Finale (7 page)
Authors: Becca Fitzpatrick
“You couldn’t stop and find some way to call me?” she said, not sounding for one minute like she believed my story.
“It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“I don’t suppose you were with Patch?” I didn’t miss the cynical emphasis on his name. My mother regarded Patch with as much affection as the raccoons that often wreaked havoc on our property. I didn’t doubt she fantasized about standing on the porch with a rifle perched on her shoulder, watching for him to show his face.
I inhaled, swearing this would be the last lie. If Patch and I were really going through with the staged fight, it was best to start planting seeds now. I told myself that once I took care of Mom and Vee, everything else would be downhill. “I wasn’t with Patch, Mom. We broke up.”
“It just happened, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.” I started for the stairs.
“Nora—”
I turned back, and there were tears in my eyes. They were unexpected and not part of the act. I merely remembered the last time Patch and I had broken up for real, and a viselike sensation squeezed me, stealing my breath. The memory would forever haunt me. Patch had taken the best parts of me with him, leaving a lost and hollow girl behind. I didn’t want to be that girl again. Ever.
Mom’s expression eased up. She met me on the stairs, rubbed my back soothingly, and whispered in my ear, “I love you. If you change your mind and want to talk . . .”
I nodded, then went to my bedroom.
There,
I told myself, trying hard to sound optimistic.
One down, one to go.
I wasn’t exactly lying to my mom and Vee about the breakup; I was merely doing what had to be done to keep them safe. Honesty was the best policy, most of the time. But sometimes safety trumped all, right? It seemed like a valid argument, but the thought soured in my stomach.
There was another worrisome thought scratching at the back of my mind. How long could Patch and I live a lie . . . and not let it become the truth?
Five o’clock Monday morning arrived all too soon. I smacked my alarm, cutting it off mid-beep. Then I rolled over and told myself,
Two more minutes
. I closed my eyes, let my mind float, saw a new dream start to take shape—and the next thing I knew, I caught a handful of clothes in the face.
“Rise and shine,” Dante said, standing over my bed in the dark.
“What are you doing in here?” I shrieked groggily, snatching my blanket and tugging it higher.
“Doing what any decent personal trainer would. Get your butt out of bed and get dressed. If you’re not in the driveway in three minutes, I’ll come back with a bucket of cold water.”
“How did you get in?”
“You left your window unlocked. Might want to break that habit. Hard to control what comes in when you give the world a free pass.”
He strolled toward my bedroom door just as I stumbled out of bed.
“Are you crazy? Don’t use the hall! My mom might hear you. A guy doing what appears to be the walk of shame out my bedroom door? I’ll be grounded for life!”
He looked amused. “For the record, I wouldn’t be ashamed.”
I stood in place a whole ten seconds after he left, wondering if I was supposed to read deeper into his words. Of course not. His line might have felt flirtatious, but it wasn’t. End of story.
I tugged on black leggings and a stretchy microfiber shirt, and slicked my hair into a ponytail. If nothing else, I’d look good while Dante ran me into the ground.
Exactly three minutes later, I met him in the driveway. I looked around, sensing the absence of something important. “Where&r SldqRomsquo;s your car?”
Dante punched me lightly in the shoulder. “Feeling lazy? Tsk, tsk. I thought we’d warm up with a brisk ten-mile run.” He pointed toward the densely wooded area across the street. As kids Vee and I had explored the woods, and even built a fort one summer, but I’d never taken the time to wonder how far they stretched. Apparently, at least ten miles. “After you.”
I hesitated. I didn’t feel great about running off into the wilderness with Dante. He’d been one of Hank’s top men—reason enough not to like or trust him. In hindsight, I never should have agreed to train alone with him, especially if our training arena was remote.
“After training, we should probably review the feedback I’m getting from various Nephilim groups about morale, expectations, and you,” Dante added.
After training. Meaning he didn’t intend to discard me at the bottom of an abandoned well in the next hour. Besides, Dante answered to me now. He’d sworn loyalty. No longer Hank’s lieutenant, he was now mine. He wouldn’t dare harm me.
Allowing myself the luxury of one final thought of blissful sleep, I shrugged off the fantasy and darted into the tree line. The branches stretched like a canopy overhead, shutting out what little trace of light the early sky might have had to offer. Relying on my heightened Nephilim vision, I ran hard, vaulting over fallen trees, dodging low-hanging branches, and keeping my eyes sharp for sunken rocks and other camouflaged debris. The ground was treacherously uneven, and at the speed I was traveling, one missed step could be disastrous.
“Faster!” Dante barked behind me. “Run lighter on your feet. You sound like a stampeding rhinoceros. I could find and catch you with my eyes closed!”
I took his words to heart, lifting my feet the moment they hit ground, repeating this process with every step, concentrating on making myself as noiseless and undetectable as possible. Dante raced ahead, blowing past me with ease.
