Finale

my life—
    He would use his sword. The one Blakely had enhanced with devilcraft to kill me.
    “That’s why I can’t go to the duel,” I finished.
    Vee’s silence stretched out. “It’s Dante’s word against yours,” she said at last.
    “That’s what I’m worried about.”
    “You’re still leader of the Nephilim. You’ve got some street cred. If he tries to arrest you, challenge him.” Conviction flashed in her eyes. “Fight him to the end.
You can make it easy for him, or you can dig in your heels and make him work for it.”
    I sniffled, wiping my nose on the back of my hand. “I’m scared, Vee. So very scared.”
    “I know, babe. But I also know that if anyone can do this, it’s you. I don’t tell you this often, and maybe I’ve never told you, but when I grow up, I want to be just
like you. Now for the last time, get out of bed before I drench you again. You’re going to the cemetery. And you’re going to give Dante the fight of his life.”
    The worst of my burns had healed, but I felt drained and weakened nonetheless. I hadn’t been a Nephil long enough to know the mechanics behind my rapid healing, but I
imagined I’d unwittingly expended a lot of energy in the process. I hadn’t checked the mirror before leaving Patch’s place, but I had a pretty good idea of how miserable and
downtrodden I looked. One glance at me, and Dante would call his own victory.
    As Vee and I pulled into the gravel parking lot overlooking the cemetery, I reviewed my plan. After Dante announced he’d banished fallen angels to hell and won the war, he would most
likely accuse me of murdering Hank and proclaim himself as my replacement. At that point, I would not step aside and relinquish my title. Vee was right; I would fight. Against all odds, I would
fight
. Dante would lead the Nephilim over my dead body—literally.
    Vee’s hand closed over mine. “Go secure your title. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
    I swallowed back a disbelieving laugh. Later? I didn’t care what happened after this. I felt a cold detachment toward my future. I didn’t want to think about an hour from now. I
didn’t want to think about tomorrow. With each passing moment, my life veered further away from the path Patch and I had walked together. I didn’t want to press forward. I wanted to go
back
. Where I could be with Patch again.
    “Scott and I will be down there, in the crowd,” Vee stated firmly. “Just . . . be careful, Nora.”
    Tears welled in my eyes. Those were Patch’s words. I needed him here now, assuring me I could do this.
    The sky was still dark, the moon washing white light over the ghostly landscape. A heavy frost made the grass crunch beneath my feet as I walked slowly downhill to the cemetery, giving Vee a
head start. The grave markers seemed to float on the mist, white stone crosses and slender obelisks. An angel with chipped wings stretched two broken arms toward me. A ragged sob clamped in my
throat. I shut my eyes, conjuring up Patch’s strong, handsome features. It hurt to picture him, knowing I’d never see him again.
Don’t you dare cry now,
I berated myself.
I looked away, afraid I wouldn’t get through this if I allowed any emotion other than icy determination into my heart.
    Hundreds of Nephilim gathered in the cemetery below. The sheer size of their numbers caused my stride to catch. Since Nephilim stopped aging the day they swore fealty, most were young, within
ten years of me, but I saw a handful of elderly men and women grouped among them. Their faces were bright with expectation. Children dodged in circles around their parents’ legs, playing tag,
before they were wrestled by the shoulders and pinned still. Children. As if this morning’s event were family entertainment: a circus or a ball game.
    As I drew closer, I noticed that twelve Nephilim wore ankle-length black robes, hoods drawn up. They had to be the same powerful Nephilim I’d met the morning following Hank’s death.
As leader of the Nephilim, I should have known what the robes signified. Lisa Martin and her cohorts should have told me. But they had never welcomed me into their circle. They’d never wanted
me in the first place. I was sure the robes signified position and power, but I’d had to figure it out on my own.
    One of the Nephilim pushed her hood back. Lisa Martin herself. Her expression was solemn, her eyes tense with anticipation. She handed me a black robe, as though it were more a matter