***

  During the early hours of morning on the third day, while the rest of the house sleeps, I cradle a pencil in my upturned palm and try to move it with my mind. Somewhere in my rewired angel brain my power lurks. I concentrate. The pencil doesn’t move.

  I concentrate harder. The pencil still doesn’t move. I stitch my brows together, thrust out my jaw, and grunt with some gusto as I try to get that mother fucking pencil to dance for me.

  After an hour or so of this, the pencil sails across the room, powered by….my arm and followed by many hurled epitaphs. I curl up in my chair, suck down a bottle of water, and think about what Kyle and Jane said. Human energy is the true sustenance of angels and the key to powering their abilities.

  Kyle and Jane. Their faces linger in my mind. I push them away into the dark place where I keep the rest of my painful memories.

  Afterwards, I stare out the window and wonder where Tarren is, how he is solacing himself at this time. I don’t think he would really kill himself, at least not directly. And that’s my answer. He would keep on with the mission, throwing himself into as many reckless situations as possible, beckon death on the wings of heroic sacrifice.

  I fear for him, I really do. Not just him getting himself bruised and broken and bleeding and dead, but his mind, that little bit of Tarreness that was still left inside of him. Gabe culled and protected that flame so carefully, and now who is left to make sure Tarren can still laugh, to check on those shy smiles that make such rare appearances? How can I ever try to help him when my entire life has been a juxtaposition against his misery, when I have turned into the shadow of Tammy, when I drained his last best hope in front of his eyes?

  I make a call.

  ***

  In the evening, Lo clomps into the room wearing a black trench coat and heavy combat boots. He’s got a new stud in his chin, and that thick, black hair is wild as ever around his head. He stops just inside the room, looks toward the bed, and then hits me with a sour expression.

  “This is some bad shit,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  You’d expect a genius to speak in a more highfalutin manner, but that’s just not Lo. He’s crass, horny as hell, and can’t be a day over sixteen. He has money too, and probably knows more about angels than any of us after having sliced and diced so many of the corpses Gabe and Tarren bring him.

  He might also hold the key to turning me back into a human, though I have some pretty strong doubts about what he and Tarren have really been doing at Lo’s lab in Las Vegas.

  Speaking of Tarren, he will absolutely slaughter me when he finds out that I gave Dr. Lee’s address to Lo. I’m not even sure why Lo insisted on coming down. He and Gabe hate each other.

  “You haven’t heard from Tarren?” I ask again, though I doubt the answer’s changed since our morning call.

  “Nah. Can’t say I blame him for running. This is depressing as hell.” Lo’s eyes flinch toward the bed then jump to me. “You do this to him?”

  “What? No. Of course not.” My voice is somewhere in chipmunk range.

  Lo’s dark eyes hang on my face. He blinks and blinks again. His distrust is obvious, but I don’t really blame him. His violent, abusive father was an angel who was getting ready to turn Lo when Gabe and Tarren rescued him in the nick of time. Who’s really going to let something like that go; try to see the different shades of the angel rainbow?

  “Whatever,” Lo says. He tosses a small black satchel to me. I look at him, and when he nods, I open it and stare at the wads of cash inside.

  “Ten grand, all small bills.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Trust me, it won’t be missed. Carmen spends this in a day at the spa,” Lo says. I remember his feisty, drunken stepmother and don’t doubt his claim.

  “Why?” I ask.

  Lo rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me get all sentimental.” His deep voice is gruff, and what he won’t say out loud is braiding reds, oranges, and yellows through his aura. As much as Lo tries (way too hard) to emote a mixture of bad ass and modern day Casanova in a leather jacket, he’s still just a kid dealing out of his depth like the rest of us.

  “Look, this takes money,” Lo continues and waves in the general area of the bed without looking at its occupant. “I got it, and that outfit you’re wearing tells me you obviously don’t. Tarren and Gabe saved my life. I owe ‘em. Both of them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Really. Tarren’ll give it right back if he finds out. Trust me. Just…get him better.” Lo waves his hand in Gabe’s direction again. He blinks rapidly. “And tell Tarren to call me when he comes around. I got some shit to discuss with him. It’s important.”

