Finale (13 page)

“Expecting an important call?” I asked.

“Yes, and I have to take care of it now. I am on your side, Angel. I always will be. I’m sorry if you feel like I’m subverting your wishes. That’s the last thing I want, believe me.” He brushed a kiss across my mouth, but it felt brusque. He was already striding with purpose toward the stairs leading down to the garage. “I need you to do something for me. See if you can dig up anything on Blakely. Where he calls home these days, locations he’s visited lately, how many Nephilim bodyguards he has protecting him, any new prototypes he’s developing, and when he plans on introducing this super-drink to the mainstream. You’re right—I don’t think devilcraft has spread beyond Dante and Blakely yet. If it had, the archangels would have jumped on it. Talk soon, Angel.”

“So we’ll finish this conversation later?” I called after him, still stunned by his rapid departure.

He paused at the top of the stairs. “Dante gave you an ultimatum, but it was coming, with or without him. I can’t make the decision for you, but if you want a sounding board, let me know. I’m happy to help. Engage the alarm before you leave. Your personal key is on the counter. You’re welcome anytime. I’ll be in touch.”

“What about Cheshvan?” I said. I hadn’t made it through half the things I’d wanted to discuss with him, and now he was running off. “It starts tonight with the igh="Tirising moon.”

Patch gave a brusque nod. “There’s a bad feeling in the air. I’ll be keeping tabs on you, but I want you to watch your back just the same. Don’t be out any later than necessary. Sundown is your curfew tonight.”

Since I didn’t see the point in going back to school without a valid excuse slip, and since, if I left now, I’d only catch the last hour before the dismissal bell, I decided to stay at Patch’s place and do some thinking-slash-soul-searching.

I went to the fridge to hunt down a snack, but it was bare. It was very apparent Patch had moved in quickly and the furnishings had been included. The rooms were immaculate, lacking any personal touches. Stainless-steel appliances, taupe paint, walnut flooring. Modern American furniture in solid colors. Flat-screen TV and leather club chairs facing each other. Masculine, stylish, and lacking warmth.

I replayed my conversation with Patch and decided he hadn’t seemed the least bit sympathetic over Dante’s ultimatum and my big dilemma. What did that mean? That he thought I could work things out on my own? That choosing between Nephilim and fallen angels was a no-brainer? Because it wasn’t. The choice was getting harder with each passing day.

I mulled over what I
did
know. Namely that Patch wanted me to find out what Blakely was up to. Patch probably thought Dante was my best contact—a middleman between me and Blakely, so to speak. And in order to keep the lines of communication open between us, it was probably best that I keep Dante thinking I was on his side. That I saw eye to eye with the Nephilim.

And I did. In many ways. My sympathy was with them because they weren’t fighting for dominion or some other virtue-less ambition—they were fighting for their freedom. I got it. I admired it. I’d do anything to help. But I didn’t want Blakely or Dante putting the fallen angel population at risk. If fallen angels were wiped off the face of the Earth, Patch would go with them. I wasn’t willing to lose Patch, and I’d do whatever it took to make sure his species survived.

In other words, I was no closer to answers. I was right back at
square one, playing both sides of the field. The irony of it all struck me. I was just like Pepper Friberg. The only difference between me and Pepper was that I
wanted
to take a side. All this sneaking around and lying, and pretending to have allegiances to two opposing sides, was keeping me up at night. Pretty soon my mind would be consumed with memorizing lies so I wouldn’t get caught in my own elaborate net.

A
T FIVE THE FOLLOWING MORNING MY MATTRESS
dipped under the weight of a second body. My eyes sprang open to find Dante seated at the foot of the bed, wearing a somber expression.

“Well?” he asked simply.

I’d spent all of yesterday, into the night, trying to make up my mind, and I’d finally decided on a course of actioigh="d.

His eyebrows lifted slightly in question, his hope visible. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“I’m not out training with fallen angels, am I?” Not exactly a straight answer, and I hoped Dante didn’t press the issue.

He smiled. “Five minutes it is.”

“But no more blue stuff,” I said, bringing him to a halt at the door. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Yesterday’s sample didn’t convince you?” To my dismay, he didn’t look remorseful. If anything, his expression revealed disappointment.

“I get the feeling it wouldn’t make the FDA’s approved list.”

“If you change your mind, it’s on the house.”

I decided to take advantage of the conversation’s direction. “Is Blakely developing any other enhancement drinks? And when do you think he’ll widen his test group?”

A noncommittal shrug. “I haven’t talked to Blakely in a while.”

“Really? You’re testing devilcraft for him. And you were both close to Hank. I’m surprised you don’t keep in touch.”

“You know the saying ‘don’t put all your eggs in one basket’? That’s our strategy. Blakely develops the prototypes in his lab, and someone else delivers them to me. If something happens to one of us, the other is safe. I don’t know where Blakely is, so if fallen angels grab and torture me, I can’t tell them anything useful. Standard procedure. We’re starting off with a fifteen-mile run, so make sure you’re well hydrated.”

“Wait. What about Cheshvan?” I studied his face steadfastly, bracing myself for the worst. I’d lain awake several hours last night, tensely waiting for an outward manifestation that it had arrived. I’d expected a shift in the air, a current of negative energy sizzling over my skin, or some other supernatural sign. Instead Cheshvan had arrived without so much as a whisper. And yet, somewhere out there, I was sure thousands of Nephilim were suffering in ways I couldn’t imagine.

“Nothing,” Dante said grimly.

“What do you mean nothing?”

“As far as I know, not one fallen angel possessed their vassal last night.”

I sat up. “That’s a good thing! Isn’t it?” I added upon seeing Dante’s grave expression.

He was slow to respond. “I don’t know what it means. But I don’t think it’s good. They wouldn’t hold off without a reason—a very good one,” he added hesitantly.

