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Pris kr Lukk Lukk. Image for Finale from Norli. Av Becca Fitzpatrick. Pris: kr 99, By Becca Fitzpatrick. Read a Sample. Add Book To Favorites. Borrow eBooks, audiobooks, and videos from thousands of public libraries worldwide.
Leer Finale, de Becca Fitzpatrick. For psychologists out there, delve into the world of celebrities with a celebrity stalking article Page 12 Also by. Hush, Hush. The right of Becca Fitzpatrick to be identified as the author of this work has been Finale by Becca Fitzpatrick Favorite Author. Becca wrote an epilogue as well and while reading it I started to realize that I prefer these books over my all time favorite, Harry Potter.
There's a huge battle, constant fighting, war, romance, and most importantly plot twists. The ending wasn't all "happily ever after" per say, and that didn't bother me at all. I thought there were more deaths in this book than the others.
This entire series ruined my life for a good week and a half, and I'm totally fine with it. As this book came to the end it became more intense and exciting and the excitement didn't stop till the last few pages.
I highly recommend this series to anyone that enjoys a good fight. I however don't recommend it if you're highly religious In Chri I know I'm going to pick up these books again and read them a second time.
You think when he first gets his feeling of touch back that he would feel the air on his skin or the temperature not her kiss and nothing else that's just dumb. It could have been real poetry. Dante Matterazzi and I both belonged to the Nephilim race, hence the innate ability to mind-speak, but the similarities stopped there.
It was overwhelming. Or maybe I was in denial. Left a message on your cell phone, he said. Gee, I must have missed it. More like I deleted it. We need to talk. Kind of busy. To emphasize my point, I rolled my hips and swung my arms side to side, doing my best to imitate Vee, whose favorite television network was BET, and it showed.
She had hip-hop stamped on her soul. Meet me out back in two. I glared at him. Busy, remember? With a meaningful arch of his eyebrows, he disappeared into the crowd. Suck it up and talk to him. The alternative was having him shadow me all night. The alley was bathed in blue moonlight. A red Porsche Panamera was parked in front of me, and Dante leaned against it, arms folded loosely over his chest.
Dante is six feet nine with the physique of a soldier fresh out of boot camp. Case in point: He has more muscle tone in his neck than I have in my entire body.
Tonight he was wearing baggy khakis and a white linen shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a deep V of smooth, hairless skin. Twice by text messaging, and now face-to-face. My relationship with Patch had gone through a lot of ups and downs, but the current trend was upward. In a world where Nephilim and fallen angels would rather die than smile at each other, dating a fallen angel was a definite no-no.
I stood a little taller. Nephilim and fallen angels never needed an excuse to teach each other a lesson, and racial tensions between the two groups were getting hotter with each passing day. It was autumn, October to be exact, and the Jewish month of Cheshvan was just days away. Every year during Cheshvan, fallen angels possess Nephilim bodies by the droves. They chase after pleasure, pain, and everything in between, playing parasites to their Nephilim hosts.
For Nephilim, Cheshvan is a hellish prison. Boost Nephilim confidence in you. Cheshvan starts in just over seventy-two hours, and that means war. Fallen angels on one side, us on the other. No pressure. The Nephilim are digging around. Then I opened my mouth, but Dante was beside me in an instant, covering it with his hand.
I was angry. Really careful. But I still need you to do something for me. Date Scott Parnell. There were no secrets between us. Likewise, there was no romantic chemistry. I laughed. Nobody knows you. People need a reason to like you. We have to make them feel comfortable trusting you. Dating a Nephil is a good step in the right direction. Not surprisingly, both relationships made her seriously doubt her instincts in love.
Lately, she had unequivocally refused to so much as smile at the opposite sex. To sweep in and steal Scott now, even if it was a ruse, would be the ultimate low blow. You and Scott would have to be convincing together. I did the hands-on- hips thing, going for firm and immovable. In fact, it seemed like a disaster in the making, but I wanted this mess behind me.
If Dante thought a Nephilim boyfriend would give me more street cred, so be it. Summoning patience. Just throw someone other than Scott at me. I had no say in that. And then smack myself for even considering this plan. Bad idea. Really bad idea. My answer is no. No problem, Nora. I needed a name first thing this morning.