  “About the cure?” My voice is high and preening. The sudden flush of emotion in my chest surprises me.

  Lo smirks, and his aura, that rushing whirl of color, jumps. “Something like that. Just have him call me.” Lo looks at Gabe, and this time his eyes linger for a full second. His mouth curls inward, and he throws open the door and stomps out.

  ***

  Each day, Gabe gets a little stronger. You wouldn’t know it by his skeletal body, his pale, slack face, or those eyes, so heavily closed, but I watch his aura grow. What was once the thinnest thread of life expands to a finger’s width and glows a cloudy gray.

  On the fifth day, I catch a tiny shiver of movement within that gray. And this, at last, is proof to me that his brain is starting to kick back in, that my brother is still somewhere within that wasted shell of a body.

  Francesca checks on Gabe before leaving for class. She lays out a banana, bagel, and glass of orange juice on the nightstand for me, which I’ll promptly throw away as soon as she leaves.

  “He’s dreaming,” I tell her.

  “You think so?”

  I watch Gabe’s aura closely. “Yeah.”

  “What do you think he’s dreaming about?”

  You in a Princess Leia bikini. “I don’t know.”

  Francesca brushes the back of Gabe’s hand with her fingers. I envy her the ease of that simple touch. “Sweet dreams,” she says to him, all beauty and gentleness.

  In the afternoon, the sunlight climbs up over the bed, slides across Gabe’s shoulder to his face, and reaches up to try and break the clasps on his eyelids. His aura responds, ticking deep, misty grays. Higher. Faster.

  Each time his energy ticks, I scoot my chair a little closer.

  Tick. Scoot. Please, please, please wake up and be Gabe.

  Tick. Scoot. Smile. Laugh. Keep me company on the roof. Get Tarren to come home.

  Tick. Scoot. Find your blue again. Forgive me. Oh god, please forgive me.

  When Gabe’s eyes slowly open, I’m right next to him, almost peering over him. His eyelids only come up half way, and he stares at the ceiling. Blinks slowly. Francesca’s warnings knock around in my brain. Oxygen deprivation, brain damage, amnesia, confusion, seizures, catatonic lapses.

  “Gabe?” I say softly. I want to touch his arm, kiss his face, but I haven’t the right. I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near him, honestly.

  He makes a soft noise and paws weakly at the feeding tube.

  “Oh yeah, let me.”

  Dr. Lee has told me how to remove the feeding tube just in case he isn’t around when Gabe wakes up the first time. The doctor is around; just down the hall in his office, but I don’t go to get him. I’m not sure this is real yet. I also don’t want Dr. Lee here if Gabe remembers; if my brother accuses me, hates me, throws me out of his heart just like I deserve.

  I gently tug the tape from Gabe’s dry, cracked lips, pinch the tube and pull it up. Gabe makes soft gagging noises, but I don’t think he can really feel it. Dr. Lee and Francesca have been spraying a numbing agent in his throat to deaden the natural gag reflex.

  When the tube comes out, I wipe his chin and moisten his lips with a damp cloth.

  He turns his head toward me, and his eyes are more open, those brown pools filled with flakes of gold. These at least have not changed, have not drained of color or lost their vibrancy.

  “Don’t try to speak,” I say, “Just listen. I love you so much. We all do. We’ve missed you. We want you to get better.” And I swear I wasn’t really trying to kill you. I swear I meant to pull away sooner.

  His eyes are unfocused. I don’t think he understands, but then he whispers, “I can’t swallow.”

  “I know.”

  He stares at me for a long time. “Maya.”

  When he says my name, I can’t believe how all these bells got inside my head and how loud they sound ringing in unison.

  “Did I get hurt?” Gabe rasps. His words are hardly more than air.

  I nod. “But you’re okay now.” My voice is leaping pitches and getting all trembly.

  “Tarren,” he says.

  “He’s fine. He went running to clear his head.”

  “Tammy?”

