Finale

More chin stroking. “Well, now that you’ve put the idea into my head . . .”

“This isn’t funny, Dante.”

His smile vanished. “No, it’s not. For what it’s worth, I swore an oath to Hank that I’d help you succeed. My neck is on the line just as much as yours. I’m not out here every morning to earn a few extra karma points. I’m here because I need you to win. My life is riding on your shoulders.”

His words sank in. “Are you saying if I don’t go to war, and win, you’ll die? Is that the oath you swore?”

He exhaled, long and slow, before answering. “Yes.”

I closed my eyes, kneading my temples. “I really wish you hadn’t told me.”

“Stressed?”

Leaning back against the boulder, I let the breeze blow across my skin. Deep breaths. Not only could I potentially kill my mom and myself if I failed to lead Hank’s army, but now I’d kill Dante, too, if I didn’t lead it to victory. But what about peace? What about my deal with the archangels?

Damn Hank. This was his fault. If he’d gone anywhere but straight to hell upon his death, there was no justice in—or out of—the world.

“Lisa Martin and the Nephilim higher-ups want to meet with you again,” Dante said. “I’ve been stalling, because I know you’re not sold on war, and I’m worried how they’ll react. We need them to keep you in power. In order to do that, we need them to think your desires are aligned with theirs.”

“I don’t want to meet them yet,” I said automatically. “Keep stalling.” I needed time to think. Time to decide on a course of action. Who was my greatest threat—displeased archangels, or rebellious Nephilim?

“Do you want me to tell them that for now, you want everything to go through me?”

“Yes,” I said gratefully. “Do whatever it takes to buy me a little more time.”

“By the way, I heard about your faux breakup last night. You must have put on quite a show. The Nephilim are buying it.”

“But not you.”

“Patch gave me the heads-up.” He winked. “I wouldn’t have bought it anyway. I’ve seen the two of you together. What you have doesn’t die just like that. Here,” Dante said, handing me a chilled bottle of Cool Blue Gatorade. “Drink up. You’ve lost a lot of fluid.”

Twisting off the cap, I gave a nod of gratitude and drank deeply. The liquid poured down my throat, instantly thickening to clog my esophagus. Heat clawed at my throat, broke through, and swarmed the rest of my body. I bent forward, coughing and wheezing.

“What is this stuff?” I gagged.

“Post-workout hydration,” he said, but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

I continued to choke, my lungs rioting in spasms. “I thought—it was Gatorade—that’s what—the bottle says!”

All emotion vanished off his face. “It’s for your own good,” he said dully. Then he darted off in a blur of speed.

I was still bent at the waist, feeling as though my insides were slowly liquefying. Specks of electric blue burst across my eyes. The world swayed left . . . then right. Clutching my throat, I trudged forward, fearing that if I passed out here, I’d never be found.

CHAPTER 8

ONE STAGGERING STEP AFTER ANOTHER, I made it out of the woods. By the time I reached the farmhouse, most of the fire-in-my-bones feeling had dissipated. My breathing was back to normal, but my alarm was still front and center. What had Dante given me? And—why?

I had a key on a chain around my neck, and I let myself in. Taking off my shoes, I crept upstairs and padded quietly past my mom’s bedroom. The clock on my nightstand read ten minutes till seven. Before Dante came into my life, this would have been a normal, if not slightly early, hour to rise. Most days I woke up feeling refreshed, but this morning I felt exhausted and worried. Grabbing clean clothes, I headed to the bathroom to shower and get ready for school.

At ten before eight, I pulled the Volkswagen into the student parking lot and hiked up to the school, a towering gray building that resembled an old Protestant church. Inside, I crammed my belongings into my locker, grabbed my first- and second-period textbooks, and headed to class. My stomach clenched with hunger, but I was too rattled to eat. The blue drink still swam uneasily in my stomach.

First up, AP U.S. History. I took my seat and scanned my new cell phone for messages. Still no word from Patch. It’s cool, I told myself. Something probably came up. But I couldn’t ignore the feeling that something wasn’t right. Patch had told me he’d come over last night, and it wasn’t like him to break a promise. Especially since he knew how upset I’d been over the breakup.

I was about to tuck my cell away when it chimed with a text.

MEET ME BY THE WENTWORTH RIVER IN 30, Patch’s text read.

ARE YOU OKAY? I immediately texted back.

YES. I’LL BE AT THE BOAT DOCKS. MAKE SURE YOU AREN’T FOLLOWED.

The timing wasn’t great, but I wasn’t going to not meet Patch. He said he was fine, but I wasn’t convinced. If he was fine, why was he calling me out of class, and why were we meeting all the way out at the boat docks?

I approached Mrs. Warnock’s desk. “Excuse me, Mrs. Warnock? I’m not feeling well. Can I go lie down in the nurse’s office?”

Mrs. Warnock removed her glasses and studied me. “Is everything all right, Nora?”

“It’s that time of the month,” I whispered. Could I be any less creative?

She sighed. “If I had a nickel for every time a student said that . . .”

“I wouldn’t ask if my cramps weren’t absolutely killing me.” I considered rubbing my stomach, but decided it might be too much.

At last she said, “Ask the nurse for acetaminophen. But the minute you’re feeling better, I want you back in class. We’re starting our unit on Jeffersonian republicanism today. If you don’t have someone reliable to borrow notes from, you’re going to spend the next two weeks playing catch-up.”

I nodded vigorously. “Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”

I scuttled out the door, jogged down a flight of stairs, and, after looking both ways down the hall to make sure the vice principal wasn’t making rounds, fled through a side door.

I threw myself into the Volkswagen and made a break for it. Of course, that was the easy part. Getting back into class without a signed permission slip from the nurse was going to require nothing short of magic. No sweat, I thought. Worse-case scenario, I’d get caught ditching and spend the next week in early-morning detention.

If I needed an excuse to stay away from Dante, whom I no longer trusted, it was as good as any.

The sun was out, the sky a hazy fall blue, but the crisp air cut through my puffer vest with the relentless foreboding of winter. The parking lot upriver from the boat docks was empty. No recreational fishermen out today. After parking, I crouched in the vegetation at the edge of the parking lot a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone followed me. Then I took the paved walkway leading down to the docks. I quickly realized why Patch had selected the spot: Other than a few chirping birds, we were completely alone.

Three boat ramps stretched into the wide river, but no boats. I walked to the end of the first ramp, shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun, and looked around. No Patch.

My cell phone chimed.

I’M IN THE THICKET OF TREES AT THE END OF THE WALKWAY, Patch texted.

I followed the walkway past the docks to the thicket, and that was when Pepper Friberg stepped out from behind a tree. He had Patch’s cell phone in one hand and a gun in the other. My eyes fixed on the gun, and I took an involuntary step back.

“It won’t stall you, but a gunshot can be excruciatingly painful,” he said. His polyester trousers rode high on his waist, and his shirt hung at an ill-fitting angle—he hadn’t lined up the buttons properly. However, despite his