We need the Nephilim to believe in you. Starting with a respected Nephilim boyfriend. Vee stood in the doorway, eyeing us with equal parts wariness and curiosity. Her gaze shifted from me to Dante. Recognition sparked in her eyes, and I knew she remembered him from the bar. We met earlier today when our mutual acquaintance, Scott Parnell, introduced us. I think the VIN number is missing. Poor Dante had to resort to theft, since he used up all his money getting his chest waxed, and boy, does it gleam.
He must have been homeschooled, because he missed all those valuable lessons we learned in kindergarten, like sharing. Dante Matterazzi. Vee clapped her hands, jumping up and down. This whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing? Nothing is settled. Just a little something to bear in mind. Your best friend thinks I should give your boyfriend a run for his money, he said, sounding amused. She thinks anything with a beating heart should replace Patch. They have unresolved issues.
Sounds promising. He followed me down the short hall leading to the dance floor, and I felt his haughty, goading smile the whole way. The loud monotone beat of the music drove into my skull like a hammer. I pinched the bridge of my nose, cringing against a swelling headache.
I had one elbow perched on the bar, and I used my free hand to press a glass of ice water against my forehead. She keeps going and going. Seriously, how much longer can she possibly last? Go home. After all, Vee likes you. And you actually have the stamina to keep dancing with her.
I mean, this is a good thing, right? I owe you. We need to finish our earlier conversation. Once again, Dante was the thorn in my foot, relentless in his pestering. After all, he reported to me now. Maybe my role as leader of all Nephilim would have a few perks after all. On that note, I left. It was a cloudless night, the moon a haunting blue against the black of night.
I inhaled the chilly October air. Already my headache ebbed. The untraceable cell phone Patch had given me rang in my handbag. I needed to bring Patch up to speed. After I finish up here, I could swing by your place. Leave your bedroom window unlocked. I padded down the sidewalk, wondering who Patch was keeping an eye on, and why—the whole thing sounded a little ominous—when my car, a white Volkswagen Cabriolet, came into view.
I threw my shoes into the backseat and dropped behind the wheel. It repeatedly made a strained, chugging sound, and I took the opportunity to think a few choice and inventive words at the worthless piece of scrap metal.
The car had fallen into my lap as a donation from Scott, and had given me more hours of grief than actual miles on the road. What was left? You look like a nice girl. We could have a nice talk while we drive. Nor was he Nephilim. He had a round, cherubic face topped with a thatch of yellow-blond hair, and floppy Dumbo ears. He looked so harmless, in fact, that it made me instantly suspicious.
Instantly uneasy. I took several startled steps back. What if he really did know about me and Patch? I was a brand-new Nephil, no match for him if it came to a physical confrontation. Whoever this man was, cherubic features aside, he meant business. I live with my mom in a quintessential Maine farmhouse, complete with white paint, blue shutters, and a shroud of ever-present fog. This time of year, the trees blazed fiery shades of red and gold, and the air held the crisp smells of pine sap, burning wood, and damp leaves.
I jogged up the porch steps, where five portly pumpkins watched me like sentinels, and let myself in. I dropped my keys on the sideboard and went back to find her. She dog-eared her page, rose from the sofa, and squeezed me in a hug. What man? The man who had a bone to pick with Patch. I fabricated a smile. Keeps trying to get me to commit to senior pictures with his studio.
Would it be completely disgusting if I skipped washing my face tonight? Staying awake an extra two minutes at this point is pushing it. My eyes were halfway shut when I remembered the window. On a groan, I staggered over and unlatched the lock. Patch could get inside, but I wished him luck trying to keep me awake long enough to elicit a response. I pulled my blankets up to my chin, felt the soft, blissful tug of a dream beckoning me closer, let it drag me under— And then the mattress sank with the weight of another body.
My bed, on the other hand. His dark eyes watched mine, and he smelled clean and sexy. Most of all, he felt warm pressed up against me. Despite my best intentions, the close proximity was making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on sleep. No pain, but no pleasure either. I had to be content knowing that when I kissed him, he felt it on an emotional level only.
He kissed me lightly on the mouth. Something about Dante. Whatever it was, it seemed unimportant. Talking in general seemed unimportant. I snuggled in closer, and Patch stroked his hand down my bare arm, making a warm tingly sensation shoot all the way to my toes.
Patch had also met Dante for the first time this morning, and for most of the tense meeting, I feared one would drag the other into a fistfight. Got to keep the Nephilim thinking their leader is invested. Nothing says solidarity like hooking up with one of your own, you know? It makes for good press. They might even call us Norante. Or Danta. Do you like the sound of that? Hank got Nephilim everywhere all worked up over this one moment.