  I reach out for Gabe’s hand and then stop myself. “She died. Years ago.”

  “I thought she was here... I heard her voice.”

  “You were dreaming.”

  He struggles to take this in. “I can’t...feel my body.” His voice gives out. He tries again. “Maya, is it real bad?”

  “You just need to rest more. You can go back to sleep. I won’t leave, I promise.” Unless you want me to because you can’t stand the sight of me.

  “Where’s Tarren?”

  “We killed Grand. Do you remember anything?”

  His lids are creeping down. “Killed him?”

  “Yeah, you and me Gabe. He’s gone…” Gabe is asleep. “…forever.”

  My hands are shaking as I dial the number of the phone in Gabe’s truck. One ring. Two rings.

  He picks up.

  “Tarren?”

  Silence.

  “Gabe is awake. Come home. Please.”

  I hear a soft exhalation of breath across the other line. Abruptly, I know it’s not Tarren. He just doesn’t breathe that way.

  “Who is this?” I ask. “Where’s—”

  The call cuts out. I listen to the nothing, wondering what this means and if it could be anything but bad. After a while, I get around to dropping the phone and then run out of the room to find Dr. Lee.

  Chapter 35

  Gabe wakes up in short spurts over the next day. Sometimes he recognizes us, sometimes he doesn’t. He calls out for Tammy again and both of his parents. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all, and just stares at us with big, doleful eyes that seem to take up his entire face. Once he thinks Francesca has been killed by angels and spends an hour wracked by sobs while she sits on the edge of the bed and comforts him.

  “The angels took her,” Gabe whispers to her between hiccups. “I was going to build her a porch swing. We were going to get married.”

  “Shhhhh,” Francesca says.

  Another time Gabe jolts awake and immediately tries to pull the IV out of his hand. He gets aggressive when I stop him. Incoherent words and grunts spill out of his mouth. I feel the bones shifting under the parchment of his skin as he weakly struggles against my hold. Suddenly, I’m back in the warehouse. Gabe is clawing at my arm while his energy flows through my body. I shake away the vivid, brutal images and the echoes of his screams. Even now, with Gabe as weak and helpless as he is, a part of me only wants to give in. Feed. Finish what I started.

  Francesca answers my shouts and administers a sedative. When Gabe drops into unconsciousness, I arrange him back on his pillows and ask Francesca for some water. When she leaves, I stare out the window and realize that I don’t even know what day of the week it is, or even if October has given way to November.

  I’m hungry and tired and feel gross. Francesca promises to stay with Gabe until I return, so I walk the two miles back to the house.

  I’m grateful for the dulling power of exhaustion. The day is cold and clear, and little snow flurries spin and dance around me, melting the instant they touch my skin. It’s like cold kisses.

  I imagine that the first snowflakes would also be falling in Connecticut right about now. The trees would all be naked, and some dreamy little girl who is no longer me would stare out the window and think about how sad and forlorn those trees looked, huddled together to wait out the season of starvation and cold.

  I turn the bend and see, a quarter mile away, Gabe’s truck in the driveway. Every part of me goes taut, like a bow being strung.

  I’ve already managed to compile a small cache of theories about what has happened to Tarren; how a stranger got a hold of the phone in his truck. Some of these theories are inane, but most are not. Sure, he could be staying with friends or could have ditched the truck of his own free will, but I can’t stop picturing him iced in some anonymous alleyway, because Gabe and I weren’t there to watch his back. The angel who killed him would have rifled through his pockets, just like I do with all our clipped wings and would have found the keys to the truck and then the phone in the dashboard.

  …Except the truck is here. At our house. Which means Tarren’s back.

  Or he broke under torture, and this is a trap.

  I duck into the shadows of the trees, wary of every movement and sound that the forest makes. My ears strain to pick up soft footsteps, hushed whispers, anything that could indicate a team of angels positioned around the house ready to storm in with god knows what powers at their command.

  I don’t have a gun. Why didn’t I think to carry a gun?

