Finale (22 page)

But it wasn’t food I needed.

I pulled over and called Scott. “I need Dante’s address.”

“You’ve never been to his place before? Aren’t you his girlfriend?”

It irritated me that he was slowing the conversation. I needed Dante’s address; I didn’t have time to chitchat. “Do you have it or not?”

“I’ll text you the address. Something wrong? You sound antsy. Have for a few days now.”

“I’m fine,” I said, then hung up and slouched in my seat. Sweat beaded my upper lip. I clenched the steering wheel, trying to fend off the cravings that seemed to grip me by the throat and rattle me. My thoughts were glued to one word—devilcraft. I tried to swat the temptation away. I’d just taken devilcraft this morning. A
whole
bottle. I could beat these cravings. I decided when I needed more devilcraft. I decided when, and how much.

The prickly sweat spread to my back, little rivulets scurrying beneath my shirt. The bottoms of my thighs, hot and moist, seemed to stick to the seat cushions. Even though it was October, I blasted the AC.

I steered back onto the road, but the blare of a passing horn caused me to brake abruptly. A white van sped past, its driver making an obscene gesture through the window.

Get a grip,
I told myself.
Pay attention.

After a few head-clearing breaths, I uploaded the address to Dante’s house onto my cell phone. I studied the map, gave an ironic laugh, and flipped a U-turn. Dante, it seemed, lived less than five miles from Patch’s townhouse.

Ten minutes later I’d driven under a lush arch of trees canopying the road, crossed a cobblestone bridge, and parked the Volkswagen on a quaint and curving tree-lined street. Houses were predominantly white Victorians with gingerbread detail and steeply pitched roofs. All were flamboyant and excessive. I identified Dante’s—a Queen Anne at 12 Shore Drive—that was all spindles and towers and gables. The door was painted red with a big brass knocker. I skipped the knocker and went straight for the bell, pushing it repeatedly.
If he didn’t hurry and answer . . .

Dante cracked the door, his face registering surprise. “How’d you find this place?”

“Scott.”

He frowned. “I don’t like people showing up at my door unexpectedly. A lot of foot traffic looks suspicious. I’ve got nosy neighbors.”

“It’s important.”

He jerked his chin back toward the road. “That piece of junk you drive is an eyesore.”

I wasn’t in the mood to exchange witty insults. If I didn’t get devilcraft into my system soon—just a few drops—my heart was going to gallop right out of my chest. Even now my pulse raced and I was laboring to draw breath. I might as well have spent the past hour running up a steep hill, I was so winded.

I said, “I changed my mind. I want devilcraft. As a backup,” I quickly added. “In case I find myself in a situation where I’m outnumbered and I need it.” I couldn’t focus long enough to tell if my reasoning sounded flimsy. Red spots flashed across my vision. I desperately wanted to wipe my brow, but I didn’t want to draw extra attention to how profusely I was sweating.

Dante gave me a questioning look I couldn’t quite interpret, then led me inside. I stood in the foyer, darting my eyes over the clean white walls and lush Oriental rugs. A hallway led back to the kitchen. Formal living room on my left, and dining room, painted the same oxblood red as my eye spots, on my right. As far as I could see, every furnishing was antique. A crystal-droplet chandelier hung overhead.

“Nice,” I managed to choke out between my skittering pulse and tingling extremities.

“The house belonged to friends. They left it to me in their will.”

“Sorry they passed.”

He strode into the dining room, tilted a large painting of a haystack to one side, and revealed the time-honored hidden wall safe. He punched in the code and opened the box.

“Here you go. It’s a new prototype. Incredibly concentrated, so drink it in low doses,” he cautioned. “Two bottles. If you decid. Iace="Tie to start taking it now, it should last a week.”

I nodded, trying to hide my watering mouth as I took the blue-glowing bottles. “There’s something I want to tell you, Dante. I’m leading the Nephilim to war. So if you can spare more than two bottles, I could use them.” I’d fully intended to tell Dante about my decision to go into battle, but I had not meant to tell him with the intent of hoping to score extra devilcraft. It seemed like a sneaky maneuver, but I was too hungry to feel much more than a pinch of guilt.

“War?” Dante repeated, sounding startled. “Are you sure?”

“You can tell the Nephilim higher-ups that I’m devising plans to go against fallen angels.”

“This is—great news,” Dante said, still sounding shell-shocked as he stuffed an extra bottle of devilcraft into my hands. “What made you change your mind?”

“A conversion of heart,” I said, because I thought it sounded good. “I’m not just leading the Nephilim. I
am
one.”

Dante saw me out, and it took every ounce of control to walk calmly to the Volkswagen. I kept our farewell short, then drove around the corner, immediately parked, and twisted the cap off the bottle. I was about to tip it back when the sound of Patch’s ringtone caused me to jump, splashing blue liquid on my lap.

It evaporated instantly, rising into the air like smoke from a snuffed match. I cursed under my breath, furious that I’d lost even a few precious drops.

“Hello?” I answered. The red spots streaked my vision.

“I don’t like finding you in another man’s house, Angel.”

Immediately, I looked both ways out the window. I shoved the devilcraft under my seat. “Where are you?”

“Three cars back.”

My eyes flew to the rearview mirror. Patch swung off his motorcycle and strolled toward me, phone pressed to his ear. I wiped my face with the neck of my shirt.

I cranked down my window. “Following me?” I asked Patch.

“Tracking device.”

I was starting to hate that thing.

Patch leaned a forearm on the roof of my car, bending close. “Who lives on Shore Drive?”

“That tracking device is pretty specific.”

“I only buy the best.”