“Catch me,” he ordered.
Chasing after him, I marveled at the strength and agility of my new Nephilim body. I was amazed by how clunky, slow, and uncoordinated my human body had been in comparison. My athleticism wasn’t merely improved, it was
superior
.
I dipped under branches, jumped over potholes, and darted around boulders as though I were on an obstacle course I’d long ago memorized. And while I felt like I was running fast enough to lift off and soar into the sky at any moment, my pace lagged behind Dante’s. He moved like an animal, gaining the momentum of a predator chasing down its next meal. Soon I’d lost track of him altogether.
I slowed, straining my ears. Nothing. A moment later he bounded out of the darkness ahead.
“That was pathetic,” he criticized. “Again.”
I spent the next two hours sprinting after him and hearing that same directive repeated over and over:
Again.
And again. Still not right—do it
again
.
I was about to call it quits—my leg muscles trembled with exhaustion and my lungs felt scraped raw—when Dante circled back. He gave me a congratulatory pat on the back. “Good work. Tomorrow we&rsqu Sorrble.o;ll move to strength training.”
“Oh? By lifting boulders?” I managed cynically, still huffing and puffing.
“By uprooting trees.”
I stared at him.
“Pushing them over,” he elaborated cheerfully. “Get a full night’s sleep—you’re
going to need it.”
“Hey!” I called after him. “Aren’t we still miles from my house?”
“Five, actually. Consider it your cooldown jog.”
T
WELVE HOURS LATER I WAS STIFF AND SORE FROM
this morning’s workout, edging my way gingerly up and down the stairs, which seemed to give my muscles the most grief. But any R & R would have to wait; Vee was picking me up in ten minutes, and I still hadn’t changed out of the sweats I’d spent the day lounging in.
Patch and I had decided to stage our fight publicly tonight, so there’d be no question about the state of our relationship: We had split ways and were staunchly on opposite sides in this brewing war. We’d also opted to make our scene at the Devil’s Handbag, knowing it was a popular Nephilim hangout. While we didn’t know the identities of the Nephilim who’d attacked me, or if they’d be there tonight, Patch and I were certain that news of our split would travel fast. Finally, the bartender scheduled to work the night shift, Patch had learned, was a quick-tempered Nephilim supremacist. Vital, Patch had assured me, to our plan.
I shucked out of my sweats and slipped into a chunky cable-knit sweaterdress, tights, and ankle boots. I twisted my hair into a low bun, shaking a few pieces loose to frame my face. Exhaling, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and manufactured a smile. All in all, I didn’t look too bad for a girl about to engage in a devastating fight with the love of her life.
The consequences of tonight’s fight only have to last a couple weeks,
I told myself.
Just until this whole Cheshvan mess blows over.
Besides, the fight wasn’t real. Patch had promised we’d find ways to meet. In secret moments and stolen glances. We’d just have to be extra careful.
“Nora!” my mom called up the stairs. “Vee’s here.”
“Wish me luck,” I murmured to my reflection, then grabbed my coat and scarf and flicked off the bedroom light.
“I want you home by nine,” my mom told me when I descended to the foyer. “No exceptions. It’s a school night.”
I kissed her on the cheek and hustled out the door.
Vee had the Neon’s windows rolled down, and her stereo was cranking out Rihanna. I dropped into the passenger seat and called over the music, “I’m surprised your mom let you out on a school night.”
“She had to fly to Nebraska la Vorrblprist night. Her uncle Marvin died, and they’re divvying up his estate. Aunt Henny is watching me.” Vee looked sideways, and her grin hinted at mischief.
“Wasn’t your Aunt Henny in rehab a couple years ago?”
“That would be the one. Too bad it didn’t work out for her. She’s got a gallon of apple juice in the fridge, but it’s the most fermented apple juice I’ve ever taken a swig of.”
“And your mom deemed her responsible enough to watch you?”
“Guess the prospect of getting some of Uncle Marvin’s money softened her up.”
We roared down Hawthorne, belting out the lyrics and dancing in our seats. I was antsy and nervous but thought it best to act like nothing was out of the ordinary.
The Devil’s Handbag was only moderately busy tonight, a decent crowd, but not standing room only. Vee and I slid into a booth, unloaded our coats and handbags, and ordered Cokes from a waitress who swept past. I surreptitiously glanced around for Patch, but he hadn’t surfaced. I’d rehearsed my lines too many times to count, but my palms were still slick with sweat. I wiped them on my thighs, wishing I were a better performer. Wishing I liked drama and attention.
“You don’t look so good,” Vee said.
I was about to quip that I was probably carsick from her lack of finesse at driving, when Vee’s eyes swiveled past me and her expression soured. “Oh heck no. Tell me that isn’t Marcie Millar flirting with my man.”
I craned my neck toward the stage. Scott and the other members of Serpentine were onstage warming up for the show, while Marcie propped her elbows prettily on the stage, singling out Scott for conversation.
