“I’m rolling my eyes right now. Trust me.”

  Gabe laughs. “Patel had a steady job and a wife in Birmingham,” he says. “He didn’t fall off the grid like most angels do.”

  “Then how did he end up in Illinois?”

  “Turns out he was a recruiter for an engineering firm. His job was to drive around the country and attend college career fairs. The perfect cover for an angel who wants to keep up appearances. His kills were so spread out that it took me a while to pick up on the pattern. It’s lucky for us that he was a dumb shit and took to feeding on drunk college kids. Frat boys dropping dead of presumed heart attacks wasn’t exactly subtle.”

  I picture all the faces of the victims that Gabe connected to Patel. Their names run in laps around my brain. This is too close to home. I should have never looked up Ryan’s Facebook page and read the flood of anguished messages left by his friends and family.

  “I need to dig through Patel’s contacts,” Gabe continues. “Figure out who turned him. No angel is an island. There’ll be others connected to him.”

  My stomach clutches. More traveling. More crappy motel rooms. More nights spent sprawled on a cold rooftop trying to steady my hands.

  “…which sucks, cause I really need a break soon,” Gabe is saying.

  “A break from what? Life?”

  Gabe sucks on his lip. “We take breaks sometimes. Me and Tarren. One of us stays here, keeps an eye on the place. The other does his own thing for a couple of days.”

  “What?” I sit up. “You take off? Just like that? What do you do? God, what does Tarren do?”

  Gabe doesn’t meet my eyes. “We don’t talk about it. It’s kind of a way to let off steam. Have some semblance of privacy.”

  “Oh come on, what could Tarren possibly do? Go fishing? Lie out at a resort and drink strawberry daiquiris?”

  Gabe shrugs. “I have a theory, but it’s really none of my business.” He gives me a teasing little smile.

  “Tell me.”

  Gabe shakes his head, and his bangs tumble across his eyes. “None of my business,” he repeats.

  “You’re right. We need to respect Tarren’s privacy,” I concede. I lie out across the roof on my stomach and perch my chin on my forearms. I don’t look at him. I don’t say anything. Silence cloaks us.

  Gabe hates silence. He cracks in less than two minutes.

  “Prostitutes.”

  “Oh, no way,” I giggle. “Not Tarren. He’s so…about his…” I let it go. Gabe knows about the scars. “And besides, he’s…well, it’s Tarren.”

  “He’s a man,” Gabe shrugs again, “and guys got needs. He comes back smelling like perfume sometimes, like flowers. Once he even had scratches on his neck.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “It’s just a guess.” Gabe’s smile loses its strength, and the shades of blue in his aura lighten as he becomes thoughtful. “I’ve never asked him about it. Actually, I hope it’s true. Everyone deserves to get laid.”

  I let the moment stretch out between us until I finally say, “And what do you do when you’re off the angel hunting clock?”

  Gabe looks at me, sighs, and turns his gaze back up at the stars. I’m expecting some crazy lie about African safaris or intergalactic space travel, but finally he says, “WildStarz2346, her real name is Amanda, and she’s…sweet. Real shy. She lives in Denver.”

  “You actually visit one of your Second Life girlfriends?”

  “Yeah. She’s got a pretty face, and she cooks. She brings me breakfast in bed. It’s nice. She’s nice.” The shades of his aura shift to a pale lilac. He’s fond of the girl, but it doesn’t extend past friendship.

  “She’s not Francesca,” I say.

  “Francesca will forgive me.” The smiles have slipped off his animated face. “Amanda and I keep each other company.” My pompous brother is suddenly shy. The truth usually does that to him.

  I feel that kick again in my ribs, the one that reminds me how lonely my brothers are in their secluded little compound, fighting their secret war against the angels; risking their lives and saving complete strangers for no glory, no money, no recognition of their sacrifice.

  “I think Francesca will understand,” I tell Gabe. “You know, whenever you actually get around to informing her that you’re kind of a superhero and that she’s madly in love with you and lusting to have your babies.”

  Sex and babies. And round we go again.

  Gabe chuckles, so it was worth the sting.

  “We’ll have a small, quiet wedding, just family,” he muses. “I’m going to build her a porch swing, and we’ll lie out there all night together before we go in and have mind-blowing sex.”

  “I knew that mind-blowing sex was coming.”

  “Orgasmic, mind-blowing sex.”

  “I get it Gabe.”

