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.
I heaved a sigh. And double-checked Patch’s freezer. No cartons of ice cream had magically appeared since I’d last checked.
CHAPTER 11
AT 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 action.
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 toward Dante, ensnaring his mind, and pushing words into his cons
cious 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.
“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.
Work faster, Dante ordered. I feel you in my head, but you’re not causing any turbulence. Make waves, Nora. Rock the boat. Hit me before I even see it coming. Think of this as an ambush. If I were a real opponent, all this would accomplish is letting me know you’re dabbling in my head. And that will put you face-to-face with one very pissed-off fallen angel.
I backed out of Dante’s mind, drew a deep breath, and threw my nets again—farther this time. Shutting my eyes to block out any distractions, I created a new image. Scissors. Giant, gleaming scissors. I snipped apart Dante’s thoughts—
“Faster,” Dante barked. “I can feel your hesitancy. You’re so unsure of yourself, I can practically smell your self-doubt. Any fallen angel worth his weight will pounce on that. Take control!”
I retreated again, balling my hands into fists as I grew more frustrated. With Dante, and myself. He pushed too hard and set expectations too high. And I couldn’t banish the voices of doubt sniggering in my head. I berated myself for being the very thing Dante believed I was. Weak.
I’d come out this morning to keep up relations with Dante, motivated by using him to get to Blakely and his devilcraft lab, but that meant nothing to me now. I wanted to own this. Fury and resentment popped behind my eyes like little red dots. My vision narrowed. I didn’t want to be inadequate anymore. I didn’t want to be smaller, slower, weaker. Fierce determination seemed to set my blood to boil. My entire body quaked with obstinate resolve as I leveled my gaze on Dante. Everything else dropped away. There was only me, and him.
I cast a mental net into Dante’s mind with all the fervor I had. I threw my anger at Hank, my insecurities with myself, and the awful tug-of-war sensation ripping me apart every time I thought about choosing between Patch and the Nephilim into Dante’s mind. Instantly I envisioned a massive explosion, clouds of smoke and debris mushrooming higher, endlessly higher. I set off another explosion, and another. I wreaked havoc on any hope he had at keeping his thoughts orderly.
Dante rocked back on his heels, visibly shaken. “How did you do that?” he finally managed to ask. “I—couldn’t see. I’m not even sure where I was.” He blinked several times in succession, staring at me like he wasn’t sure I was real. “It was like—hanging between two moments in time. There was nothing. Nothing. It was like I didn’t exist. I’ve never had anything like that happen before.”
“I imagined I was setting off bombs in your head,” I confessed.
“Well, it worked.”
“So I passed?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Dante told me, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve never seen anything like that.”
I wasn’t sure whether I should feel elated over finally doing something right, or guilty over having been surprisingly good at invading Dante’s mind. It wasn’t the most honorable talent to excel at. If I could have any trophy displayed on my dresser, I wouldn’t voluntarily choose one for corrupting people’s minds.
“Then I guess we’re done here?” I asked.
“Until tomorrow,” Dante said, his expression still dazed. “Good work, Nora.”
I jogged the rest of the way home at a normal human pace—an excruciatingly lagging six miles per hour—because the sun had started to rise, and while I didn’t sense any humans in the vicinity, it didn’t hurt to be prudent. I came out of the woods, crossed the street to the farmhouse, and stopped abruptly at the base of the driveway.
Marcie Millar’s red Toyota 4Runner was parked directly ahead.
With an ever-increasing tightening of my stomach, I jogged up the porch. Several moving boxes were stacked by the door. I shoved my way into the house, but before I could get a word out, my mom jumped up from the kitchen table.
“There you are!” she exclaimed impatiently. “Where have you been? Marcie and I have spent the past half hour trying to figure out where you could have run off to at this hour.”
Marcie sat at my kitchen table, hands cupped around a mug of coffee. She gave me an innocent smile.
“I went jogging,” I said.
“I can see that,” Mom stated. “I just wish you would have told me. You didn’t even bother to leave a note.”
“It’s seven in the morning. You’re supposed to be in bed. What is she doing here?”
“I’m right here,” Marcie said sweetly. “You can talk to me.”
I settled my eyes on her. “Fine. What are you doing here?”
“I told you. I’m not getting along
with my mom. We need some breathing room. For the time being, I think it’s better if I move in with you guys. My mom doesn’t have a problem with it.” Not looking the least bit disconcerted, she took a sip of coffee.
“Why would you think that was a good idea, let alone a reasonable one?”
Marcie rolled her eyes. “Hello. We’re family.”
My jaw fell open, and my eyes immediately cut to my mom. To my disbelief, she didn’t look rattled.
“Oh, come on, Nora,” she said. “We all knew it, even if no one was willing to say it. Under the circumstances, Hank would want me to take Marcie in with open arms.”
I was speechless. How could she be kind to Marcie? Could she not remember our history with the Millars?
This was Hank’s fault, I seethed inwardly. I’d hoped his grip on my mom would end with his death, but every time I tried to talk to her about him, she adopted the same serene attitude: Hank was coming back to her, she wanted him to, and she’d wait stalwartly until he did. Her bizarre behavior was further evidence of my theory: Hank had employed some crazy devilcraft mind-trick on her before he died. No amount of arguing on my part would penetrate her picture-perfect recollection of one of the vilest men to ever inhabit our planet.
“Marcie is family, and while the circumstances are a bit sticky, she was right to come to us for help. If you can’t count on family, who can you count on?” Mom went on.
I was still staring at my mom, frustrated by her sedate attitude, when a second light went on. Of course. Hank wasn’t the only one to blame in this charade. How had it taken me this long to catch on? I swiveled my eyes to Marcie.
Are you mind-tricking her? I said accusingly to her mind. Is that it? I know you’re doing something, because there is no way my mom in her rational mind would let you move in with us.
Marcie’s hand flew to her head, and she yelped. “Ow! How did you do that?”
Don’t play dumb with me. I know you’re a Nephil, remember? You can perform mind-tricks and you can mind-speak. Whatever this little act is? I see right through it. And there is no way you’re moving in.
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