Finale (32 page)

“Self-preservation,” he said. “I did it to save myself.”

“And the rest of the Nephilim race?” I sputtered.

His silence told me just how concerned he was about their well-being. A disinterested shrug couldn’t have been more telling. Dante was in this for himself, end of story.

“They believe in you,” I said with a sick feeling swelling in mywelling heart. “They’re counting on you.”

“They’re counting on
you
.”

I flinched. The full impact of the responsibility weighing on my shoulders seemed to crush me at that moment. I was their leader. I was the face on this campaign. And now my most trusted adviser was defecting. If the army had been standing on weak legs before, one of those knees had just been kicked out.

“You can’t do this to me,” I said threateningly. “I’ll expose you. I’ll tell everyone what you’re really up to. I don’t know everything about Nephilim law, but I’m pretty sure they have a system to take care of traitors, and I somehow doubt it will be very judicial!”

“And who’s going to believe you?” said Dante simply. “If I argue that you’re the real traitor, who do you think they’ll believe?”

He was right. Who would Nephilim believe? The young, inexperienced imposter placed in power by her dead father, or the strong, capable, and charismatic man who had both the looks and skill of a fabled Roman god?

“I have pictures,” Dante said. “Of you with Patch. Of you with Pepper. Even some of you looking friendly with Dabria. I’ll pin this on you, Nora. You’re sympathetic to the fallen angel cause. That’s how I’ll frame it. They will destroy you.”

“You can’t do this,” I said, rage sizzling in my chest.

“You’re walking down a dead-end road. This is your last chance to turn around. Come with me. You’re stronger than you think you are. We’d make an unstoppable team. I could use you—”

I gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, I’m quite finished with you using me!” I grabbed a large stone from the rubble wall, intending to smash it against Dante’s skull, knock him unconscious, and recruit Patch’s help in deciding what to do with him next, when a cruel and twisted smirk transformed Dante’s dark features, making him appear decidedly more demon than fabled Roman god.

“What a waste of talent,” he muttered in a chastising tone. His expression was too smug, given that
I
held
him
captive, and that was when an awful suspicion began to form in my mind. The whip binding his wrists wasn’t causing his skin to blister the way it had mine. In fact, other than having his face planted in gravel, he didn’t look uncomfortable.

The whip snapped free from Dante’s wrists, and in an instant, he sprang to his feet.

“Did you really think I’d allow Blakely to create a weapon that could be used against me?” he jeered, his upper lip curling over his teeth. Commanding the whip, he cracked it at me. Scorching heat sliced across my body, pitching me off my feet. I landed hard, robbed of breath. Dizzy from the impact, I scuttled backward, trying to bring Dante into focus.

“You might like to know I have e
very intention of taking over your position as commander of the Nephilim army,” Dante sneered. “I have the backing of the entire fallen angel race. I plan to lead the Nephilim right into the hands of fallen angels. They won’t know what I’ve done until it’s too late.”

A
T THE BOTTOM OF THE HILL I LOOKED UP, BUT I
didn’t see Dante. The black dog bounded after me, circling me with what almost appeared to be concern. I pulled myself up to sitting. Thick clouds blotted the moon, and I shivered violently as frost nipped my skin. Suddenly acutely aware of my surroundings, I jumped to my feet and ran through the maze of graves toward the mausoleum. To my surprise, the dog raced ahead, peering back every few steps as though to make sure I was still following.

“Scott!” I called out, flinging open the mausoleum’s door as I burst inside.

There were no windows. I couldn’t see. Impatiently, I swept my hands out, trying to feel my surroundings. I tripped on a small object and heard it roll away. Patting my hands across the cold stone floor, I grasped the flashlight Scott had taken with him and obviously dropped, and switched it on.

There.
In the corner. Scott was on his back, eyes open but dazed. I scrambled over, tugging at the blue-glowing whip scorching his wrists until it fell free. His skin blistered and oozed. He gave a pained moan.

“I think Dante is gone, but stay alert just the same,” I told him. “There’s a dog guarding the door—he’s on our side. Stay here until I come back. I have to find Patch.”

Scott groaned again, this time cursing Dante’s name. “Didn’t see it coming,” he muttered.

That made two of us.

I rushed outside, sprinting across the cemetery, which had fallen into near-perfect darkness. I batted my way through a hedge of bushes, plowing my own shortcut to the parking lot. I leaped the wrought-iron fence and ran straight for the lone black truck parked in the lot.

I saw the eerie blue light glowing behind the windows when I was still several feet away. Wrenching the door open, I dragged Patch out, laid him on the pavement, and began the laborious process of uncoiling the whip, which snaked the width of his chest, pinning his arms at his sides like a torturous corset. His eyes were shut, his skin emanating a faint blyue. At last I jerked the whip loose and flung it aside, oblivious to my burned fingers.

“Patch,” I said, shaking him. Tears jumped to my eyes, and my throat clogged with emotion. “Wake up, Patch.” I shook him harder. “You’re going to be fine. Dante is gone, and I untied the whip. Please wake up.” I pushed resolve into my voice. “You’re going to be okay. We’re together now. I need you to open your eyes. I need to know you can hear me.”

His body felt feverish, heat pouring through his clothes, and I ripped open his shirt. I gasped at the bubbled skin, patterned where the whip had coiled. The worst wounds curled up like blackened, scorched paper. A blowtorch would have produced as much damage.