“Your man?” I asked Vee.
“Soon to be. Same difference.”
“Marcie flirts with everyone. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Vee did some deep breathing that actually made her nostrils flare. Marcie, as if sensing Vee’s negative vibe like voodoo, looked our way. She gave us her best beauty pageant wave.
“Do something,” Vee told me. “Get her away from him.
Now.
”
I jumped up and strolled over to Marcie. On the way over, I worked up a smile. By the time I reached her, I was pretty sure it looked almost genuine. “Hey,” I told her.
“Oh, hey, Nora. I was just telling Scott how much I love indie music. Nobody in this town ever amounts to anything. I think it’s cool he’s trying to make it big.”
Scott winked at me. I had to shut my eyes briefly to keep from rolling them.
“So . . . ,” I drew out, struggling to fill the lapse in conversation. At Vee’s command, I’d come over here, but now what? I couldn’t just drag Marcie away from Scott. And why was
I
the one over here playing referee? This was Vee’s business, not mine.
“Can we talk?” Marcie asked me, saving me from having to come up with a tactic on my own.
“Sure, I have a minute,” I said. “Why don’t we go somewhere more quiet?”
As if reading my mind, Marcie grabbed my wrist and propelled me out the back door and into the alley. After glancing both ways to make sure we were alone, she said, “Did my dad tell you anything about me?” She dropped her voice further. “About being Nephilim, I mean. I’ve been feeling funny lately. Tired and crampy. Is this some kind of weird Nephilim menstruation thing? Because I thought I already went through that.”
How was I supposed to tell Marcie that purebred Nephilim, like her parents, rarely mated together successfully, and when they did, the offspring were weak and sickly, and that some of Hank’s final words to me included the somber truth that Marcie would in all likelihood not live much longer?
In short, I couldn’t.
“Sometimes I feel tired and crampy too,” I said. “I think it’s normal—”
“Yeah, but did my dad
say
anything about it?” she pressed. “What to expect, how to cope, that kind of thing.”
“I think your dad loved you and would want you to keep living your life, not stressing about the whole Nephilim thing. He’d want you to be happy.”
Marcie looked at me incredulously. “Happy? I’m a freak. I’m not even human. And don’t think for one minute I’ve forgotten you aren’t either. We’re in this together.” She jabbed her finger accusingly at me.
Oh boy. Just what I needed. Solidarity . . . with Marcie Millar.
“What do you really want from me, Marcie?” I asked.
“I want to make sure you understand that if you so much as hint to anyone that I’m not human, I will burn you. I will bury you alive.”
I was running out of patience. “First off, if I wanted to announce to the world that you’re Nephilim, I already would have. And second, who would believe me? Think about it. ‘Nephilim’ isn’t an everyday word in the vocabulary of most people we know.”
“Fine,” Marcie huffed, apparently satisfied.
“Are we done here?”
“What if I need someone to talk to?” she persisted. “It’s not like I can dump this on my psychiatrist.”
“Um, your mom?” I suggested. “She’s a Nephil too, remember?”
“Ever since my dad disappeared, she’s refused to accept the truth about him. Big-time denial issues going on there. She’s convinced he’s coming back, that he still loves her, that he’ll annul the divorce, and our lives will go back to being peachy keen.”
Denial issues, maybe. But I wouldn’t put Hank above mind-tricking his ex-wife with a memory-altering enchantment so powerful that its effects lasted beyond his death. Hank and vanity went together like matching socks. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone speaking ill of his memory. And as far as I knew, no one in Coldwater had. It was as if a numbing fog had settled over the commun [er nyone spity, keeping human and Nephilim residents alike from asking the big question of what had happened to him. There wasn’t a single story going around town. People, when they spoke of him, simply murmured, “What a shock. Rest his soul. Poor family, ought to ask how I can help . . .”
Marcie continued, “But he’s not coming back. He’s dead. I don’t know how or why or who did it, but there is no way my dad would drop off the grid unless something happened. He’s dead. I know it.”
I tried to keep my expression sympathetic, but my palms started to sweat again. Patch was the only other person on Earth who knew I’d sent Hank to the grave. I had no intention of adding Marcie’s name to the insider list.
“You don’t sound too broken up about it,” I said.
“My dad was messed up in some pretty bad stuff. He deserved what he got.”
I could have opened up to Marcie then and there, but something didn’t feel right. Her cynical gaze never wavered from my face, and I got the feeling she suspected I knew vital information about her father’s death, and her indifference was an act to get me to divulge.
I wasn’t going to walk into a trap, if that’s what this was.
“It’s not easy losing your dad, believe me,” I said. “The pain never really goes away, but it does eventually become bearable. And somehow, life moves on.”
“I’m not looking for a sympathy card, Nora.”
“Okay,” I said with a reluctant shrug. “If you ever need to talk, I guess you can call me.”