweat to take greenhouse gases to a whole new level. The layout inside was standard: a dance floor sandwiched between a stage and a bar. Rumor had it that a secret door behind the bar led to the basement, and the basement led to a man named Storky, who operated a thriving pirated anything business. Community religious leaders kept threatening to board up Coldwater’s hotbed of iniquity for disorderly teens . . . also known as the Devil’s Handbag. “Groove it, baby,” Vee yelled at me over the mindless thump, thump, thump of music, lacing her fingers through mine and swaying our hands over our heads. We were at the center of the dance floor, being jostled and bumped on every side. “This is how Saturday night’s supposed to be. You and me gettin’ down, letting loose, working up good ol’-fashioned girl-sweat.” I did my best to give an enthusiastic nod, but the guy behind me kept stepping on the heel of my ballet flat, and at five-second intervals, I had to shove my foot back into it. The girl to my right was dancing with her elbows out, and if I wasn’t careful, I knew I’d get clipped. “Maybe we should get drinks,” I called to Vee. “Feels like Florida in here.” “That’s ’cause you and me are burning up the place. Check out the guy at the bar. He can’t take his eyes off your smokin’ moves.” She licked her finger and pressed it to my bare shoulder, making a sizzling noise. I followed her gaze . . . and my heart lurched. Dante Matterazzi lifted his chin in acknowledgment. His next gesture was a little more subtle. Wouldn’t have pegged you for a dancer, he spoke to my mind. Funny, I would have pegged you for a stalker, I shot back. Dante Matterazzi and I both belonged to the Nephilim race, hence the innate ability to mind-speak, but the similarities stopped there. Dante didn’t know how to give it a rest, and I didn’t know how much longer I could dodge him. I’d met him for the first time just this morning, when he’d come to my house to announce that fallen angels and Nephilim were on the brink of war and I was in charge of leading the latter, but now I needed a break from war talk. It was overwhelming. Or maybe I was in denial. Either way, I wished he’d disappear. Left a message on your cell phone, he said. Gee, I must have missed it. More like I deleted it. We need to talk. Kind of busy. To emphasize my point, I rolled my hips and swung my arms side to side, doing my best to imitate Vee, whose favorite television network was BET, and it showed. She had hiphop stamped on her soul. A faint smile quirked Dante’s mouth. While you’re at it, get your friend to give you some pointers. You’re floundering. Meet me out back in two. I glared at him. Busy, remember? This can’t wait. With a meaningful arch of his eyebrows, he disappeared into the crowd. “His loss,” Vee said. “He can’t handle the heat, that’s all.” “About those drinks,” I said. “Can I bring you a Coke?” Vee didn’t look ready to give up dancing anytime soon, and as much as I wanted to avoid Dante, I figured it was best to just get this over with. Suck it up and talk to him. The alternative was having him shadow me all night. “Coke with lime,” Vee said. I edged my way off the dance floor and, after making sure Vee wasn’t watching, ducked down a side hallway and out the back door. The alley was bathed in blue moonlight. A red Porsche Panamera was parked in front of me, and Dante leaned against it, arms folded loosely over his chest. Dante is six feet nine with the physique of a soldier fresh out of boot camp. Case in point: He has more muscle tone in his neck than I have in my entire body. Tonight he was wearing baggy khakis and a white linen shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a deep V of smooth, hairless skin. “Nice car,” I said. “It gets the job done.” “So does my Volkswagen, and it cost considerably less.” “Takes more than four wheels to be a car.” Ugh. “So,” I said, tapping my foot. “What’s so urgent?” “You still dating that fallen angel?” It was only the third time in as many hours that he’d asked. Twice by text messaging, and now face-to-face. My relationship with Patch had gone through a lot of ups and downs, but the current trend was upward. We weren’t without our issues, however. In a world where Nephilim and fallen angels would rather die than smile at each other, dating a fallen angel was a definite no-no. I stood a little taller. “You know it.” “Being careful?” “Discreet is the watchword.” Patch and I didn’t need Dante to tell us it was wise not to make a lot of public appearances together. Nephilim and fallen angels never needed an excuse to teach each other a lesson, and racial tensions between the two groups were getting hotter with each passing day. It was autumn, October to be exact, and the Jewish month of Cheshvan was just days away. Every year during Cheshvan, fallen angels possess Nephilim bodies by the droves. Fallen angels have free rein to do as they please, and since it’s the only time during the year they can actually feel physical sensation, their creativity knows no bounds. They chase after pleasure, pain, and everything in between, playing parasites to their Nephilim hosts. For Nephilim, Cheshvan is a hellish prison. If Patch and I were so much as seen holding hands by the wrong individuals, we’d pay, one way or another. “Let’s talk about your image,” Dante said. “We need to generate some positive media around your name. Boost Nephilim confidence in you.” I gave a theatrical snap of my fingers. “Don’t you just hate it when your approval ratings are low?” Dante frowned. “This isn’t a joke, Nora. Cheshvan starts in just over seventy-two hours, and that means war. Fallen angels on one side, us on the other. Everything rides on your shoulders—you’re the new leader of the Nephilim army. The blood oath you swore to Hank is in effect, and I don’t think I have to remind you that the consequences of breaking it are very, very real.” Queasiness pinched my stomach. I hadn’t exactly applied for the job. Thanks to my deceased biological father, a truly twisted man named Hank Millar, I’d been forced to inherit the position. With the help of an otherworldly blood transfusion, he’d coerced me into transforming myself from mere human into purebred Nephil so I could take over his army. I’d sworn an oath to lead his army, it had gone into effect upon his death, and if I failed to do that, my mom and I would die. Terms of the oath. No pressure. “Despite every cautious measure I intend to implement, we can’t completely erase your past. The Nephilim are digging around. There are rumors you’re dating a fallen angel, and that your loyalties are split.” “I am dating a fallen angel.” Dante rolled his eyes. “Could you say it any louder?” I shrugged. If that’s what you really want. Then I opened my mouth, but Dante was beside me in an instant, covering it with his hand. “I know it kills you, but could you make my job easy just this once?” he murmured in my ear, glancing around at the shadows with obvious uneasiness, even though I was positive we were alone. I’d only been a purebred Nephil for twenty-four hours, but I trusted my new, sharper sixth sense. If there were eavesdroppers lurking, I’d know. &... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Relié .

