Finale

took off sprinting for the trees. Two mornings of running in the dark had given me some
preparation, but it didn’t explain why I was suddenly running at speeds that rivaled Dante’s. The trees passed in a dizzying blur, but my feet leaped and bounded with ease, almost as if
they could anticipate the necessary steps a half second before my mind.
    I raced at top speed up the walkway, flung myself inside the Volkswagen, and floored it out of the parking lot. To my amazement, I wasn’t even out of breath.
    Adrenaline? Maybe. But I didn’t think so.
    I drove to Allen’s Drug and Pharmacy and slid the Volkswagen into a parking space nestled between two trucks that hid me from the street. Then I slouched in my seat,
trying to make myself invisible. I was pretty sure I’d lost Pepper at the river, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. I needed time to think. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go
back to school. What I really needed was to find Patch, but I didn’t know where to start.
    My cell phone rang, startling me out of my reverie.
    “Yo, Grey,” Scott said. “Vee and I are on our way to Taco Hut for lunch, but the big question of the day is, where are
you
? Now that you (a) can drive, and (b) have
wheels—ahem, thanks to me—you don’t have to eat in the school cafeteria. FYI.”
    I ignored his jesting tone. “I need Dante’s number. Text it to me and make it fast,” I told Scott. I’d had Dante’s number stored on my old phone, but not this
one.
    “Uh,
please
?”
    “What is this? Double-standard Tuesday?”
    “What do you need his number for? I thought Dante was your boy—”
    I hung up and tried to think things through. What did I know for certain? That an archangel leading a double life wanted to kidnap me and use me as incentive to get Patch to do him a favor. Or
to quit blackmailing him. Or both. I also knew Patch wasn’t the blackmailer.
    What information was I low on? Mostly Patch’s whereabouts. Was he safe? Would he contact me? Did he need my help?
    Where are you, Patch?
I shouted into the universe.
    My cell phone chimed.
    HERE ’ S DANTE ’ S NUMBER. ALSO , I HEAR CHOCOLATE WORKS WELL FOR PMS , Scott texted.
    “Funny,” I said out loud, punching in Dante’s number. He answered on the third ring.
    “We need to meet,” I said with an edge.
    “Listen, if it’s about this morning—”
    “Of course it’s about this morning! What did you give me? I drank an unknown liquid, and suddenly I can run as fast as you and soar fifty feet into the air, and I’m pretty sure
my vision is better than twenty-twenty.”
    “It’ll wear off. To sustain those speeds, you’d need to drink the blue stuff daily.”
    “Does the blue stuff have a name?”
    “Not over the phone.”
    “Fine. Meet me in person.”
    “Be at Rollerland in thirty.”
    I blinked. “You want to meet at the roller-skating rink?”
    “It’s noon on a weekday. Nobody there but moms and toddlers. Makes it easy to spot potential spies.”
    I wasn’t sure who Dante thought might be spying on us, but I had an uneasy feeling fluttering around in my stomach that whatever the blue stuff was, Dante wasn’t
the only one who wanted it. My best guess, it was a drug of some sort. I’d witnessed its enhancement properties firsthand. The powers it gave me were surreal. It was as if I had no
boundaries, and the extent of my own physical prowess was . . . limitless. The feeling was exhilarating and unnatural. It was the latter that had me worried.
    When Hank was alive, he’d experimented with devilcraft, summoning the powers of hell to his advantage. The objects he’d enchanted had always cast an eerie blue hue. Up until now
I’d believed that the knowledge of devilcraft had died with Hank, but I was beginning to have doubts. I hoped Dante’s blue mystery drink was a coincidence, but instinct told me
otherwise.
    I got out of the car and walked the last few blocks to Rollerland, checking over my shoulder often for signs that I was being followed. No strange men in dark trench coats and sunglasses. No
overly tall people, a dead giveaway of Nephilim, either.
    I swung through Rollerland’s doors, rented a pair of size-eight roller skates, and sat down on a bench just outside the rink. The lights were low and a disco ball scattered shades of
bright, saturated light across the polished wood floor. Old-school Britney Spears played through the speakers. As Dante had predicted, only small children and their moms were