Finale hh-4

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  “What do you make of it?” Patch asked when I finished.

  “I think Blakely is our last hope.”

  “You trust him?”

  “No. But your enemy’s enemy . . .”

  “Did you make him swear an oath to testify tomorrow?”

  My heart sank. I hadn’t thought of it. It was an honest mistake, but it made me wonder if I’d ever be a worthy leader. I knew Patch didn’t expect perfection from me, but I wanted to impress him just the same. An idiotic voice inside my head questioned whether Dabria would have made the same mistake. Doubtful. “When we meet him tonight, it will be the first thing I take care of.”

  “It makes sense that Dante would want to control devilcraft exclusively,” Patch mused. “And if Dante thought Blakely suspected him of working for fallen angels, he would kill him to keep his secret safe.”

  I said, “Do you think Dante told me about devilcraft that day at Rollerland because he anticipated that I’d tell you, and you’d go after Blakely? I’ve always wondered why he told me. Looking back, it almost seems like he had a strategy: for you to snatch Blakely and bury him from the light of day, leaving Dante alone to control devilcraft.”

  “Which is exactly what I had planned. Until Marcie upset those plans.”

  “Dante has been undermining me from the start,” I realized.

  “Not anymore. We have Blakely’s testimony.”

  “Does that mean we’re meeting him?”

  Patch had set the keys to his motorcycle on the kitchen counter not five minutes ago, and he reached for them again. “Never a dull moment, Angel.”

  The address Blakely had given me took us to a single-story redbrick home in an older neighborhood. Two shaded windows flanked the front door. The sprawling property seemed to swallow the little cottage whole.

  Patch drove around the block twice, eyes sharp, then parked down the street out of the reach of the streetlights. He gave the front door three solid raps. A light burned behind the living room window, but there were no other signs that someone was home.

  “Stay here,” Patch told me. “I’m going around back.”

  I waited on the stoop, glancing behind me at the street. It was too cold for the neighbors to be out walking the dog, and not a single car drove past.

  The front door lock tumbled, and Patch opened the door from within. “Back door was wide open. Got a bad feeling,” he said.

  I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. “Blakely?” I called out softly. The house was small enough to make raising my voice unnecessary.

  “He’s not on the first floor,” Patch said. “But there are stairs leading to a basement.”

  We took the stairs and turned into a lit room. I sucked in a breath as my eyes focused on the trail of red liquid smeared across the carpet. Red handprints painted the wall and led in the same direction—to a dark bedroom straight ahead. In the grainy shadows, I could just make out the outline of a bed—and Blakely’s body crumpled beside it.

  Patch’s arm immediately shot out, blocking me. “Go upstairs,” he ordered.

  Without thinking, I ducked under Patch’s arm and rushed toward Blakely. “He’s hurt!”

  The whites of Blakely’s eyes sizzled an ethereal blue. Blood trickled from his mouth, gurgling as he tried unsuccessfully to speak.

  “Dante did this?” Patch asked him, following directly behind me.

  I crouched down, checking Blakely’s vital signs. His heartbeat thrummed weakly and erratically. Tears stung my eyes. I didn’t know if I was crying for Blakely, or for what his death would mean for me, but I suspected, selfishly, it was the latter.

  Blakely coughed blood, his voice threadbare. “Dante knows—fallen angels’ feathers.”

  I gave Patch’s hand a numbing squeeze. How can Dante know about the feathers? Pepper wouldn’t have told him. And we’re the only other two who know.

  If Dante knows about the feathers, he’ll try to intercept Pepper on his way back to Earth, Patch answered tensely. We can’t let him get the feathers.

  “Lisa Martin—here—soon,” Blakely rasped, each word a struggle.

  “Where is the lab?” I asked Blakely. “How can we destroy Dante’s supply of devilcraft?”

  He gave his head a hard shake, as if I’d asked the wrong question. “His sword—he—doesn’t know. Lied. Kill—him too,” he choked hoarsely, more blood washing over his lips. The blood had turned from red to fiery blue.

  “Okay, I understand,” I said, patting his shoulder to console him. “The sword he’s going to duel with tomorrow will kill him too, only he doesn’t know it. This is good, Blakely. Now tell me whˀow tell ere the lab is.”

