Finale

those thoughts were
dull arguments floating aimlessly at the back of my head. I rationalized that prescription medicine in the wrong doses wasn’t good for me either, but sometimes I needed it. Just like I needed
a taste of devilcraft.
    Devilcraft. I could hardly think, I was so smitten and greedy for the power I knew it would give me. A sudden thought seized me—I might die if I didn’t get it, the need was that
potent. I would do anything for it. I had to feel that way again. Indestructible. Untouchable.
    Before I knew what I’d done, I took a bottle. It felt cool and reassuring in my grip. I hadn’t even taken a sip, and already my head was clearing. No more vertigo, and soon, no more
cravings.
    The bottle fit perfectly in my grip, as if it were meant to be there all along. Dante wanted me to have this bottle. After all, how many times had he tried to get me to drink devilcraft? And
hadn’t he said my next dose was on the house?
    I’d take one bottle, and it would be enough. I’d feel the rush of power once more and I’d be satisfied.
    Just once more.

C HAPTER

18
    M Y EYES OPENED TO A SUDDEN RAP ON THE door. I sat up, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through my bedroom window,
indicating that it was late morning. My skin was clammy with sweat, my sheets tangled around my legs. On my nightstand, an empty bottle lay tipped on its side.
    The memory stormed back.
    I’d barely made it to my bedroom before twisting off the cap, flinging it hastily aside, and draining the devilcraft in seconds. I’d choked and gagged, feeling as though I would
suffocate as the liquid clogged my throat, but I knew that the faster I guzzled, the sooner it would be over. A surge of adrenaline unlike anything I’d ever felt had expanded inside me,
vaulting my senses to an exhilarating high. I’d had the urge to run outside and push my body to the limit, sprinting and bounding and dodging everything in my path. Like flying. Only
better.
    And then, just as quickly as the urge had spiked inside me, I’d collapsed. I didn’t even remember falling into bed.
    “Wake up, sleepyhead,” my mom called through the door. “I know it’s the weekend, but let’s not sleep the whole day away. It’s already after eleven.”
    Eleven? I’d been out cold for
four
hours?
    “I’ll be down in a second,” I responded, my whole body shaking from what had to be a side effect of the devilcraft. I’d consumed too much, too fast. It explained my body
shutting down for hours, and the peculiar, jittery sensation pulsating inside me.
    I couldn’t believe I’d stolen the devilcraft from Dante. Worse, I couldn’t believe I’d drunk it. I was ashamed of myself. I had to find a way to correct it, but I
didn’t know where to start. How could I tell Dante? He already thought I was as feeble as a human, and if I couldn’t control my own appetites, it only proved him right.
    I should have just asked him for it. But I was disconcerted to realize that I’d
enjoyed
stealing it. There had been a certain thrill in doing something bad and getting away with
it. Just like there had been a thrill in overindulging in the devilcraft, drinking it all immediately and refusing to ration it.
    How could I be having these awful thoughts? How could I have let myself act on them? This wasn’t who I was.
    Swearing that this morning would be the last time I ever used devilcraft, I buried the bottle at the bottom of the wastebasket and tried to flush the incident from my head.
    I assumed that by this hour I’d be eating breakfast alone, but I found Marcie at the kitchen table, crossing off a list of phone numbers. “I’ve spent all morning inviting
people to the Halloween party,” she explained. “Feel free to jump in at any time.”
    “I thought you were mailing invites.”
    “Not enough time. The party is Thursday.”
    “A school night? What’s wrong with Friday?”
    “Football game.” My face must have registered confusion, because she elaborated, “All my friends will either be playing in the game or cheering. Plus, it’s an away game,
so we can’t just invite them over after.”
    “And Saturday?” I asked, incredulous that we were throwing a party during the week. My mom would never go for it. Then again, Marcie had a way of talking her into just about anything
these days.
    “Saturday was my parents’ anniversary. We are not doing it Saturday,” she said with a note of finality. She pushed the list of phone numbers toward me.