“I don’t understand.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Could it be mental warfare? Do you think they’re trying to unsettle the Nephilim?”

“I think they know something we don’t.”

After Dante quietly shut my bedroom door, I dragged on some sweats and mentally stored away this new information. I was dying to get Patch’s take on last night’s unexpected and anticlimactic start to Cheshvan. Since he was a fallen angel, he’d likely have a more detailed explanation. What did the standoff mean?

Disappointed not to have an answer, but knowing it was a waste of time to speculate, I turned my focus on what else I’d learned. I felt one infinitesimal step closer to tracking devilcraft back to its source. Dante said he and Blakely never met in person, and that a middleman acted as a go-between, passing Blakely’s prototypes to Dante. I needed to find the go-between.

Outside, Dante merely had to take off running into the woods, and it was my signal to follow. Right away, I could tell that the blue drink infused with devilcraft had been flushed from my system. Dante zipped between trees at dangerous speeds, while I lagged behind, concentrating on each step to minimize injury. But even though I was relying on my own strengths, and mine alone, I could tell I was improving. Rapidly. A large boulder sat in my path directly ahead, and rather than veer around it, I made the split-second decision to vault it. I planted my foot halfway up the curved surface, propelled myself up, and soared over the boulder. Upon landing, I immediately slid under a brambly tree with low branches, and without missing a beat, sprang to my feet on the other side and kept running.

At the end of the fifteen-mile loop, I was plastered in sweat and breathing hard. I leaned back against a tree and tilted my face up to catch the breeze.

“You’re getting better,” Dante said, sounding surprised. I glanced sideways. He, of course, still looked freshly showered, not a hair out of place.

“And without the help of devilcraft,” I pointed out.

“You’d see even bigger results if you’d agree to take the super-drink.”

I pushed up from the tree and windmilled my arms, stretching my shoulder muscles. “What’s on the docket? More strength training?”

“Mind-tricks.”

That caught me off guard. “Invading minds?”

“Making people, especially fallen angels, see what isn’t really there.”

I didn’t need a definition. I’d had mind-tricks performed on me, and never once had the experience been enjoyable. The whole point of a mind-trick was to deceive a victim.

“I’m not sure about this,” I hedged. “Is it really necessary?”

“It’s a powerful weapon. Especially for you. If you can make your faster, stronger, larger opponent believe you’re invisible, or that they’re about to walk off a cliff, the few extra seconds might be what saves you.”

“All right, show me how it’s done,” I said reluctantly.

“Step one: Invade your opponent’s mind. This is just like using mind-speak. Try it on me.”

“That’s easy,” I said, casting my mental nets towanta like usinrd Dante, ensnaring his mind, and pushing words into his conscious thought.
I’m in your mind, having a look around, and it’s awfully empty in here.

Wiseacre,
Dante returned.

Nobody says that anymore. Speaking of which, how old are you in Nephilim years?
I’d never thought to ask.

I swore fealty during Napoleon’s invasion of Italy—my homeland.

And that was in what year . . . ? Help me out. I’m not a history buff.

Dante smiled.
1796.

Wow. You’re old.

No, I’m experienced. Next step: Tease apart the threads forming your opponent’s thoughts. Break them down, scramble them, snap them in half, whatever works for you. The means of carrying out this step varies among Nephilim. For me, breaking down my victim’s thoughts works best. I take the wall in their mind, the one that guards the very center where every thought is formed, and I tear it down. Like this.

Before I even realized what was happening, Dante had me backed up against a tree, gently stroking a few stray hairs off my forehead. He tipped my chin up to look in my eyes, and I couldn’t have pulled away from his penetrating gaze if I’d wanted. I drank in his gorgeous features. Deep brown eyes set an even distance from his strong, straight nose. Lush lips that bowed into a confident smile. Thick brown hair that fell over his forehead. His jawline was wide and chiseled, and smooth from a fresh shave. And all this set against a backdrop of creamy, olive-toned skin.

I could think of nothing but how good it would feel to kiss him. Every other thought in my head had been stripped away, and I didn’t mind. I was lost in a heavenly dream, and if I never woke up, I wouldn’t care.
Kiss Dante.
Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. I reached up on my tiptoes, closing the distance between our mouths, a thrilling flutter beating like wings in my chest.

Wings. Angels.
Patch.

Impulsively, I threw up a new wall in my head. And suddenly I saw the situation for what it really was. Dante had me backed up against a tree, all right, but I did
not
want to make out with him.

“Demonstration finished,” Dante said, his smile a bit too cocky for my liking.

“Next time choose a more appropriate demonstration,” I said tensely. “Patch would kill you if he found out about this.”

His smile didn’t fade. “That’s a figure of speech that doesn’t work very well with Nephilim.”

I wasn’t in the mood for humor. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to set him off. This petty feud between the two of you will blow up to a whole new level if you mess with me. Patch is the last person you want to antagonize. He doesn’t hold grudges, because the people who cross him tend to disappear quickly. And what you just did? That was crossing him.”

“It was the first idea that came to mind,” he said. “It won’t happen again.” I might have felt better about his apology had he sounded remotely penitent.

es "Times“See that it doesn’t,” I answered in a steely tone.

Dante seemed to shrug off any ill feelings with ease. “Now it’s your turn. Get inside my head and break down my thoughts. If you can, replace them with something of your own making. In other words, create an illusion.”

Since getting back to work was the fastest way to end the lesson, and end my time with Dante, I shoved my personal irritation aside and concentrated on the task at hand. With my nets still swimming through Dante’s mind, I envisioned first ensnaring his thoughts, and then pulling them apart one small thread at a time. The image in my head wasn’t all that different from peeling apart string cheese, one thin ribbon after another.