Finale

CHAPTER 34

I WORE NOTHING BUT TENNIS SHOES, SHORTS, AND A tank top when I met Patch early the following morning on a rocky piece of coastline. It was Monday, Pepper’s deadline. It was also a school day. But I couldn’t worry about either of those things now. Train first, stress later.

I’d wrapped my hands in bandages, anticipating that Patch’s version of training would put Dante’s to shame. My hair was pulled back in a tight French braid, and my stomach was empty except for a glass of water. I hadn’t ingested devilcraft since Friday, and it showed. I had a headache the size of Nebraska lodged in my head, and my vision seesawed in and out of focus when I turned my head too sharply. A jagged hunger clawed inside me. The pain was so fierce, I couldn’t catch my breath.

Upholding my promise to Patch, I’d taken the antidote Saturday night directly after confessing my addiction, but apparently the medication took a while to run its course. Probably didn’t help that I’d pumped large quantities of devilcraft into my system over the past week.

Patch wore black jeans and a matching T-shirt that hugged his form. He rested his hands on my shoulders, facing me. “Ready?”

Despite the grim mood, I smiled and cracked my knuckles. “Ready to wrestle with my gorgeous boyfriend? Oh, I’d say I’m ready for that.”

Amusement softened his eyes.

“I’ll try to control where I put my hands, but in the heat of things, who knows what could happen?” I added.

Patch grinned. “Sounds promising.”

“All right, Trainer. Let’s do this.”

At my word, Patch’s expression turned focused and businesslike. “You haven’t been trained in swordsmanship, and I’m guessing Dante has had more than his fair share of practice over the years. He’s as old as Napoleon, and probably came out of his mother’s womb waving a cuirassier’s sword. Your best bet is to strip him of his sword early and move quickly into hand-to-hand combat.”

“How am I going to do that?”

Patch picked up two sticks near his feet that he’d cut to approximately the length of a standard sword. He tossed one through the air, and I caught it. “Draw your sword before you begin fighting. It takes more time to draw a sword than it does to get struck.”

I pretended to draw my sword from an invisible scabbard at my hip, and held it at the ready.

“Keep your feet shoulder-width apart at all times,” Patch instructed, engaging me in a slow, relaxed parry. “You don’t want to lose your balance and trip. Never move your feet close together, and always keep the blade close to your body. The more you lean or stretch, the easier it will be for Dante to knock you over.”

We practiced footwork and balance for several minutes, the blunt clashing of our makeshift swords ringing out above low tide.

“Keep a close eye on Dante’s movements,” Patch said. “He’ll settle into a pattern right away, and you’ll start to learn when he’s going to move for an attack. When he does, launch a preemptive strike.”

“Right. Going to need a role play for that one.”

Patch slid his feet forward rapidly, swinging his sword down on mine so forciblÀne so foy, the stick vibrated in my hands. Before I could recover, he made a swift second blow, sending the sword sailing out of my grip.

I picked up my sword, wiped my brow, and said, “I’m not strong enough. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that to Dante.”

“You will, once you’ve weakened him. The duel is set to take place at sunrise tomorrow. Following tradition, it will be outside, somewhere remote. You’re going to force Dante into a position where the rising sun is in his eyes. Even if he tries to reverse your positions, he’s tall enough that he’ll shade the sun’s rays from your vision. Use his height to your advantage. He’s taller than you, and it will expose his legs. A hard strike to either knee will unbalance him. As soon as he loses his stance, attack.”

This time I reenacted Patch’s earlier move, forcing him off balance with a hit to his kneecap, followed by a rapid succession of strikes and blows. I didn’t strip him of his sword, but I did thrust the tip of my own against his exposed midsection. If I could do that to Dante, it would be the turning point of the duel.

“Very good,” Patch said. “The entire duel will most likely take less than thirty seconds. Every move counts. Be cautious and levelheaded. Don’t let Dante goad you into making a reckless mistake. Dodging and sidestepping are going to be your greatest defenses, especially in an open clearing. You’ll have enough room to avoid his sword by sliding out of its path quickly.”

“Dante knows he’s, like, a zillion times better than me.” I arched my eyebrows. “Any wise words of advice to cope with a complete and utter lack of confidence?”