  “Tried—tell—you,” he croaked.

  I shook Blakely’s shoulders. “You didn’t tell me. Where is the lab?” I didn’t believe destroying the lab would change the outcome of tomorrow’s duel—Dante would have plenty of devilcraft in his system when we fought, but no matter what happened to me, if Patch could destroy the lab, devilcraft would vanish once and for all. I felt personally responsible for putting the powers of hell back in, well, hell.

  We have to go, Angel, Patch spoke to my thoughts. Lisa can’t see us here. It doesn’t look good.

  I rattled Blakely harder. “Where is the lab?”

  His balled hands relaxed. His eyes, glazed that chilling shade of blue, stared vacantly up at me.

  “We can’t waste any more time here,” Patch told me. “We have to assume Dante is going after Pepper and the feathers.”

  I dried my eyes with the heels of my hands. “We’re just going to leave Blakely here?”

  The sound of a car pulling to a stop sounded on the street outside. “Lisa,” Patch said. He shoved the bedroom window open, hoisted me into the window well, and leaped up beside me. “Any last respects to the dead have to be said now.”

  Casting a mournful look back at Blakely, I simply said, “Good luck in the next life.”

  I had a feeling he’d need it.

  We sped off through the woodsy back roads on Patch’s motorcycle. Cheshvan’s new moon had started nearly two weeks ago, and now it hung like a ghostly orb high overhead, a wide, watchful eye we couldn’t escape. I shivered and snuggled closer against Patch. He rocketed around the narrow bends so fast that tree branches began to blur into flashes of skeletal fingers reaching out to snare me.

  Since yelling above the roar of wind was impractical, I resorted to mind-speak.

  Who could have told Dante about the feathers? I asked Patch.

  Pepper wouldn’t risk it.

  Neither would we.

  If Dante knows, we can assume the fallen angels do too. They are going to do everything they can to keep us from getting those feathers, Angel. No course of action will be ruled out.

  His warning came through all too clear: We weren’t safe.

  We have to warn Pepper, I said.

  If we call him, and the archangels intercept it, we’ll never get the feathers.

  I glanced at the time on my cell phone. Eleven. We gave him until midnight. He’s almost out of time.

  If he doesn’t call soon, Angel, we’re going to have to assume the worst and come up with a new plan.

  His hand dropped to my thigh, squeezing. I knew we were sharing the same thought. We’d exhausted every plan. Time was up. Either we got the feathers.

  Or the Nephilim race would lose more than the war. They’d be in bondage to fallen angels for eternity.

  CHAPTER 36

  A MUTED JINGLE RANG FROM MY POCKET. PATCH immediately steered the motorcycle to the roadside, and I answered the call with a prayer in my heart.

  “I have the f-f-feathers,” Pepper said, his voice high and quivering.

  I exhaled in relief and gave Patch a high five, curling my fingers between his, locking our hands together. We had the feathers. We had the dagger. Tomorrow morning’s duel was no longer necessary—dead opponents didn’t wield swords, enchanted or otherwise.

  “Good work, Pepper,” I said. “Y
ou’re almost done. We need you to hand over the feathers and dagger, and then you can put this behind you. Patch will kill Dante as soon as he gets the dagger. But you need to know Dante is after the feathers too.” There wasn’t time to break it to him gently. “He wants them as badly as we do. He’s looking for you, so don’t let your guard down. And don’t let him get the feathers, or the dagger.”

  Pepper sniffled. “I’m s-s-scared. How do I know Dante won’t find me? And what if the archangels notice the feathers are missing?” His volume shot up to a screech. “What if they figure out it was me?”

  “Calm down. Everything will be fine. We’re going to make the transfer at Delphic Amusement Park. We can meet you in about forty-five minutes—”

  “That’s almost an hour! I can’t hold the feathers that long! I have to dump them. That was the deal. You never said anything about babysitting them. And what about me? Dante is after me. If you want me to hang on to your feathers, then I want Patch to go after Dante and make sure he’s not a threat to me!”

