I knew he couldn’t feel it, but I did. My jaw tightened with venomous hatred toward Dante even as tears streamed down my face. Dante had made a massive, unforgivable mistake. Patch was everything to me, and if the devilcraft left any lasting damage, I would see to it that Dante regretted this single assault as long as he lived, which if I had anything to say about it, wouldn’t be long. But my seething rage was pushed aside by a consuming distress for Patch. Grief and guilt and ice-cold apprehension plummeted inside me.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice rattling. “Please, Patch, wake up,” I begged, kissing his mouth and wishing it would miraculously wake him. I gave my head a hard shake to dislodge the worst thoughts. I wouldn’t allow them to form. Patch was a fallen angel. He couldn’t be hurt. Not this way. I didn’t care how potent devilcraft was—it couldn’t cause Patch permanent harm.
I felt Patch’s fingers grip mine a moment before his low voice vibrated weakly in my mind. Angel.
At that one word, my heart soared with joy. I’m here! I’m right here. I love you, Patch. I love you so much! I sobbed back. Before I could restrain myself, I flung my mouth against his. I was straddling his hips, elbows planted on either side of his head, not wanting to cause him any more damage, but unable to restrain myself from embracing him. Then, just like that, he hugged me in such a tight embrace, I collapsed on top of him.
“I’ll injure you worse!” I shrieked, squirming to roll off him. “The devilcraft— Your skin—”
“You’re just the thing to make me feel better, Angel,” he murmured, finding my mouth and effectively cutting off my protest. His eyes were shut, lines of exhaustion and stress tightening his features, and yet the way he kissed me melted away every other worry. I relaxed my posture, sinking down on top of his long, lean form. His hand moved up the back of my shirt, feeling warm and solid as he held me close.
“I was terrified of what might have happened to you,” I choked out.
“I was terrified thinking the same about you.”
“The devilcraft—” I began.
Patch exhaled beneath me, and my body dipped with his. His breath carried relief and raw emotion. His eyes, stripped of everything but sincerity, found mine. “My skin can be replaced. But you can’t, Angel. When Dante left, I thought it was over. I thought I’d failed you. I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.”
I blinked back tears glittering on my lashes. “If he had taken you from me—” I was too choked up to finish the thought.
“He tried to take you from me, and that’s reason enough for me to mark him a dead man. He’s not getting away with this. I’ve forgiven him for several small trespasses in the name of trying to be civil and understanding about your role as leader of his predecessor’s army, but tonight he threw out the old rules. He used devilcraft on me. I don’t owe him any gestures of courtesy. Next time we meet, we’ll play by my rules.” Despite the exhaustion evident in every tense knot of muscle down his body, the decisiveness in his voice held no wavering or sympathy.
“He’s working for fallen angels, Patch. They have him in their pocket.”
I’d never seen Patch look as surprised as at that moment. His black eyes dilated, sorting out this news. “He told you that?”
I nodded soberly. “He said there’s no way the Nephilim are going to come out of this war on top. Despite every convincing, contradictory, and hope-filled word he’s been singing to the Nephilim,” I added bitterly.
“Did he name specific fallen angels?”
“No. He’s in this to save his own skin, Patch. He said when push comes to shove, the archangels will side with fallen angels. After all, their history runs deep. It’s hard to turn your back on blood, even if it is bad blood. There’s more.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “Dante’s next move is to steal my title as leader of the Black Hand’s army, and march the Nephilim straight into the hands of the fallen angels.”
Patch lay in stunned silence, but I saw thoughts shooting rapid-fire behind his black eyes, which held a sharp edge. He knew, like I did, that if Dante succeeded in stripping me of my title, my oath to Hank would be broken. Failure meant only one thing: death.
“Dante is also Pepper’s blackmailer,” I said.
Patch gave a curt nod. “I made that assumption when he ambushed me. How did Scott fare?”
“He’s in the mausoleum, with an incredibly smart stray dog watching over him.”
Patch lifted his eyebrows. “Should I ask?”
“I think that dog is vying for your job as my guardian angel. He scared off Dante and is the only reason I got away.”
Patch traced the curve of my cheekbone. “I’ll have to thank him for saving my girl.”
Despite the circumstances, I smiled. “You’re going to love him. The two of you share the same fashion sense.”
Two hours later I parked Patch’s truck in his garage. Patch was slumped in the passenger seat, his complexion washed out, the same blue hue still radiating from his skin. He smiled his lazy smile when he spoke, but I could tell it took effort; it was a ploy to reassure me. The devilcraft had weakened him, but for how long was anyone’s guess. I was grateful Dante had fled when he did. I imagined I had my new dog friend to thank for that. If Dante had hung around to finish what he’d started, we’d all have been in more danger than I suser than pected we could have escaped. Once again, I directed my gratitude toward the stray black dog. Scrappy and eerily smart. And loyal nearly to his own detriment.