Your name?” I repeated, hoping it was my imagination that my voice faltered. “Call me Patch. I mean it. Call me

You keep life on a short leash.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re scared of what you can’t control.

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.

I'm telling you this because I want you to know that I know something about you isn't right. You haven't fooled everybody. I'm going to find out what you're up to. I'm going to expose you." "Looking forward to it.

Shh!" the guy beside me hissed again. "Blame him," I told the guy, pointing at Patch. The guy craned his neck back. "Listen," he said, facing me again. "If you don't quiet down, I'll get security." "Fine, go get security. Tell them to take him away," I said, again signaling Patch. "Tell them he wants to kill me." "I want to kill you," hissed the guy's girlfriend.

Humans are vulnerable, because they’re capable of being hurt.

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?