Finale

two. Bar soap that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.
    I stepped into the shower, letting the water beat over my skin. I thought of Patch standing in this same shower, arms braced against the wall as water poured over his shoulders. I thought of
pearls of water clinging to his skin. I thought of him using the same towels I was about to wrap around my own body. I thought of his bed, just feet away. Of how the sheets would hold his
scent—
    A shadow slid across the bathroom mirror.
    The bathroom door was cracked, light spilling in from the bedroom. I held my breath, waiting for another shadow, waiting for time to tell me I’d imagined seeing one. This was Patch’s
home. No one knew about it. Not Dante, not Pepper. I’d been careful—no one had followed me tonight.
    Another dark cloud drifted over the mirror. The air crackled with supernatural energy.
    I shut off the water and knotted a towel around my body. I looked for a weapon: I had a choice of a roll of toilet paper or a bottle of hand soap.
    I hummed softly under my breath. No reason to let the intruder know I was onto them.
    The intruder moved closer to the bathroom door; their power jolted my senses with electricity, the hairs on my arms standing alert like stiff flags. I continued to hum. From the corner of my
eye, I saw the doorknob turn, and I was done waiting.
    I shoved my bare foot against the door with a grunt of exertion. It splintered, breaking off the hinges as it flew outward, knocking over whoever was behind it. I lunged through the entrance,
fists bared, ready to attack.
    The man on the floor curled into a ball to protect his body. “Don’t,” he croaked. “Don’t hurt me!”
    Slowly, I lowered my fists. I cocked my head sideways for a better look.
    “Blakely?”

C HAPTER

35
    W HAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I DEMANDED, hitching up the bath towel to keep myself covered. “How did you find
this place?”
    Weapon.
I needed one. My eyes scanned Patch’s meticulous bedroom. Blakely might look compromised now, but he’d been manipulating devilcraft for months. I didn’t trust
him not to have something sharp and dangerous—and blue-tinted—hidden beneath his trench coat.
    “I need your help,” he said, raising his palms as he crawled to his feet.
    “Don’t move,” I snapped. “On your knees. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
    “Dante tried to kill me.”
    “You’re immortal, Blakely. You’re also teammates with Dante.”
    “Not anymore. Now that I’ve developed enough devilcraft prototypes, he wants me gone. He wants to control devilcraft exclusively. He used a sword I enhanced specifically to kill you,
and tried to use it against me. I barely got away.”
    “Dante ordered you to make a sword that would kill me?”
    “For the duel.”
    I didn’t yet know Blakely’s endgame, but I didn’t put Dante past using forbidden—and lethal—methods to win the duel. “Is it as good as you say? Will it kill
me?”
    Blakely looked me squarely in the eye. “Yes.”
    I tried to calmly process this information. I needed a way to disqualify Dante from using his sword. But first things first. “More.”
    “I suspect Dante is working for fallen angels.”
    I didn’t bat an eye. “What makes you say that?”
    “All these months, and he’s never allowed me to make a weapon that will kill fallen angels. Rather, I’ve developed a whole host of prototypes that were supposedly aimed at
killing you. And if they can kill you, they can kill any Nephil. Since fallen angels are the enemy, why have I been developing weapons that hurt Nephilim?”
    I remembered my conversation with Dante at Rollerland, over a week ago. “Dante told me that with enough time, you’d be able to develop a prototype strong enough to kill a fallen
angel.”
    “I wouldn’t know. He’s never given me the chance.”
    In a risky move, I decided to come clean with Blakely. I still didn’t trust him, but if I gave a little, he might too. And right now, I needed to know everything he did.
“You’re right. Dante is working for fallen angels. I know this for a fact.”
    For a moment, he shut his eyes, taking the truth hard. “I never trusted Dante, not from the beginning. Bringing him on board was your father’s idea. I couldn’t convince Hank
not to do it then, but I can avenge his name now. If Dante is a traitor, I owe it to your father to destroy him.”
    If nothing else, I had to give Hank credit for inspiring loyalty.
    I said, “Tell me