Finale

means for my ratings, or are you concerned about me?”
    Dante shook his head. “Don’t say that. You know I’m not thinking about your numbers. Truth is, I stopped caring about them almost instantly. This is about you. That punk over
there laid his hands on you, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. Yes, he should show you respect as commander of an army he claims to belong to, but it’s more than that. He should respect
you because you’re a good person, and you’re giving this your best shot. I see it, and I want him to see it too.”
    I was uncomfortable with his honesty and intimacy. Especially after the kiss he’d almost mind-tricked me into. His words seemed to stray beyond professional, and that was what our
relationship was. That was what I wanted it to remain.
    I said, “I appreciate everything you just said, but exacting revenge isn’t going to change his mind. He hates me. Lots of Nephilim do. This might be a good opportunity to show them
they just might be wrong about me. I think we should let him go and get on with training.”
    Dante didn’t look swayed. If anything, his face bore disappointment and maybe even impatience. “Compassion isn’t the way to go. Not this time. That punk over there is only
going to make his case stronger if you let him off easy. He’s trying to convince people you aren’t fit to lead this army, and if you go easy on him, it only proves his point. Rattle him
up a bit. Make him think twice about shooting off his mouth again or touching you.”
    “Let him go,” I said more firmly. I didn’t believe violence trumped violence. Not now, not ever.
    Dante opened his mouth, going a little red in the face, but I cut him off. “I’m not backing down on this. He didn’t hurt me. He took me up to the cabin because he’s
scared and he didn’t know what else to do. Everyone’s scared. Cheshvan is here, and our future hangs in the balance. What he did was wrong, but I can’t hold it against him for
trying to do something to alleviate his fears. Put down your pitchfork and let him go. I mean it, Dante.”
    Dante exhaled a long, disapproving sigh. I knew he wasn’t happy, but I also believed I was making the right decision. I didn’t want to fuel the fires of contention any more than I
already had. If the Nephilim as a whole were going to get through this, we had to be unified. We had to be willing to display compassion, respect, and civility, even when we didn’t see eye to
eye.
    “So that’s it?” Dante asked, clearly not satisfied.
    I cupped my hands over my mouth to amplify my voice. “You’re free to go,” I called to Cowboy Hat. “I apologize for any inconvenience.”
    Cowboy Hat stared at us, his mouth parted in disbelief, but not wanting to press his luck, he scrabbled out of the woods as if being pursued by bears.
    “So,” I said to Dante. “What cruel machinations do you have planned for me today? Sprint a marathon? Move mountains? Part the seas?”
    An hour later my arm and leg muscles quivered from exhaustion. Dante had pushed me through grueling intervals of calisthenics: push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, and flutter kicks.
We were on our way out of the woods, when I brought my arm up suddenly, catching Dante across the chest. I held a finger to my lips, gesturing for him not to make a sound.
    In the distance, I could just make out the soft crunch of footsteps.
    Dante must have heard it too.
Deer?
he asked me.
    I squinted into the darkness. The woods were still unlit, and the densely packed trees only added to my decreased visibility.
    No. The rhythm’s not right.
    Dante tapped my shoulder and pointed toward the sky. At first I didn’t understand. Then his meaning became clear. He wanted us to climb the trees, giving us an eagle-eye view of trouble,
if that was indeed what was headed our way.
    Despite my exhaustion, I scaled a white cedar noiselessly with a few expert leaps and quick foot placement. Dante perched in a neighboring tree.
    We didn’t wait long. Moments after climbing to safety, six fallen angels crept stealthily into the clearing below. Three males and three females. Their bare torsos were marked with strange
hieroglyphics that bore a distant resemblance to the paint splatter on Patch’s wrist, and their faces were painted a deep bloodred. The effect was chilling, and I couldn’t help but
think of Pawnee warriors.
    I fastened my gaze on one in particular. A lanky boy with black-ringed eyes. His familiar face froze my