Extrait PROLOGUELOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE NOVEMBER 1565 CHAUNCEY WAS WITH A FARMER’S DAUGHTER ON the grassy banks of the Loire River when the storm rolled in, and having let his gelding wander in the meadow, was left to his own two feet to carry him back to the château. He tore a silver buckle off his shoe, placed it in the girl’s palm, and watched her scurry away, mud slinging on her skirts. Then he tugged on his boots and started for home. Rain sheeted down on the darkening countryside surrounding the Château de Langeais. Chauncey stepped easily over the sunken graves and humus of the cemetery; even in the thickest fog he could find his way home from here and not fear getting lost. There was no fog tonight, but the darkness and onslaught of rain were deceiving enough. There was movement along the fringe of Chauncey’s vision, and he snapped his head to the left. At first glance what appeared to be a large angel topping a nearby monument rose to full height. Neither stone nor marble, the boy had arms and legs. His torso was naked, his feet were bare, and peasant trousers hung low on his waist. He hopped down from the monument, the ends of his black hair dripping rain. It slid down his face, which was dark as a Spaniard’s. Chauncey’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword. “Who goes there?” The boy’s mouth hinted at a smile. “Do not play games with the Duc de Langeais,” Chauncey warned. “I asked for your name. Give it.” “Duc?” The boy leaned against a twisted willow tree. “Or bastard?” Chauncey unsheathed his sword. “Take it back! My father was the Duc de Langeais. I’m the Duc de Langeais now,” he added clumsily, and cursed himself for it. The boy gave a lazy shake of his head. “Your father wasn’t the old duc.” Chauncey seethed at the outrageous insult. “And your father?” he demanded, extending the sword. He didn’t yet know all his vassals, but he was learning. He would brand the family name of this boy to memory. “I’ll ask once more,” he said in a low voice, wiping a hand down his face to clear away the rain. “Who are you?” The boy walked up and pushed the blade aside. He suddenly looked older than Chauncey had presumed, maybe even a year or two older than Chauncey. “One of the Devil’s brood,” he answered. Chauncey felt a clench of fear in his stomach. “You’re a raving lunatic,” he said through his teeth. “Get out of my way.” The ground beneath Chauncey tilted. Bursts of gold and red popped behind his eyes. Hunched with his fingernails grinding into his thighs, he looked up at the boy, blinking and gasping, trying to make sense of what was happening. His mind reeled like it was no longer his to command. The boy crouched to level their eyes. “Listen carefully. I need something from you. I won’t leave until I have it. Do you understand?” Gritting his teeth, Chauncey shook his head to express his disbelief—his defiance. He tried to spit at the boy, but it trickled down his chin, his tongue refusing to obey him. The boy clasped his hands around Chauncey’s; their heat scorched him and he cried out. “I need your oath of fealty,” the boy said. “Bend on one knee and swear it.” Chauncey commanded his throat to laugh harshly, but his throat constricted and he choked on the sound. His right knee buckled as if kicked from behind, though no one was there, and he stumbled forward into the mud. He bent sideways and retched. “Swear it,” the boy repeated. Heat flushed Chauncey’s neck; it took all his energy to curl his hands into two weak fists. He laughed at himself, but there was no humor. He had no idea how, but the boy was inflicting the nausea and weakness inside him. It would not lift until he took the oath. He would say what he had to, but he swore in his heart he would destroy the boy for this humiliation. “Lord, I become your man,” Chauncey said venomously. The boy raised Chauncey to his feet. “Meet me here at the start of the Hebrew month of Cheshvan. During the two weeks between new and full moons, I’ll need your service.” “A … fortnight?” Chauncey’s whole frame trembled under the weight of his rage. “I am the Duc de Langeais!” “You are a Nephil,” the boy said on a sliver of a smile. Chauncey had a profane retort on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. His next words were spoken with icy venom. “What did you say?” “You belong to the biblical race of Nephilim. Your real father was an angel who fell from heaven. You’re half mortal.” The boy’s dark eyes lifted, meeting Chauncey’s. “Half fallen angel.” Chauncey’s tutor’s voice drifted up from the recesses of his mind, reading passages from the Bible, telling of a deviant race created when angels cast from heaven mated with mortal women. A fearsome and powerful race. A chill that wasn’t entirely revulsion crept through Chauncey. “Who are you?” The boy turned, walking away, and although Chauncey wanted to go after him, he couldn’t command his legs to hold his weight. Kneeling there, blinking up through the rain, he saw two thick scars on the back of the boy’s naked torso. They narrowed to form an upside-down V. “Are you—fallen?” he called out. “Your wings have been stripped, haven’t they?” The boy—angel—whoever he was did not turn back. Chauncey did not need the confirmation. “This service I’m to provide,” he shouted. “I demand to know what it is!” The air resonated with the boy’s low laughter. © 2009 Becca Fitzpatrick --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Relié .