“Let fear be your strategy. Pretend to be more frightened than you are to lull Dante into a false sense of superiority. Arrogance can be deadly.” The corners of his mouth crept up. “But you didn’t hear me say that.”

I hung my mock sword over my shoulders like a baseball bat. “So, basically, the plan is to strip him of his sword, deliver a fatal blow, and claim my rightful position as leader of the Nephilim.”

A nod. “Sweet and simple. Another ten hours of this, and you’ll be a pro.”

“If we’re doing this for ten hours, I’m going to need a little incentive to stay motivated.”

Patch hooked his elbow around my neck and dragged me into a kiss. “Every time you strip my sword, I owe you a kiss. How’s that sound?”

I bit my lip to keep from giggling. “That sounds really dirty.”

Patch waggled his brows. “Look whose mind just rolled into the gutter. Two kisses per strip. Any objections?”

I pulled on an innocent face. “None whatsoever.”

Patch and I didn’t stop dueling until sunset. We’d demolished five sets of swords, and stopped only for lunch and for me to receive my awarded kisses—some of which lasted long enough to draw the attention of beachcombers and a few joggers. I’m sure we looked insane, darting about on the craggy rocks while swinging wooden swords at each other hard enough to leave bruises and, very likely, a few cases of internal bleeding. ForÀbleedingtunately, my accelerated healing meant the worst of my injuries didn’t interfere with our training.

By dusk, we were covered in sweat and I was thoroughly exhausted. In just over twelve hours, I would duel Dante for real. No makeshift swords, rather steel blades sharp enough to sever a limb. The thought was sobering enough to make my skin prickle.

“Well, you did it,” I congratulated Patch. “I’m as trained as I’ll ever be—a lean, mean sword-fighting machine. I should have made you my personal trainer from day one.”

A rogue smile surfaced, slow and wicked. “No match for Patch.”

“Mmm,” I agreed, glancing up at him coyly.

“Why don’t you head back to my place for a shower, and I’ll pick up takeout from the Borderline?” Patch suggested as we trudged up the rocky embankment toward the parking lot.

He said it casually enough, but the words drew my eyes directly to his. Patch had worked as a busboy at the Borderline the first time we met. I couldn’t drive past the restaurant now and not think of him. I was touched that he remembered, and to know that the restaurant held special memories for him, too. I forced myself to put all thought of tomorrow’s duel, and Pepper’s slim chance at success, out of my mind; tonight I wanted to enjoy Patch’s company without worrying what would become of me—us—if I had to duel and Dante won.

“Can I put in a request for tacos?” I asked softly, remembering the first time Patch had taught me to make them.

“You read my mind, Angel.”

I let myself into Patch’s townhouse. In the bathroom, I stripped out of my clothes and untangled my braid. Patch’s bathroom was magnificent. Deep blue tiles and black towels. A freestanding tub that would easily fit two. Bar soap that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.

I stepped into the shower, letting the water beat over my skin. I thought of Patch standing in this same shower, arms braced against the wall as water poured over his shoulders. I thought of pearls of water clinging to his skin. I thought of him using the same towels I was about to wrap around my own body. I thought of his bed, just feet away. Of how the sheets would hold his scent—

A shadow slid across the bathroom mirror.

The bathroom door was cracked, light spilling in from the bedroom. I held my breath, waiting for another shadow, waiting for time to tell me I’d imagined seeing one. This was Patch’s home. No one knew about it. Not Dante, not Pepper. I’d been careful—no one had followed me tonight.

Another dark cloud drifted over the mirror. The air crackled with supernatural energy.

I shut off the water and knotted a towel around my body. I looked for a weapon: I had a choice of a roll of toilet paper or a bottle of hand soap.

I hummed softly under my breath. No reason to let the intruder know I was onto them.

The intruder moved closer to the bathroom door; their power jolted my senses with electricity, the hairs on my arms standing alert like stiff flags. I continued to hum. From the corner of my eye, I saw the doorknob turn, anÀknob turd I was done waiting.

I shoved my bare foot against the door with a grunt of exertion. It splintered, breaking off the hinges as it flew outward, knocking over whoever was behind it. I lunged through the entrance, fists bared, ready to attack.

The man on the floor curled into a ball to protect his body. “Don’t,” he croaked. “Don’t hurt me!”

Slowly, I lowered my fists. I cocked my head sideways for a better look.

“Blakely?”