  “I explained this,” I said impatiently. “Patch will kill Dante as soon as we have the dagger.”

  “A whole lot of good that will do me if Dante finds me first! I watch Patch out there, this minute, going after Dante. In fact, I won’t give you the dagger until I have proof that Patch has Dante!”

  I pulled the phone away to save my eardrums from Pepper’s hysterical shrieks. “He’s cracking,” I told Patch worriedly.

  Patch took the phone from me. “Listen up, Pepper. Take the feathers and the dagger to Delphic Amusement Park. I’ll have two fallen angels meet you at the gates. They’ll make sure you get safely inside my studio. Just don’t tell them what you’re carrying.”

  Pepper’s squeaked response crackled from the phone.

  Patch said, “Put the feathers in my studio. Then stay put until we get there.”

  A loud wail.

  “You aren’t leaving the feathers unguarded,” Patch argued, each word breathed΀ with murderous intent. “You’re going to sit on my sofa and make sure they’re still there when we get there.”

  More frantic squawking.

  “Stop blubbering. I’ll hunt Dante down now, if that’s what you want, then come get the dagger, which you’re going to sit on until I meet you at the studio. Go to Delphic and do exactly as I told you. One more thing. Stop crying. You’re giving archangels everywhere a bad name.”

  Patch hung up and handed the phone back to me. “Keep your fingers crossed that this works.”

  “Do you think Pepper will stay with the feathers?”

  He dragged his hands down his face, a sound escaping his throat that sounded half harsh laugh, half groan. “We’re going to have to split up, Angel. If we hunt down Dante together, we risk leaving the feathers unguarded.”

  “Go find Dante. I’ll take care of Pepper and the feathers.”

  Patch studied me. “I know you will. But I still don’t like the idea of leaving you alone.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll guard the feathers, and I’ll call Lisa Martin right away. I tell her what I have, and she’ll help me execute our plan. We’re going to end the war and free Nephilim.” I squeezed Patch’s hand reassuringly. “This is it. The end’s in sight.”

  Patch rubbed his jaw, clearly unhappy, thinking deeply. “For my own peace of mind, take Scott with you.”

  An ironic smile crept to my mouth. “You trust Scott?”

  “I trust you,” he answered in a husky voice that made me feel warm and slippery inside.

  Patch backed me into a tree and kissed me, hard.

  I regained my breath. “Boys everywhere take note: That was a kiss.”

  Patch didn’t smile. His eyes darkened with something I couldn’t name, but it put a weight in my stomach. His jaw locked, the muscles along his arms tensing just as visibly. “We’re going to be together at the end of this.” A cloud of uneasiness passed over his expression.

  “If I have anything to say about it, yes.”

  “Whatever happens tonight, I love you.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Patch,” I whispered, emotion catching my voice. “You’re scaring me. We are going to be together. You’ll find Dante, then meet me at the studio, where we’ll end this war together. Doesn’t get any more straightforward.”

  He kissed me again, delicately on each eyelid, then each cheek, and at last, a soft seal across my lips. “I’ll never be the same,” he said in a gravelly tone. “You’ve transformed me.”

  I folded my arms around his neck and pressed my body hard to his. I clung to him, trying to cast out the chill that tapped in my bones. “Kiss me in a way I’ll never forget.” I drew his eyes toward mine. “Kiss me in a way that will stay with me until I see you again.” Because we will Ӏause we see each other soon.

  Patch’s eyes grazed me with silent heat. My reflection swirled in them, red hair and lips aflame. I was connected to him by a force I couldn’t control, a tiny thread that tethered my soul to his. With the moon at his back, shadows painted the faint hollows beneath his eyes and cheekbones, making him look breathtakingly handsome and equally diabolical.

  His hands steadied my face, holding me still before him. The wind tangled my hair around his wrists, twining us together. His thumbs moved across my cheekbones in a slow, intimate caress. Despite the cold, a steady burn coiled up inside me, vulnerable to his touch. His fingers traced lower, lower, leaving behind a hot, delicious ache. I closed my eyes, my joints melting. He lit me up like a flame, light and heat burning at a depth I’d never fathomed.

