Finale

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.”

C HAPTER

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.
    “Keep a close eye on Dante’s movements,” Patch said. “He’ll settle into a pattern right away, and you’ll start to learn when he’s going to move for an
attack. When he does, launch a preemptive strike.”
    “Right. Going to need a role play for that one.”
    Patch slid his feet forward rapidly, swinging his sword down on mine so forcibly, the stick vibrated in my hands. Before I could recover, he made a swift second blow, sending the sword sailing
out of my grip.
    I picked up my sword, wiped my brow, and said, “I’m not strong enough. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that to Dante.”
    “You will, once you’ve weakened him. The duel is set to take place at sunrise tomorrow. Following tradition, it