Becca Fitzpatrick - Finale

I reached for her. “Marcie—”

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “Dante told me you killed my dad. How could you do it? How could you! I was sure it was Patch, but all along it was you !” she screeched hysterically.

Despite the heat, a shiver of fear whipped up my spine.

“I—can explain.” But I didn’t think I could. Marcie’s wild, overwrought expression hinted that she was spiraling into shock. I doubted she’d care to know that her dad had forced my hand when he’d attempted to send Patch to hell. “Give me the dagger.”

“Get away from me!” She scrabbled out of reach. “Dante and I are going to tell everyone. What will the Nephilim do to you once they know you murdered the Black Hand?”

I studied her carefully. Dante must have only just learned I’d killed Hank. Otherwise, he would have told the Nephilim long ago. Patch hadn’t given up my secret, which left Pepper. Somehow, Dante had gotten to him.

“Dante was right,” Marcie spat, cold rage bubbling up in her voice. “You stole the title from me. It was supposed to be mine. And now I’ve done what you couldn’t—I freed the Nephilim. When that fire finishes, every fallen angel on Earth will be chained in hell.”

“Dante is working for fallen angels,” I said, frustration sharpening my tone.

“No,” Marcie said. “You are.”

She swiped Pepper’s blade at me, and I jumped back, tripping. Smoke pressed down on me, fully obscuring my vision.

“Does Dante know you burned the feathers?” I yelled up at Marcie, but she gave no answer. She was gone.

Had Dante switched his strategy? After an unexpected windfall of every fallen angel feather, and therefore surefire victory for Nephilim, had he decided to side with his race after all?

There wasn’t time to debate. I’d already wasted too much precious time. I had to help Scott find Patch’s feather. Running back to the fiery chamhe fieryber, I coughed and gagged my way into the entrance.

“They’re all turning black from the ash,” Scott hollered at me over his shoulder. “They all look the same.” His cheeks glowed scarlet with heat. Embers whirled around him, threatening to ignite his hair, which had turned black with soot. “We have to get out of here. If we stay longer, we’ll catch on fire.”

I ran to him in a crouch, trying to avoid the heat, which blasted relentlessly. “First we find Patch’s feather.” I flung burning heaps of feathers behind me, shoveling deeper. Scott was right. A greasy black soot smeared every feather. I made a high sound of despair. “If we don’t, he’ll be sent to hell!”

I scattered handfuls of feathers, praying I would know his on sight. Praying it hadn’t already burned. I wouldn’t let my thoughts turn to the worst. Ignoring the smoke that scratched at my eyes and lungs, I sifted the feathers with more urgency. I couldn’t lose Patch. I wouldn’t lose Patch. Not like this. Not on my watch.

My eyes watered, tears brimming over. I couldn’t see clearly. The air was too hot to breathe. The skin on my face seemed to melt, and my scalp felt like it was on fire. I plunged my hands into the hill of feathers, desperate to find a solid black feather.

“I’m not going to let you burn,” Scott ground out above the crackling whoosh of flames. He rolled back on his knees, dragging me with him. I scratched ruthlessly at his hands. Not without Patch’s feather.

The fire clamored in my ears, and my concentration was wilting without enough oxygen. I wiped the back of my hand across my eyes, only to rub in more soot. I groped at the feathers, my arms feeling as though they were attached to hundred-pound weights. My vision seesawed. But I refused to pass out until I had Patch’s feather.

“Patch,” I murmured, just as an ember landed on my shirtsleeve, igniting the fabric. Before I could raise a hand to tamp it out, the flame shot to my elbow. Heat torched my skin, so bright and agonizing, I screamed and pitched sideways. It was then that I saw my jeans were also ablaze.

Scott bellowed orders behind me. Something about leaving the chamber. He wanted to close the door and trap the fire inside.

I couldn’t let him. I had to save Patch’s feather.

I lost my sense of direction, stumbling forward blindly. Bright, licking flames eclipsed my vision.

Scott’s voice, so urgent, dissolved into nothing.

Even before I opened my eyes, I knew I was in a moving car. I felt the irregular bump of tires bouncing over potholes, and an engine growled in my ears. I sat slouched against the car door, my head propped on the window. There were two unfamiliar hands in my lap, and it startled me when they moved at my command. I turned them over slowly in the air, staring at the strange black paper curling off them.

Blackened flesh.

A hand squeezed my arm in consolation.

“It’s okay,” Scott said from the driver’s seat of his Barracuda. “It will heal.”

I shook my head, imp my headlying he’d misunderstood. I licked my parched lips. “We have to go back. Turn the car around. We have to save Patch.”

Scott said nothing, just cast me a sidelong look of uncertainty.

No.

It was a lie. A deep, unimaginable fear swallowed me up. My throat felt thick and slippery and hot. It was a lie.

“I know you cared about him,” Scott said quietly.

I love him! I’ll always love him! I promised him we’d be together! I screamed inside my head, because the words were too jagged to push out. They scraped like nails in my throat.

I turned my attention out the window. I stared at the night, at the blur of trees and fields and fences, here one moment, gone the next. The words in my throat coiled into a scream, all sharp edges and icy pain. The scream hung there, swelling and hurting while my world unraveled and drifted out of orbit.

A pile of twisted metal blocked the road ahead.

Scott swerved to miss it, slowing as we passed. I didn’t wait for the car to stop; I threw myself out, running. Patch’s motorcycle. Beaten and battered. I gaped at it, blinking over and over, trying to see a different picture. The demolished metal, twisted over on itself, appeared as though the driver had raced at top speed—then jumped through a hole in the wind.

I ground my palms into my eyes, waiting for the awful picture to clear. I searched the road, thinking he must have crashed. In the impact, his body must have been thrown a distance. I ran farther, a little farther, searching the ditch, the weeds, the shadows off in the trees. He could be just ahead. I called his name. I paced up and down the roadside, my hands shaking as I plowed them through my hair.

I didn’t hear Scott come up behind me. I hardly felt his arms around my shoulders. Grief and anguish rattled me, a living presence, so real and frightening. It filled me with such cold, it hurt to draw breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.

“Don’t tell me he’s gone,” I snapped. “He crashed his motorcycle and kept on walking. He said he’d meet me at the studio. He wouldn’t break his promise.” I said the words because I had to hear them.

“You’re shivering. Let me take you back to my house, your house, his place—wherever you want.”

“ No ,” I barked. “We’re going back to the studio. He’s there. You’ll see.” I shoved out of his embrace, but I felt unsteady. My legs shuffled one numb step after another. A wild, unforgivable thought gripped me. What if Patch was gone?

My feet drifted back to the motorcycle.

“Patch!” I cried out, dropping to my knees. I stretched my body over his motorcycle, strange, powerful sobs erupting from deep in my chest. I was slipping, sliding into the lie.

Patch.