Finale

shoulders. Scott turned sideways to squeeze into the next passageway. Clumps of earth broke loose from the walls,
and he held his breath, half expecting the ceiling to crumble in one great heave and bury them.
    At last Dante tugged on a ring pull, and a door materialized out of the wall.
    Scott surveyed the cavernous room inside. Same dirt walls, stone floor. Empty.
    “Look down. Trapdoor,” Dante said.
    Scott stepped off the hatch door concealed in the stonework and yanked on the handle. Heated voices carried up through the opening. Bypassing the ladder, he dropped through the hole, landing ten
feet below.
    He assessed the cramped, cavelike room in an instant. Nephilim men and women wearing hooded black robes formed a tight circle around two figures he couldn’t see clearly. A fire roared off
to the side. A branding iron plunged into the coals glowed orange with heat.
    “Answer me,” a wiry old voice at the center of the circle snapped. “What is the state of your relationship with the fallen angel they call Patch? Are you prepared to lead the
Nephilim? We need to know we have your full allegiance.”
    “I don’t have to answer,” Nora, the other figure, fired back. “My personal life isn’t your business.”
    Scott stepped up to the circle, improving his view.
    “You don’t have a personal life,” the old, white-haired woman with the wiry voice hissed, jabbing a frail finger at Nora, her sagging jowls trembling with rage. “Your
sole purpose now is to lead your people to freedom from fallen angels. You’re the Black Hand’s heir, and while I don’t desire to go against his wishes, I will vote you out if I
must.”
    Scott glanced uneasily at the robed Nephilim. Several nodded in agreement.
    Nora,
he called to her in mind-speak.
What are you doing? The blood oath. You have to stay in power. Say whatever you have to. Just calm them down.
    Nora glared around with blind hostility until her eyes found his.
Scott?
    He nodded encouragingly.
I’m here. Don’t freak them out. Keep them happy. And then I’ll get you out of here.
    She swallowed, visibly trying to collect herself, but her cheeks still burned with outraged color. “Last night the Black Hand died. Since then I’ve been named his heir, thrust into
leadership, whisked away from one meeting to the next, forced to greet people I don’t know, ordered to wear this suffocating robe, interrogated on a myriad of personal subjects, poked and
prodded, sized up and judged, and all this without a moment to catch my breath. So excuse me if I’m still reeling.”
    The old woman’s lips pinched into a thinner line, but she didn’t argue back.
    “I’m the Black Hand’s heir. He chose me. Don’t forget,” Nora said, and while Scott couldn’t tell if she spoke with conviction or derision, the effect was
silencing.
    “Answer me one thing,” the old woman said shrewdly after a heavy pause. “What has become of Patch?”
    Before Nora could respond, Dante stepped forward. “She’s not with Patch anymore.”
    Nora and Scott looked sharply at each other, then at Dante.
What was that?
Nora demanded of Dante in mind-speak, including Scott in the three-way conversation.
    If they don’t let you lead right now, you’ll drop dead from the blood oath,
Dante answered.
Let me handle this.
    By lying?
    Got a better idea?
    “Nora wants to lead the Nephilim,” Dante spoke up. “She’ll do whatever it takes. Finishing her father’s work means everything to her. Give her a day to grieve, and
then she’ll dive in, fully committed. I’ll train her. She can do this. Give her a chance.”
    “You’ll train her?” the old woman asked Dante with a piercing gaze.
    “This will work. Trust me.”
    The elderly woman pondered a long moment. “Brand her with the Black Hand’s mark,” she commanded at last.
    The wild, terrified look in Nora’s eyes nearly made Scott double over and vomit.
    The nightmares. They shot out of nowhere, dancing in his head. Faster. Dizzy. Then came the voice. The Black Hand’s voice. Scott flattened his hands to his ears, wincing. The maniacal
voice cackled and hissed until the words all ran together to sound like a kicked hive of bees. The Black Hand’s mark, seared into his chest, throbbed. Fresh pain. He couldn’t
differentiate between yesterday and now.
    His throat choked out a command.
“Stop.”
    The room seemed to halt. Bodies shifted, and suddenly Scott felt crushed by their hostile stares.
    He blinked, hard.