In the meantime, while tempers are running hot and the hopes and dreams of Nephilim are hanging on the false belief that I can free them from fallen angels, we have to keep them happy. I stared at the ceiling. More times today than I wanted to sanely contemplate. One forever night ago, the archangels had made me the deal of a lifetime. So I shot him. Hank was dead, and the archangels were expecting me to stop the Nephilim from going to war. This was where things got tricky.
How to fulfill my promise to the archangels and my oath to Hank? I saw only one option. To peace. As I was learning all too well.
Right now, I was more concerned with keeping the archangels happy than the Nephilim. Take you, for instance. Oh, it had been vague all right. And to the point. Not a word more. He wants to chain me in hell and dust his hands of me. I agreed to keep his secret, and in return he agreed to help me get my hands on a copy of the Book of Enoch.
I might have to go under. Keep my head down. Patch hooked a finger in my neckline and pulled me into a kiss. Archangel with a Dirty Secret, had sat outside my house all night, playing spy.
I thought back to a year ago, to the fall of my sophomore year. Never could I have imagined what lay in store. Patch meant more to me than I could put into words. Whenever doubt and regret crept into my conscience, all I had to do was think of Patch. At noon, Vee called. And hold on. Since when do you like running? I want Scott to look at me the way Patch looks at you.
Starting today, I love exercise. And what about me? Your hair does scary stuff when it gets damp. Right on time, Vee picked me up. She steered her purple Neon across town, in the opposite direction from school, humming to herself. Hills are good for the glutes. Scott lives on Deacon Road.
Why not think of it as motivation? Eye on the prize. And it would be rude not to stop and give him a couple minutes of our time. This is a pickup. Scott lived with his mom, Lynn Parnell, in an apartment complex that came into view around the next bend. Over the summer, Scott had moved out and gone into hiding. After I killed Hank, Scott had been free to move home. A cement fence caged the property, and while I was certain privacy had been the intent, it gave the place the feel of a compound.
Back when I thought he was an up-to-no-good jerk. Boy, had things changed. Vee parked near the tennis courts. The nets were long gone, and someone had decorated the turf with graffiti. We got out and stretched for a couple of minutes. Maybe we should do laps around the complex. That way I can keep my eye on my baby.
It also gives Scott more opportunities to see us. She also had on full makeup, diamond studs in her ears, and a ruby cocktail ring, and she smelled like Pure Poison by Dior. Just your average day out running. We picked up our feet and started a slow jog along the dirt trail circling the complex. The sun was out, and after three laps, I stripped off my sweatshirt, tying it around my waist. Vee beelined to a weathered park bench and plunked down, sucking air. I surveyed the trail.
He might be oversleeping and need a friendly wake-up call. Unless you have a forty-foot ladder stashed in the trunk of the Neon, window peeping is probably out.
Like knocking on his door. It pulled under the carport, and Scott swung out. Like most Nephilim men, Scott has the body of someone seemingly well acquainted with a weight room. Today he was wearing mesh basketball shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Vee fanned herself. Do the math. Two of them, and two of us. She was too aggravatingly good at it. Sure enough, Scott and Dante leaned back against the Barracuda, shaking their heads and grinning at us. Hang it all. And on that note, I took off running in the opposite direction.
I heard Scott on the trail behind me. A minute later, he snagged the strap of my tank top, tugging on it playfully. And why does Vee smell like a perfume factory? I spread my hands. Plus, it spoke volumes about just how into this conversation I was. By way of answer, Dante picked up his pace, jogging beside me. But not as strong as a female Nephil. Your frame is too slender. And your muscle tone is pathetic.
Why do I need to fight? Patch and I had decided unequivocally that enraged Nephilim made a better enemy than the all-powerful archangels. It was evident that Dante wanted to go into battle, but we disagreed. And as leader of the Nephilim army, the decision was ultimately mine. He stopped, catching me by the wrist so he could look straight at me. Not in your current state. Jumping into my own grave.
And dragging my mom in behind me. But what about the archangels? Are you my pseudo boyfriend or my personal trainer? The first was from Marcie Millar, my sometimes arch-nemesis and, as fate would have it, my half sister by blood, but not by love. Marcie had figured out the truth first, and flung it in my face. Unknown number.
The voice mail consisted of controlled breathing, low and masculine, but no actual words. Maybe Dante, maybe Patch. Maybe Pepper Friberg. My personal number was listed, and with a little investigative spirit, Pepper could have tracked it down.
