Finale

must
mean to him. For him to do this— The one thing he abhorred— There were no words. Just a deep, aching gratitude for Scott, and the determination not to fail him.
    “Tonight, I need you to be careful,” I said.
    “I’ll be careful. And I won’t overstay my welcome. The minute you’re out of the meeting safely, and I’ve stayed long enough to learn all I can, Scott will have his
body back. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.”
    I squeezed Patch into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” I whispered.
    Later that night, an hour before ten, I departed Patch’s home. I left alone, driving a rental car at the request of my Nephilim hosts. They’d dotted every i and crossed every t and
weren’t taking any chances of having me followed by nosy Nephilim, or worse, any fallen angel who might have caught wind of tonight’s top secret meeting.
    The streets were dark and slick under a film of fog. My headlights swept across the black ribbon of pavement that rolled over hills and around curves. I had the heater cranked, but it never
quite cast out the chill dancing in my bones. I didn’t know what to expect tonight, and that made it difficult to plan. I’d have to play things by ear, my least favorite way to go. I
wanted to walk into the Millar house with something to hold on to besides my own instincts, but that’s all I had. Finally I pulled up in front of Marcie’s old house.
    I sat in the car a moment, gazing at the white columns and black shutters. The lawn was lost under withered leaves. Brown twigs, the remnants of hydrangeas, jutted from twin terra-cotta pots
flanking the porch. Newspapers in various states of decay littered the walkway. The house had been vacated after Hank’s death and didn’t look as inviting or elegant as I remembered.
Marcie’s mom had moved into a condo on the river, and Marcie, well, Marcie had taken the phrase
mi casa es su casa
to heart.
    Faint lights glowed behind draped windows, and while they didn’t reveal silhouettes, I knew several of the Nephilim world’s most influential and powerful leaders sat just behind the
front door, waiting to form judgments on the news I was about to deliver. I also knew Patch would be there, making sure no danger befell me.
    Clinging to that thought, I drew a jagged breath and marched to the front door.
    I knocked.
    The front door opened, and I was ushered inside by a tall woman whose eyes lingered on me just long enough to confirm my identity. Her hair had been combed back in a tight braid, and there was
nothing either remarkable or memorable about her face.
    She murmured a polite but reserved, “Hello,” and then, with a stiff sweep of her hand, directed me deeper into the house.
    The tap of my shoes echoed down the dimly lit hallway. I passed portraits of the Millar family, smiling behind dusty glass. A vase of dead lilies sat on the entryway table. The whole house
smelled bottled up. I followed the trail of lights toward the dining room.
    As soon as I stepped through the French doors, the hushed conversation died. There were six men and five women seated on each side of a long, polished mahogany table. A few more Nephilim stood
around the table, looking both fidgety and apprehensive. I almost did a double take when I saw Marcie’s mom. I knew Susanna Millar was Nephilim, but it had always felt like an intangible
thought drifting at the back of my mind. Seeing her here tonight, convening a secret meeting of immortals, made her suddenly feel . . . threatening. Marcie wasn’t with her. Maybe Marcie
hadn’t wanted to come, but a more plausible explanation was that she hadn’t been invited. Susanna seemed like the kind of mother who bent over backward to keep her daughter’s life
clear of even the tiniest complication.
    I found Scott’s face in the crowd. Knowing Patch was possessing him, the clanging in my stomach took a momentary reprieve. He caught my eye and inclined his head, a secret nod of
encouragement. A deep feeling of assurance and security flooded me. I wasn’t in this alone. Patch had my back. I should have known he’d find a way to be here, no matter the risk.
    And then there was Dante. He sat at the head of the table, wearing a black cashmere turtleneck and a ponderous frown. His fingers were steepled over his mouth, and when his eyes locked with
mine, his lips twitched with a sneer. His eyebrows lifted in discreet but unmistakable challenge. I looked away.
    I turned my attention to the elderly