Finale

motioned for her to come in and shut the door.
    “What happened back there?” she demanded, her voice cracking. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “How did he take over my body like that?”
    “Blakely possessed you.”
    “How can you be calm about this?” she shrieked in an undertone. “He was living inside me. Like some kind of . . .
parasite!
”
    “If you had let me take down Blakely like we agreed, this wouldn’t have happened.” As soon as I said it, I regretted sounding so harsh. Marcie had done a stupid thing, but who
was I to judge? I’d made my fair share of impulsive decisions. Caught up in the moment, she’d reacted. She wanted to know who killed her father, and who could blame her? Certainly not
me.
    I sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
    But it was too late. She gave me a wounded look, and left.

C HAPTER

15
    I AWOKE WITH A JOLT. DANTE WAS LEANING OVER MY bed, his hands straddling my shoulders. “Good morning,
sunshine.”
    I tried to roll away, but his arms had me pinned in place. “It’s Saturday,” I protested wearily. Training was all fine and good, but I deserved
one
day off.
    “I’ve got a surprise for you. A good one.”
    “The only surprise I want is another two hours of sleep.” The window showed that the sky was still full dark, and I doubted it was much later than five thirty.
    He flung off my covers and I squealed, grabbing blindly for them. “Do you mind!”
    “Cute pj’s.”
    I was wearing a black T-shirt I’d swiped from Patch’s closet, and it barely reached mid-thigh.
    I simultaneously tugged the shirt down and the sheets higher. “Fine,” I relented with a huff. “I’ll meet you outside.”
    After dragging on my running clothes and lacing up my shoes, I trudged outside. Dante wasn’t in the driveway, but I sensed him nearby, most likely in the woods across the street. Oddly, I
thought I sensed another Nephil with him. Frowning, I walked in that direction.
    Sure enough, Dante had brought a friend. Only, by the look of the friend—two black eyes, a cut lip, a swollen jaw, and one painful-looking goose egg on his forehead—the two were on
anything but good terms.
    “Recognize him?” Dante asked cheerfully, holding the injured Nephil up by the scruff of his neck for my appraisal.
    I stepped closer, unsure what kind of game Dante was playing. “No. He’s too beat up. Did you do this to him?”
    “Sure this handsome mug doesn’t ring a bell?” Dante asked again, jerking the Nephil’s jaw side to side, clearly enjoying himself. “He was shooting his mouth off
last night about you. He bragged about giving you a serious beating. Of course, that’s when he caught my interest. I told him he’d never done such a thing. And if he had, well,
let’s just say I don’t take kindly to Nephil underlings disrespecting their leaders, especially the commander of the Black Hand’s army.” All lightheartedness had faded from
Dante’s tone, and he eyed the injured Nephil with open contempt.
    “It was a prank,” the Nephil said sullenly. “Thought we’d see how sincere she is about following through with the Black Hand’s vision. She wasn’t even born a
Nephil. Thought we’d give her a taste of what she’s up against—”
    “Cowboy Hat?”
I blurted aloud. His face was too disfigured to bear any resemblance to the Nephil who’d hauled me to a cabin, tied me to a post, and threatened me, but
his voice rang true. He was definitely Cowboy Hat. Shaun Corbridge.
    “Prank?” Dante chuckled with venom. “If that’s what constitutes a prank in your mind, maybe you’ll find something to laugh about in what we’re going to do to
you.” He slugged Cowboy Hat in the head so viciously he collapsed to his knees.
    “Can I talk to you?” I asked Dante. “Privately?”
    “Of course.” He pointed a warning finger at Cowboy Hat. “You budge, you bleed.”
    After I was sure we had walked out of Cowboy Hat’s hearing range, I said, “What’s going on?”
    “I was at the Devil’s Handbag last night, and that numskull buffoon over there was bragging about using you as his personal punching bag. At first I thought I was hearing wrong. But
the louder he talked, the more I realized he wasn’t, in any way, shape, or form, making up his story. Why didn’t you tell me some of our soldiers attacked you?” Dante demanded.
His tone wasn’t angry. Hurt, maybe, but not angry.
    “Are you asking because you’re concerned about what this