Not the most reassuring of thoughts. I hauled out my piggy bank from under my bed, removed the rubber cheat plug, and shook out seventy-five dollars. I was smaller than every other Nephil I knew. Unlike them, I had been born into a human body—average weight, average muscle tone, average in every single aspect—and it had taken a blood transfusion and the swearing of a Changeover Vow to turn me into a Nephil.
I was one of them in theory, but not in practice. And I had to do whatever it took to stay in power. At top speed, I suspected that Nephilim in their prime could run upward of fifty miles per hour.
If Dante and I were seen using that speed on the high school track, it would draw a lot of unwanted attention. But in the predawn hours of Monday morning most humans were fast asleep, giving Dante and me the perfect opportunity to have a worry-free workout.
I tucked the money in my pocket and headed downstairs. I tried on a few pairs of cross-trainers, settling on a pair from the clearance rack. I paid for the shoes and checked the time on my cell. Not even four yet. As a precaution, Patch and I had agreed to keep calls in public to a minimum, but a hasty look both ways down the sidewalk outside confirmed I was alone.
I dug the untraceable phone Patch had given me out of my handbag and dialed his number. I could be there in fifteen minutes. A cloth bag dropped over my head, and I was wrestled into a bear hug from behind.
In my surprise, I dropped the cell phone. I heard a large vehicle rumble down the street, then come to a screeching halt beside me. A door opened, and I was thrust inside. The air inside the van held the tang of sweat masked by lemon air freshener. The heat was cranked up to high, blasting through vents at the front, making me sweat.
Maybe that was the intent. What do you want? No answer came, but I heard the steady breathing of two nearby individuals. Those two, plus the driver, meant three of them. Against one of me. My arms had been twisted behind my back, pinned together by what felt like a tow chain. My ankles were secured by a similar heavy-duty chain.
I was stretched out on my stomach, the bag still over my head, my nose pushed into the roomy floor of the van. I tried to rock onto my side but felt as though my shoulder joint would tear from its socket. I screamed out in frustration and received a swift kick in the thigh.
We drove for a long time. Forty-five minutes, maybe. My mind jumped in too many directions to keep track accurately. Could I escape? Outrun them? Outwit them? And then there was Patch. At first the van stopped repeatedly for stoplights, but eventually the road cleared. The van climbed higher, weaving back and forth on switchbacks, which made me believe we were moving into the remote, hilly areas far outside of town.
Each inhalation came shallow, panic clamping my chest. The tires popped over gravel, steadily rolling uphill, until at last the engine died. My captors unchained my feet, dragged me outside and through a door, and yanked the bag off my head. I was right; there were three of them. Two males, one female. No lights, but that may have well been because the power had been shut off.
Furniture was sparse, and covered in white sheets. Whoever the cabin belonged to had closed up for winter. My heightened sixth sense identified all three as Nephilim. But what they wanted from me. He seemed to be the spokesman for the other two, who hung back, limiting their communication with me to glares of disgust.
Once Cheshvan started in less than two days, he and his friends would be possessed by fallen angels. Hank Millar had had the easy part: filling their heads with notions of rebellion and freedom. And now I was left to work the actual miracle. I know where my loyalties lie. When I look at you, I see human. I see a weak, sniveling, entitled little girl. I respected the Black Hand as a leader because he earned that respect. He had a vision. He took action. He named you his successor, but that means nothing to me.
You want my respect? Make me give it to you. So I could be like Hank? Hank was a cheat and a liar. He sailed backward into the wall and crumpled on the floor. The other two rushed forward, but my anger had started a fire inside me. A foreign and violent power swelled in me, and I strained against the chains, hearing the metal creak a Kmetnger s the links snapped apart. I pummeled the nearest Nephil in the ribs and gave the female a roundhouse kick.
My foot collided with her thigh, and I was amazed by the solid mass of muscle I found there. Never before in my life had I encountered a woman of such strength and durability. A moment too late, I realized I should have followed through, mercilessly attacking while they were down. Cowboy Hat charged at me, thrusting me backward into the post.
The impact knocked all air from my lungs and I doubled over, trying but failing to draw oxygen. This was your warning. I gulped air, taking a few minutes to recover, then staggered to the door. They were already gone. I braced myself for the return of Cowboy Hat and friends, but it was a Harley Sportster motorcycle that tore into view, carrying a single rider.
He swung off and crossed to me in three quick strides. A mix of relief, worry, and rage blazed in his eyes. How did you find me?
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