Finale

train today, Dante. I’m sick.”
    “Oldest excuse in the book. Now get out of bed,” he said, swatting my leg.
    My head hung over the side of the mattress, and I eyed his shoes. “If I throw up on your feet, will you believe me?”
    “I’m not that squeamish. I want you outside in five. If you’re late, you’ll make it up to me. An extra five miles for every tardy minute sounds about fair.”
    He left, and it took all my motivation and then some to drag myself out of bed. I laced up my shoes slowly, locked in a battle with raging hunger attacking me from one side, and sharp vertigo
from the other.
    When I made it to the driveway, Dante said, “Before we get started, I have an update on our training efforts. One of my first acts as lieutenant was assigning officers over our troops. I
hope you approve. Training of the Nephilim is going well,” he went on without waiting for my response. “We’ve been focusing on anti-possession techniques, mind-tricks as both
offensive and defensive strategies, and rigorous physical conditioning. Our biggest area of weakness is spy recruiting. We need to develop good information sources. We need to know what fallen
angels are planning, but we’ve been unsuccessful up to this point.” He looked at me expectantly.
    “Uh . . . okay. Good to know. I’ll be thinking of ideas.”
    “I’d suggest that you ask Patch.”
    “To spy for us?”
    “Use your relationship to your advantage. He may have information on fallen angels’ weak points. He may know of fallen angels who’d be easier to flip.”
    “I’m not using Patch. And I told you: Patch is staying out of the war. He hasn’t sided with fallen angels. I’m not asking him to spy for the Nephilim,” I said
almost coldly. “He isn’t getting involved.”
    Dante gave a brief nod. “Understood. Forget I asked. Standard warm-up. Ten miles. Push yourself on the back half—I want you sweating.”
    “Dante—” I protested weakly.
    “Those extra miles I warned you about? They go for excuses too.”
    Just get through this,
I tried to encourage myself.
You have the rest of the day off to sleep. And eat, and eat, and eat.
    Dante worked me hard; after the ten-mile warm-up, I practiced vaulting over boulders twice my height, then sprinting up the steep slopes of a ravine, and we brushed up on the lessons I’d
already learned, particularly working mind-tricks.
    Finally, at the end of the second hour, he said, “Let’s call it a day. Can you find your way home?”
    We’d traveled quite far into the woods, but I could tell by the rising sun which way was east, and I felt confident I could make it back alone. “Don’t worry about me,” I
said, and left.
    Halfway to the farmhouse I found the boulder we’d deposited our belongings on—the Windbreaker I’d shed after my warm-up, and Dante’s navy gym bag. He brought it every
day, toting it several miles into the woods, which had to be not only heavy and awkward, but impractical. So far, he’d never once unzipped it. At least, not in my presence. The bag could be
stocked with a myriad of torture devices he intended to employ in the name of training me. More likely, it held a change of clothes and spare shoes. Possibly including—I laughed at the
thought—a pair of tighty whities or boxers printed with penguins that I could tease him endlessly about. Maybe even hang on a nearby tree. There was no one around to see them, but he’d
be embarrassed enough knowing I had.
    Smiling sneakily, I pulled the zipper back a few inches. As soon as I saw the glass bottles filled with ice-blue liquid lined up inside, the pangs in my stomach twisted ferociously. Hunger
clawed through me like something living.
    Unquenchable need threatened to explode inside me. A high-pitched scream roared in my ears. In one overpowering wave, I remembered the potent taste of devilcraft. Awful, but so worth it. I
remembered the surge of power it had given me. I could barely keep my balance, I was so consumed by the need to feel that unstoppable high again. The skyrocketing jumps, the unmatched speed, the
animal-like agility. My pulse was giddy, beating and fluttering with
need, need, need
. My vision blurred and my knees slackened. I could almost taste the relief and fulfillment that would
come with one little sip.
    I quickly counted the bottles. Fifteen. No way would Dante notice if one went missing. I knew it was wrong to steal, just as I knew devilcraft wasn’t good for me. But