  His thumb stroked my lip, a soft, seductive tease. I gave a sharp sigh of pleasure.

  Kiss you now? he asked.

  I couldn’t speak; a wilted nod was my reply.

  His mouth, hot and daring, met mine. All play had left him, and he kissed me with his own black fire, deep and possessive, consuming my body, my soul, and laying waste to all past notions of what it meant to be kissed.

  CHAPTER 37

  I HEARD SCOTT’S BARRACUDA RUMBLE DOWN THE road toward me long before the headlights flashed through the murky darkness. I flagged him down and swung into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  He shoved the car in reverse and floored it the same way he’d approached. “You kept your call short. Tell me what I need to know.”

  I explained the situation as quickly, yet comprehensively, as possible. When I finished, Scott let out a low whistle of astonishment. “Pepper’s got every fallen angel feather, ever?”

  “Surreal, right? He is supposed to meet us at Patch’s studio. He’d better not leave the feathers unguarded,” I muttered mostly to myself.

  “I can get you safely beneath Delphic. The park gates are closed, so we’ll go into the tunnels using the cargo elevators. After that, we’ll have to use my map. I’ve never been to Patch’s place.”

  The “tunnels” referred to an underground network of convoluted, mazelike passageways that operated like streets and neighborhoods beneath Delphic. I’d had no idea they existed until I met Patch. They served as the primary residence for fallen angels living in Maine, and until recently, Patch had lived among them.

  Scott steered the Barracuda down an access road short of the park’s main entrance. The road opened to a loading dock with truck ramps, and a warehouse. We entered the warehouse through a side door, crossed an open space stacked wall to wall with boxes, and at last reached the cargo elevators. Once inside, Scott ignored the normal buttons indicating floors one, two, and three, and pressed a small, unmarked yellow button at the bottom of the panel. րlI’d known there were entrances to the tunnels all over Delphic, but this was my first time using this particular one.

  The elevator, which was almost as large as my bedroom, clanged lower and lower, at last grinding to a stop. The heavy steel door rose, and Scott and I walked out onto a loading dock. The ground and walls were dirt, and the only light came from the single bulb swinging like a pendulum overhead.

  “Which way?” I
asked, peering into the tunnel ahead.

  I was grateful to have Scott as a guide through the underbelly of Delphic Amusement Park. It was immediately clear that he traversed the tunnels regularly; he led at a hurried pace, sweeping down the dank corridors as though they had long ago been committed to memory. We referenced the map, using it to make our way beneath the Archangel, Delphic’s newest roller coaster. From there, I took over, glancing down corridors randomly, until at last we came to what I recognized as the entrance to Patch’s old living quarters.

  The door was locked from the inside.

  I rapped on it. “Pepper, it’s Nora Grey. Open up.” I gave him a few moments, then tried again. “If you’re not opening because you sense someone else, it’s Scott. He’s not going to beat you up. Now open the door.”

  “Is he alone?” Scott asked quietly.

  I nodded. “Should be.”

  “I don’t sense anybody,” Scott said skeptically, bending his ear toward the door.

  “Hurry up, Pepper,” I called.

  Still no response.

  “We’re going to have to break down the door,” I told Scott. “On the count of three. One, two—three.”

  In unison, Scott and I landed forceful kicks to the door.

  “Again,” I grunted.

  We continued to drive our soles into the wood, striking it until it splintered and the door slammed inward. I strode across the foyer and into the living room, looking for Pepper.

  The sofa had been knifed multiple times, stuffing spewing from each incision. Picture frames that had once decorated the walls now lay shattered on the ground. The glass coffee table was tipped on its side, with an ominous crack down the center. Clothes from Patch’s wardrobe had been dragged out and thrown like confetti. I didn’t know if this was evidence of a recent struggle, or left over from Patch’s hasty departure nearly two weeks ago, when Pepper had hired thugs to destroy the place.

  “Can you call Pepper?” Scott suggested. “Do you have his number?”

  I punched Pepper’s number into my phone, but he didn’t pick up. “Where is he?” I demanded angrily to no one in particular. Everything was riding on his end of the bargain. I needed those feathers, and I needed them now. “And what is that smell?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.