“Dante lives at 12 Shore Drive.” No use lying when it sounded like he’d already done his research.

“I don’t like finding you in another man’s home, but I hate finding you in his.” His expression was calm enough, but I could tell he wanted an explanation.

“I needed to confirm our workout time for tomorrow morning. I was in the area and figured I might as well stop by.” Th
e lie slipped out easy, so easy. All I could think of was getting rid of Patch. My throat filled with the taste of devilcraft. I swallowed impatiently.

T
HURSDAY EVENING ARRIVED, AND WITH IT, THE
complete transformation of the farmhouse. Garlands of autumn leaves in scarlet, gold, and chestnut spilled off the eaves. Bushels of dried cornstalks framed the door. Marcie had purchased what appeared to be every pumpkin and gourd in all of Maine, and lined them up along the sidewalk, the driveway, and every last square inch of porch. Some were carved into jack-o’-lanterns, flickering candlelight in their spooky expressions. A vindictive part of me wanted to tell her it looked like a craft store had thrown up on our lawn, but the truth was, she’d done a nice job.

Inside, haunted music played from the stereo. Skulls, bats, cobwebs, and ghosts cluttered the furniture. Marcie had rented a dry-ice machine—as if we didn’t have enough authentic fog in the yard.

I had two paper bags filled with last-minute items in my arms, and I carted them into the kitchen.

“I’m back!” I yelled. “Plastic cups, one bag of spider rings, two bags of ice, and more skeleton confetti—just like you asked. Soda is still in the trunk. Any volunteers to help carry it in?”

Marcie sashayed into the room, and I did a jaw drop. She wore a black vinyl bra and matching leggings. Nothing more. Her ribs poked through her skin, and she had total Popsicle-stick thighs. “Put the soda in the fridge, the ice in the freezer, and sprinkle the skeleton confetti on the dining room table, but don’t get any in the food. That’s it for now. Stay close in case I need anything else. I have to go finish my costume.”

“Well, that’s a relief. For a minute there, I thought that was all you planned on wearing,” I said, gesturing at the skimpy vinyl.

Marcie glanced down. “It is. I’m Catwoman. I just need to hot-glue black felt ears to my headband.”

“You’re wearing a bra to the party? Just a bra?”

“A bandeau.”

Oh, this was going to be good. I couldn’t wait for Vee’s commentary. “Who’s Batman?”

“Robert Boxler.”

“I guess that means Scott bailed?” It was more of a rhetorical . IacRomaquestion. Just to give the proverbial knife one last twist.

Marcie gave her shoulders a pompous little hike. “Scott who?” she said, and marched upstairs.

“He chose Vee over you!” I called triumphantly after her.

“I don’t care,” Marcie singsonged back. “You probably made him. It’s no secret he does everything you say. Put the soda in the fridge before the turn of the century.”

I stuck my tongue out, even though she couldn’t see it. “I have to get ready too, you know!”

At seven, the first guests arrived. Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Mark Anthony, Elvis and Priscilla. Even a bottle of ketchup and mustard strolled through the front door. I let Marcie play hostess and moseyed into the kitchen, stacking my plate with deviled eggs, cocktail wieners, and candy corn. I’d been too busy granting Marcie’s every pre-party command to eat dinner. That, and the new formula of devilcraft Dante had given me, seemed to curb my appetite for the first several hours after I took it.

I’d done a reasonably good job of rationing it and still had enough to last a few more days. The night sweats, headaches, and strange tingling sensation that would seize me at the oddest moments when I’d first started taking the new formula had gone away. I was sure this meant that the dangers of addiction had passed and I’d learned to use devilcraft safely. Moderation was key. Blakely might have tried to hook me on devilcraft, but I was strong enough to set my own limits.

The effects of devilcraft were unbelievable. I’d never felt so mentally and physically superior. I knew I had to stop taking it eventually, but with the stress and dangers of Cheshvan and war looming, I was glad I was being cautious. If another of my doubting Nephilim soldiers attacked me, this time I’d be ready.

After filling up on appetizers and Sprite served from a black cauldron, I elbowed my way into the living room, looking to see whether Vee and Scott had arrived. The lights were dimmed, everyone was in costume, and I had a hard time picking faces out of the crowd. Plus, I’d peeked at the guest list. It was heavily weighted in favor of Marcie’s friends.

“Love the costume, Nora. But you’re anything but a devil.”

I looked sideways at Morticia Addams. I squinted in confusion, then smiled. “Oh, hey, Bailey. I almost didn’t recognize you with black hair.” Bailey sat beside me in math, and we’d been friends since junior high. I picked up my devil tail, with the little red spade at the tip, to save it from the guy behind me, who kept accidentally stepping on it, and said, “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Did you finish your math homework? I didn’t understand a single thing Mr. Huron tried to teach us today. Every time he started working a problem on the chalkboard, he’d stop halfway through, erase his work, and start over. I don’t think
he
knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, I’m probably going to spend hours on it tomorrow.”

Her eyes lit up. “We should meet at the library and do it together.”

“I promised my mom I’d clean out the cellar after school,” I hedged. uo;d do it Truth be told, homework had slipped a few notches on my list of priorities as of late. It was hard to stress about school when I feared that any day now the eerie cease-fire between fallen angels and Nephilim was going to snap. Fallen angels were up to something. And I’d give anything to find out what.

“Oh. Maybe next time,” Bailey said, sounding disappointed.

“Have you seen Vee?”

“Not yet. Who is she coming as?”

“A babysitter. Her date is Michael Myers from
Halloween
,” I explained. “If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.”

When I made it across the living room, I bumped into Marcie and her date, Robert Boxler.