“Uh . . . okay. Good to know. I’ll be thinking of ideas.”

“I’d suggest that you ask Patch.”

“To spy for us?”

“Use your relationship to your advantage. He may have information on fallen angels’ weak points. He may know of fallen angels who’d be ea&rsTimsier to flip.”

“I’m not using Patch. And I told you: Patch is staying out of the war. He hasn’t sided with fallen angels. I’m not asking him to spy for the Nephilim,” I said almost coldly. “He isn’t getting involved.”

Dante gave a brief nod. “Understood. Forget I asked. Standard warm-up. Ten miles. Push yourself on the back half—I want you sweating.”

“Dante—” I protested weakly.

“Those extra miles I warned you about? They go for excuses too.”

Just get through this, I tried to encourage myself. You have the rest of the day off to sleep. And eat, and eat, and eat.

Dante worked me hard; after the ten-mile warm-up, I practiced vaulting over boulders twice my height, then sprinting up the steep slopes of a ravine, and we brushed up on the lessons I’d already learned, particularly working mind-tricks.

Finally, at the end of the second hour, he said, “Let’s call it a day. Can you find your way home?”

We’d traveled quite far into the woods, but I could tell by the rising sun which way was east, and I felt confident I could make it back alone. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, and left.

Halfway to the farmhouse I found the boulder we’d deposited our belongings on—the Windbreaker I’d shed after my warm-up, and Dante’s navy gym bag. He brought it every day, toting it several miles into the woods, which had to be not only heavy and awkward, but impractical. So far, he’d never once unzipped it. At least, not in my presence. The bag could be stocked with a myriad of torture devices he intended to employ in the name of training me. More likely, it held a change of clothes and spare shoes. Possibly including—I laughed at the thought—a pair of tighty whities or boxers printed with penguins that I could tease him endlessly about. Maybe even hang on a nearby tree. There was no one around to see them, but he’d be embarrassed enough knowing I had.

Smiling sneakily, I pulled the zipper back a few inches. As soon as I saw the glass bottles filled with ice-blue liquid lined up inside, the pangs in my stomach twisted ferociously. Hunger clawed through me like something living.

Unquenchable need threatened to explode inside me. A high-pitched scream roared in my ears. In one overpowering wave, I remembered the potent taste of devilcraft. Awful, but so worth it. I remembered the surge of power it had given me. I could barely keep my balance, I was so consumed by the need to feel that unstoppable high again. The skyrocketing jumps, the unmatched speed, the animal-like agility. My pulse was giddy, beating and fluttering with need, need, need. My vision blurred and my knees slackened. I could almost taste the relief and fulfillment that would come with one little sip.

I quickly counted the bottles. Fifteen. No way would Dante notice if one went missing. I knew it was wrong to steal, just as I knew devilcraft wasn’t good for me. But 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 grsmiw it was weedy 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.

Chapter 18

MY 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. “I’m doing all the work, and it’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

“I don’t want anything to do with the party,” I reminded her.

“You’re just huffy because you don’t have a date.”

She was right. I didn’t have a date. I’d talked about bringing Patch, but that would require me to forgive him for meeting Blakely last night. The memory of what had happened came rushing back. Between sleeping last night, training with Dante this morning, and falling unconscious for several hours, I’d completely forgotten to check my phone for messages.

The doorbell chimed, and Marcie jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

I wanted to yell at her, “Quit acting like you live here!” but instead, I squeezed past her and took the stairs two at a time to my room. My handbag hung over my closet door, and I dug through it until I found my cell phone.

I drew in a sharp breath. No messages. I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t know if I should worry. What if Blakely had ambushed Patch? Or what if his silence was merely because we’d parted on bad terms last night? When I got angry, I wanted space, and Patch knew it.

I fired him a quick text. CAN WE TALK?

Downstairs, I heard Marcie break into a flustered argument. “I said I’ll go get her. You have to wait here. Hey! You can’t just burst in without being invited!”

“Says who?” Vee shot back, and I heard her bustle up the stairs.

I met them in the hallway outside my bedroom. “What’s going on?”

“Your fat friend elbowed her way inside without being invited,” Marcie complained.

“This skinny cow is acting like she owns the place,” Vee told me. “What is she doing here?”

“I live here now,” Marcie said.

Vee barked a laugh. “Always a funny one, you are,” she said, wagging her finger at Marcie.

Marcie’s chin jutted up. “I do live here. Go ’head. Ask Nora.”

Vee looked to me, and I sighed. “It’s temporary.”

Vee rocked back on her heels as though hit by an invisible punch. “Marcie? Living here? Am I the only one who realizes all logic just got up and walked off?”

“It was my mom’s idea,” I said.

“It was my idea, and my mom’s, but Mrs. Grey agreed it was for the best,” Marcie corrected.

Before Vee could ask more questions, I snagged her elbow and dragged her inside my bedroom. Marcie inched forward, but I shut the door on her. I was trying my hardest to be civil, but letting her in on a private conversation with Vee was taking the idea of courtesy too far.

“Why is she really here?” Vee demanded, not bothering to lower her voice.

“It’s a long story. The short of it is . . . I don’t know what she’s doing here.” Evasive, yes, but honest, too. I had no clue what Marcie was doing here. My mom had been Hank’s mistress, I was their love child, and it stood to reason that Marcie would want nothing to do with us.

“Gee, everything’s clear now,” Vee said.

Time to hit her with a distraction. “Marcie is throwing a Halloween party here at the farmhouse. Dates are required, ditto on costumes. The theme is famous couples from history.”

“And?” Vee said, not warming up at all.

“Marcie’s got dibs on Scott.”

Vee narrowed her eyes. “Like heck she does.”

“Marcie already asked him, but he didn’t sound very committed,” I offered helpfully.

Vee cracked her knuckles. “Time to work some Vee magic before it’s too late.”