Finale

Vee didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll call Scott and cancel.” She slid the window all the way open to invite me in. “Tell me what’s on your mind, babe.”

To her credit, Vee didn’t scream, sob hysterically, or flee from the room the moment I finished telling her the fantastical secrets I’d kept to myself the past six months. She’d flinched once when I’d explained that Nephilim were the progeny of humans and fallen angels, but other than that, her expression had remained free of horror and disbelief. She listened attentively as I described two warring races of immortals, Hank Millar’s role in everything, and how he’d dumped his baggage in my lap. She even managed to smile slightly as I lifted the cloak on Patch and Scott’s true identities.

When I finished, she merely cocked her head, scrutinizing me. After a moment, she said, “Well, that explains a lot.”

It was my turn to blink. “Seriously? That’s all you have to say? You aren’t, I don’t know . . . stunned? Confused? Bewildered? Hysterical?”

Vee tapped her chin contemplatively. “I knew Patch was way too hard-core to be human.”

I was starting to wonder if she’d even heard me say that I wasn’t human. “What about me? You’re completely cool with the idea that not only am I Nephilim, but I’m supposed to be leading all the other Nephilim out there”—I thrust my finger at the window—“into war against fallen angels? Fallen angels, Vee. Like in the Bible. Heaven’s banished evildoers.”

“Actually, I think it’s pretty incredible.”

I scratched my eyebrow. “I can’t believe you’re being so calm about this. I expected some kind of reaction. I expected an outburst. Based on past experience, I anticipated flailing arms and a healthy dose of swearing, at the very least. I might as well be divulging this to a brick wall.”

“Babe, you’re making me sound like a diva.”

That brought a quirk to my lips. “You said it, not me.”

“I just think it’s really weird that you said the easiest way to spot Nephilim is by their height, and you, my friend, aren’t extraordinarily tall,” said Vee. “Now take me, for instance. I’m tall.”

“I’m average height because Hank—”

“Got it. You already explained that part about swearing an oath to become Nephilim while you were human, hence the average physique, but it still kind of sucks, right? I mean, what if the Changeover Vow had made you tall? What if it had made you as tall as me?”

I didn’t know where Vee was going with this, b with thut I felt like she was missing the point. This wasn’t about how tall I was. This was about opening her mind to an immortal world that wasn’t supposed to exist—and I’d just burst the secure little bubble she’d been living in.

“Does your body heal rapidly now that you’re Nephilim?” Vee continued. “Because if you didn’t get that perk, you really got shortchanged.”

I stiffened. “Vee, I didn’t tell you about our accelerated healing capabilities.”

“Huh. I guess you didn’t.”

“How could you possibly know, then?” I stared at Vee, revisiting every word of our conversation. I had definitely not told her. My brain seemed to struggle forward in slow motion. And then, just like that, understanding came rushing at me much too fast to digest. I covered my mouth with my hand. “You . . . ?”

Vee smirked. “I told you I was keeping secrets from you.”

“But— It can’t be— It’s not—”

“Possible? Yeah, that’s what I thought at first too. I thought I was going through some kind of whacked-up second menstruation thing. These past couple weeks I’ve been tired and crampy and totally pissed off at the world. Then, a week ago, I cut my finger while slicing an apple. It healed so fast I almost thought I’d imagined seeing blood. More weird stuff happened after that. In PE, I served the volleyball so hard it hit the back wall on the opposite side of the court. During weights, I had no problem lifting what the bulkiest guys in the class were lifting. I hid it, of course, because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself until I figured out what was happening to my body. Trust me, Nora. I am one hundred percent Nephilim. Scott caught on to it right away. He’s been teaching me the ropes and helping me cope with the idea that seventeen years ago, my mom did the deed with a fallen angel. It’s helped knowing Scott went through a similar physical change and realization about his own parents. Neither of us can believe it’s taken you this long to figure it out.” She punched my shoulder.

I felt my jaw hanging stupidly agape. “You. You’re—really Nephilim.” How could I not have seen it? I should have detected it in an instant—I could with any other Nephil, or fallen angel for that matter. Was it because Vee was my very best friend in the world, and had been for so long, that I couldn’t view her any other way?

“What has Scott told you about the war?” I asked at last.

“That’s one of the reasons he was coming over tonight, to bring me up to speed. ’Twould appear you’re a big deal, Miss Queen Bee. Leader of the Black Hand’s army?” Vee let out an appreciative whistle. “Dang, girl. Make sure to stick that on your résumé.”

CHAPTER 34

I WORE NOTHING BUT TENNIS SHOES, SHORTS, AND A tank top when I met Patch early the following morning on a rocky piece of coastline. It was Monday, Pepper’s deadline. It was also a school day. But I couldn’t worry about either of those things now. Train first, stress later.

I’d wrapped my hands in bandages, anticipating that Patch’s version of training would put Dante’s to shame. My hair was pulled back in a tight French braid, and my stomach was empty except for a glass of water. I hadn’t ingested devilcraft since Friday, and it showed. I had a headache the size of Nebraska lodged in my head, and my vision seesawed in and out of focus when I turned my head too sharply. A jagged hunger clawed inside me. The pain was so fierce, I couldn’t catch my breath.

Upholding my promise to Patch, I’d taken the antidote Saturday night directly after confessing my addiction, but apparently the medication took a while to run its course. Probably didn’t help that I’d pumped large quantities of devilcraft into my system over the past week.

Patch wore black jeans and a matching T-shirt that hugged his form. He rested his hands on my shoulders, facing me. “Ready?”

Despite the grim mood, I smiled and cracked my knuckles. “Ready to wrestle with my gorgeous boyfriend? Oh, I’d say I’m ready for that.”

Amusement softened his eyes.

“I’ll try to control where I put my hands, but in the heat of things, who knows what could happen?” I added.

Patch grinned. “Sounds promising.”

“All right, Trainer. Let’s do this.”

At my word, Patch’s expression turned focused and businesslike. “You haven’t been trained in swordsmanship, and I’m guessing Dante has had more than his fair share of practice over the years. He’s as old as Napoleon, and probably came out of his mother’s womb waving a cuirassier’s sword. Your best bet is to strip him of his sword early and move quickly into hand-to-hand combat.”

“How am I going to do that?”

Patch picked up two sticks near his feet that he’d cut to approximately the length of a standard sword. He tossed one through the air, and I caught it. “Draw your sword before you begin fighting. It takes more time to draw a sword than it does to get struck.”

I pretended to draw my sword from an invisible scabbard at my hip, and held it at the ready.

“Keep your feet shoulder-width apart at all times,” Patch instructed, engaging me in a slow, relaxed parry. “You don’t want to lose your balance and trip. Never move your feet close together, and always keep the blade close to your body. The more you lean or stretch, the easier it will be for Dante to knock you over.”

We practiced footwork and balance for several minutes, the blunt clashing of our makeshift swords ringing out above low tide.