Becca Fitzpatrick: Finale

I was too choked up to speak. “All right,” I said at last. “Let’s go slam shut the gates of hell once and for all.”

THE SUN CRESTED ABOVE THE HORIZON, BACKLIGHTING the seemingly endless silhouette of fallen angels charging across the cemetery grounds. In the early, slanted light, their shadows emitted an incandescent blue, like a great ocean wave roaring toward shore. One man—a Nephil—ran at the front of the army, wielding a blue-gleaming sword. A sword created to kill me. Even from this distance, Dante’s eyes seemed to cut through all distraction, hunting for me.

I’d wondered how the gates of hell had been opened, and now I had my answer. The dark-blue halo hovering above the fallen angels told me Dante had employed devilcraft.

But why he’d allowed Marcie to burn the feathers, only to free fallen angels—that I didn’t know.

“I need to get Dante alone,” I told Scott and Vee. “He’s looking for me, too. If you can, lead him to the parking lot above the cemetery.”

“You don’t have a weapon,” Scott said.

I pointed ahead, at the surging army. Every fallen angel carried a sword that seemed to shoot from their hand like a shining blue flame. “No, but they do. I just have to convince one of them to make a donation.”

“They’re spreading out,” Scott said. “They’re going to kill every Nephil in this cemetery, and then invade Coldwater.”

I grasped his hands, then Vee’s. For one moment, we formed an unbreakable circle, and it gave me strength. I’d be alone when I faced Dante, but Vee and Scott would not be far away—I would remember that. “Whatever happens, I’ll never forget our friendship.”

Scott dragged my head against his chest, holding me fervently, then kissed my forehead tenderly. Vee flung her arms around me, embracing me long enough that I feared I might shed more tears than I already had.

Pulling away, I ran.

The terrain of the cemetery offered multiple hiding places, and I climbed swiftly into the branches of an evergreen tree growing out of the hill leading up to the parking lot. From here, I had an unobstructed view, watching as unarmed Nephilim men and women, outnumbered twenty to one, charged at the wall of fallen angels. In a matter of seconds, fallen angels descended over them like a cloud, chopping them down as if they were nothing more than weeds.

At the bottom of the hill, Susanna Millar was locked in a wrestling match with a fallen angel whose pale blond hair whipped about her shoulders as the two women thrashed for control. Susanna flung a knife from the hidden folds of her cloak and launched it into Dabria’s breastbone. With a high growl of rage, Dabria two-handed her sword, skidding over the wet grass as she swung it in retaliation. Their fight carried them behind the maze of tombstones and out of sight.

Farther away, Scott and Vee fought back to back, using tree branches to fend off four fallen angels who had them surrounded. Despite their numerical advantage, the fallen angels receded from Scott, whose sheer strength and size gave him the upper hand. He knocked them over with the tree branch, then used it as a sledgehammer to pummel them senseless.

I scanned the cemetery for Marcie. If she was out there, I couldn’t see her. It wasn’t a wild guess to believe she’d deliberately avoided the battle and chosen safety over honor. Blood painted the cemetery grass. Nephilim and fallen angels alike skidded on it—some of the blood was pure red, much of it tainted blue with devilcraft.

Lisa Martin and her robed friends ran along the perimeter of the cemetery, black smoke billowing from the torches they carried. At a hurried pace, they moved from one tree and shrub to the next, lighting them on fire. Flames erupted, consuming the foliage and narrowing the battlefield, forming a barrier around the fallen angels. The smoke, hazy and thick, stretched across the cemetery like the shadow of nightfall. Lisa couldn’t burn fallen angels to death, but she had bought the Nephilim extra coverage.

One fallen angel emerged from the smoke, trudging up the hillside, eyes alert. I had to believe he sensed me. His sword radiated blue fire, but the way he held it concealed his face. Still, I could plainly see he was gangly, an easier match for me.

He crept toward the tree, eyeing the dark spaces nestled between branches cautiously. In five seconds, he’d be directly below me.

Four, three, two—

I dropped from the tree. I slammed into him from behind, the weight of my impact shoving him forward. His sword flew from his hand before I could steal it. We rolled several feet, but I had the advantage of surprise. Scrabbling upright quickly, I stood over his back, landing several crushing blows to his wing scars before he shoved his foot back, sweeping my legs out from under me. I rolled away, missing the downward drill of a knife he’d extracted from his boot.

“Rixon?” I said, shocked to recognize the pale face and hawkish features of Patch’s former best friend glaring at me. Patch had personally chained Rixon in hell after he’d attempted to sacrifice me to get a human body.

“You,” he said.

We faced each other, knees bent, ready to spring. “Where’s Patch?” I dared ask.

His beady eyes clung to mine, narrowed and cold. “That name means nothing to me. Thing to he man is dead to me.”

Since he didn’t surge at me with the knife, I risked asking another question. “Why are fallen angels letting Dante lead you?”

“He forced us to swear an oath of loyalty to him,” he said, his eyes narrowing into twin slits. “It was that, or stay in hell. Not many stayed.”

Patch wouldn’t stay behind. Not if there was a way back to me. He’d swear the oath to Dante, as much as he’d rather rip out the Nephil’s neck, and then repeat the procedure with every other square inch of his body.

“I’m going after Dante,” I told Rixon.

He laughed, a hiss between his teeth. “I claim a prize for every Nephil body I drag back to Dante. I failed to kill ye before, and now I’ll do it properly.”

At the same time, we dived for his sword, several feet away. Rixon reached it first, rolling agilely onto his knees and slicing the sword crosswise at me. I ducked, hurtling myself at his midsection before he could swing again. I slammed him back against the ground on his wing scars. Taking advantage of his brief immobility, I disarmed him; I plucked the sword from his left hand, and the knife from his right.

Then I kicked his body over and plunged the knife deep into his wing scars. “You killed my dad,” I told him. “I haven’t forgotten.”

I hustled uphill toward the parking lot, glancing back to see that I wasn’t being followed. I had a sword, but I needed a better one. Recalling my training with Patch, I replayed every sword-stripping maneuver we had practiced together. When Dante met me in the parking lot, I would steal his sword. And I would kill him with it.

When I rounded the hill, Dante was waiting. He watched me, sliding his finger indolently back and forth over the tip of his sword.

“Nice sword,” I said. “I heard you had it made especially for me.”

His bottom lip curled marginally. “Only the best for you.”

“You murdered Blakely. A pretty cold way of saying thank you for all the prototypes he developed for you.”

“And you murdered Hank. Your own flesh and blood. A bit like calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” he quipped. “I spent months infiltrating Hank’s secret blood society and gaining his trust. I have to tell you, I raised a toast to my good fortune the day he died. It would have been far harder to dethrone him than you.”

I shrugged. “I’m used to being underestimated.”