I knew he couldn’t feel it, but
I
did. My jaw tightened with venomous hatred toward Dante even as tears streamed down my face. Dante had made a massive, unforgivable mistake. Patch was everything to me, and if the devilcraft left any lasting damage, I would see to it that Dante regretted this single assault as long as he lived, which if I had anything to say about it, wouldn’t be long. But my seething rage was pushed aside by a consuming distress for Patch. Grief and guilt and ice-cold apprehension plummeted inside me.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice rattling. “Please, Patch, wake up,” I begged, kissing his mouth and wishing it would miraculously wake him. I gave my head a hard shake to dislodge the worst thoughts. I wouldn’t allow them to form. Patch was a fallen angel. He couldn’t be hurt. Not this way. I didn’t care how potent devilcraft was—it couldn’t cause Patch permanent harm.

I felt Patch’s fingers grip mine a moment before his low voice vibrated weakly in my mind.
Angel.

At that one word, my heart soared with joy.
I’m here! I’m right here. I love you, Patch. I love you so much!
I sobbed back. Before I could restrain myself, I flung my mouth against his. I was straddling his hips, elbows planted on either side of his head, not wanting to cause him any more damage, but unable to restrain myself from embracing him. Then, just like that, he hugged me in such a tight embrace, I collapsed on top of him.

“I’ll injure you worse!” I shrieked, squirming to roll off him. “The devilcraft— Your skin—”

“You’re just the thing to make me feel better, Angel,” he murmured, finding my mouth and effectively cutting off my protest. His eyes were shut, lines of exhaustion and stress tightening his features, and yet the way he kissed me melted away every other worry. I relaxed my posture, sinking down on top of his long, lean form. His hand moved up the back of my shirt, feeling warm and solid as he held me close.

“I was terrified of what might have happened to you,” I choked out.

“I was terrified thinking the same about
you
.”

“The devilcraft—” I began.

Patch exhaled beneath me, and my body dipped with his. His breath carried relief and raw emotion. His eyes, stripped of everything but sincerity, found mine. “My skin can be replaced. But you can’t, Angel. When Dante left, I thought it was over. I thought I’d failed you. I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.”

face="Times New Roman">I blinked back tears glittering on my lashes. “If he had taken you from me—” I was too choked up to finish the thought.

“He tried to take you from me, and that’s reason enough for me to mark him a dead man. He’s not getting away with this. I’ve forgiven him for several small trespasses in the name of trying to be civil and understanding about your role as leader of his predecessor’s army, but tonight he threw out the old rules. He used devilcraft on me. I don’t owe him any gestures of courtesy. Next time we meet, we’ll play by my rules.” Despite the exhaustion evident in every tense knot of muscle down his body, the decisiveness in his voice held no wavering or sympathy.

“He’s working for fallen angels, Patch. They have him in their pocket.”

I’d never seen Patch look as surprised as at that moment. His black eyes dilated, sorting out this news. “He told you that?”

I nodded soberly. “He said there’s no way the Nephilim are going to come out of this war on top. Despite every convincing, contradictory, and hope-filled word he’s been singing to the Nephilim,” I added bitterly.

“Did he name specific fallen angels?”

“No. He’s in this to save his own skin, Patch. He said when push comes to shove, the archangels will side with fallen angels. After all, their history runs deep. It’s hard to turn your back on blood, even if it is bad blood. There’s more.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “Dante’s next move is to steal my title as leader of the Black Hand’s army, and march the Nephilim straight into the hands of the fallen angels.”

Patch lay in stunned silence, but I saw thoughts shooting rapid-fire behind his black eyes, which held a sharp edge. He knew, like I did, that if Dante succeeded in stripping me of my title, my oath to Hank would be broken. Failure meant only one thing: death.

“Dante is also Pepper’s blackmailer,” I said.

Patch gave a curt nod. “I made that assumption when he ambushed me. How did Scott fare?”

“He’s in the mausoleum, with an incredibly smart stray dog watching over him.”

Patch lifted his eyebrows. “Should I ask?”

“I think that dog is vying for your job as my guardian angel. He scared off Dante and is the only reason I got away.”

Patch traced the curve of my cheekbone. “I’ll have to thank him for saving my girl.”

Despite the circumstances, I smiled. “You’re going to love him. The two of you share the same fashion sense.”

Two hours later I parked Patch’s truck in his garage. Patch was slumped in the passenger seat, his complexion washed out, the same blue hue still radiating from his skin. He smiled his lazy smile when he spoke, but I could tell it took effort; it was a ploy to reassure me. The devilcraft had weakened him, but for how long was anyone’s guess. I was grateful Dante had fled when he did. I imagined I had my new dog friend to thank for that. If Dante had hung around to finish what he’d started, we’d all have been in more danger than I suser than pected we could have escaped. Once again, I directed my gratitude toward the stray black dog. Scrappy and eerily smart. And loyal nearly to his own detriment.

Patch and I had stayed at the cemetery with Scott until he’d recovered enough strength to drive himself home. As for the black dog, despite several attempts to ditch him, including forcibly removing him from the bed of Patch’s truck, he’d persistently leaped back inside. Giving up, we’d let him tag along. I’d take him to an animal shelter
after
I’d gotten enough sleep to start thinking clearly.

But as much as I wanted to collapse into Patch’s bed the moment I stepped foot inside his townhouse, there was still work to be done. Dante was already two steps ahead. If we rested before taking countermeasures, we might as well start assembling a white flag of surrender.

I paced Patch’s kitchen, clasping my hands behind my neck as though the gesture might squeeze out a brilliant next move. What was Dante thinking now? What was
his
next move? He’d threatened to destroy me if I accused him of treason, so he’d at least considered that I might go through with it. Which meant he was most likely busy doing one of two things. First, devising a watertight alibi. Or second, and far more troublesome, beating me to the punch by spreading news that I was the traitor. The thought froze me in my tracks.