  As I cautiously approach the house, I catch the tug of Tarren’s energy inside. It could still be a trap, but even if it isn’t, that doesn’t exactly lessen the peril of my situation. When we last left off, Tarren was pointing a gun at my face.

  When I get to the edge of the woods, I lean against a solid trunk and try to think this out. Instead of finding answers, my mind re-churns over the old questions. How am I going to face him? How can I make him understand? Does he still want to kill me?

  I weave through our practice range, stepping over fallen soup cans and half-buried bullets, and then sprint across the yard to the house. I crouch low under the window. On my hands and knees, I crawl around the house, honing in on Tarren’s energy, until I find him in the kitchen.

  I raise myself up to peek in the window. The blinds are down, of course, but the one is bent, opening up a small wedge of viewing. Tarren sits at the kitchen table, leaning over a book. His back is to me. I can’t see his face, but his aura is improved. That terrible black molasses has lightened into a spoiled brown with pale hints of blue at the core. What I don’t see is much red. He isn’t hurt. He isn’t bleeding. There’s no rage or the wild yellows and oranges of guilt and anger.

  I listen carefully for any hint of others in hiding, but there is nothing except the normal groans and rattles of the house. Tarren is alone.

  I watch him for a long time, and he is so calm, moving only to turn the page. I catch sight of bandages under the cuff of his long sleeved shirt. He’s got a gun stuck in his belt, but both his hands are on the table. I don’t get this at all, which makes me nervous.

  Alright, I was already nervous. This quiet, composed Tarren makes me nervouser.

  I wait longer than I should, because I just want to keep things nice and peaceful like this.

  You promised to save him, I think to myself, and my heartfelt determination from that night in the clearing seems so naïve, almost laughable now. Like anything could be that simple.

  Eventually I stand up, go round to the back door, and open it slowly.

  Tarren looks up from his book. I watch his hands, but they stay on top of the table. I pull the door closed behind me, but keep my hand on the knob.

  We look at each other, and there’s just such a gaping chasm between us. It’s mostly my fault, but there are things he has to answer for too.

  One of us must eventually speak.

  “When did you get in?” I ask.

  “A couple hours ago,” Tarren replies. His face is pale and riven with exhaustion, and the welt on his neck has dissolved into wan shades of yellow and green. A shallow cut on his forehead is healing. But he’s shaved and smells of the Dial soap he prefers. I think that’s important. I wonder if he’s been up to his room yet, seen the new, unbroken mirror I hung in his closet.

  “Gabe woke up,” I say.

  “I know. I got your message.”

  “He’s asked for you.”

  Tarren closes the book, something about solar power, of all things. “How is he?”

  “You would already know if you hadn’t run away.”

  Tarren accepts this blow, and I know I shouldn’t—all the good parts of me want to just skip this—but I bristle.

  “You left. You left him,” I accuse.

  “I know.”

  “You didn’t pick up your phone. I had no idea where you were, if you were okay, I was…” I stop there. Some part of me can’t say the rest out loud. Instead, I go with, “Who answered your phone?”

  Tarren is quiet, and I can see in the pattern of his aura that he won’t give me a straight answer. He says, “I understand why you lied about the two injections.”

  Oh shit on a stick. Tarren remembers everything. Our confrontation in the woods. The bitch-slap-fest on the side of the highway. The telekinesis I pulled with the gun. Even if Gabe doesn’t remember all the hate I poured upon him, Tarren will be more than happy to remind him.

  “You’re right,” Tarren says, and I’m convinced for a second that he’s learned to read minds. Except then he finishes his sentence. “I would have killed you that first night if I had known.”

  “You said once…” I swallow, or at least try to swallow, “that angels are human. They just exhibit severely progressed expressions of innate human potential.”

  “You heard that.”

  I nod, try to look Tarren in the eyes, but don’t get very far. I can tell he’s going over that conversation he had with Lo when they first started testing me. According to Lo, I was an angel, a homicidal time bomb waiting to go off. Tarren had defended me, sort of.

  And then it comes to me; a very small way to try and save Tarren. I’m going to stop lying to him. I know exactly where to start. The auras.