  “With your super senses, you’ll probably have to wear earplugs at night, you know, since we’ll only be a couple miles down the road.”

  His energy is riling up. The pale shades of lilac are washed away beneath an infusion of deep plum—the color of lust—and his aura beats fast like humming bird wings. I curl my hands into fists beneath my chin. We’re too close together. The song grows loud, and my thoughts turn flimsy and incongruent.

  “Alright, conversation over,” I say and manage to maintain a jocular tone. In a quick motion I am up and walking swiftly across the roof. I drop down, catch the edge of the shingles, and swing through the open window of the big master bedroom that used to belong to my biological mother, Diana.

  “Goodnight,” Gabe calls through the roof. When he starts whistling That’s Amore, I hum along as I pull out a pair of PJs. The hum peters out as I take off my shirt and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Sometimes when I’m not paying attention, my own reflection startles me. Tonight I’m ready for the short, auburn-dyed hair and the wiry muscles stretching beneath my skin. I twist a little to catch sight of the birthmark on my left shoulder and then quickly look away.

  I lie down in bed and stare at Avalon spread out across the ceiling. Avalon, the perfect world that Ryan and I dreamed of, drawn by his skilled fingers, which connected to his hand, his wrist, that arm I miss so much in the morning. An idiotic dream, matchstick strong, that we thought was amazing and funny until it wasn’t.

  Chapter 4

  That night, I sleep a little, dozing in fits until my body is satisfied. The night stretches long and quiet, a convenient caldron for my thoughts to simmer and boil up over the lip. When Grand’s face pushes through, I get up and walk into the hallway. I don’t turn on any lights. Don’t need to. I feel the tug of my brothers’ auras as I pass each of their rooms.

  I tie my gaze to the banister of the staircase and plant each step with purpose. I don’t dare stop or break from the invisible rail I am walking. Once I get down to the living room, things are better. I uncurl my hands.

  My feet take me to the garage, where my cage of rats sits on the workbench. As soon as I approach, the five rats scamper to the far corner of their prison and huddle in a pack of shivering, multi-colored bodies. Their yellowish energy leaps in fearful waves. The separate glows blend together so it almost looks like they are all connected inside a single bubble of light.

  I stare at the rats, listening as the hunger revs up in sweet melodies throughout my body. I pull off my left glove—for no reason this is my preferred killing hand—and snatch a rat from the pile. It squeals and writhes in my hand while its furry brethren watch on. I release the tension of my control, just a little. The skin peels back from my palm, the bulb comes up all hot and engorged. It latches onto the rat’s aura and…

  Silence.

  The animal’s energy rushes through me. No song. All of me is quiet. Then the madness kicks in.

  I want more. That dark part of me, my inner monster, is trying to kick down the door to the control room. I drop the limp body, press both palms flat on the workbench, and wait out the storm of addiction. Workbench, hammer, motorcycle, gun cabinet…

  It takes a minute until my hands are steady enough so that I can pull my glove back on. The addiction is a known adversary now, though it never gets easier. Semper ardens. It’s an irrevocable part of the angel package, and it doesn’t help that I keep myself on the edge of starvation in order to retain control. Precious control. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this.

  While I’m leaning over the bench, recovering, a random thought flits through my mind. Something awesome. And I just go for it—giggling quietly to myself the whole time — and then carefully replace the duct tape when I’m done.

  ***

  I wait on the roof for morning, but the sun is taking its sweet time clamoring over the horizon. The sky is still purpley dark, and the air is cold inside my lungs. The door below opens and closes. Tarren steps out. He looks up, and I jump down, landing softly next to him.

  He takes off with long, powerful strides, and I follow at his shoulder. Tarren puts himself through a brutal penance, ratcheting up the pace, plunging deeper into the tangles of the forest on a faint deer trail. Together we race against his demons.

  Tarren is utterly unbearable sometimes, well, most of the time. Especially now, when I think I can understand.

  We jump over roots, shimmy down embankments, and dig in to get back up them. My own muscles begin to complain, but I stay at Tarren’s side. His energy beats low and smooth, finally calm at the apex of his suffering. Only then do we turn back.

  Gabe is already at his computers when we return, scanning through the latest Google alerts, trying to suss a whisper of pattern from the dead. Bluegrass melodies spill from his Bose speakers in fast, twanging harmonies.

  I take two water bottles from the fridge, guzzle the first without breathing, and wipe my mouth politely on my sleeve.

  “Anything?” I ask, coming up behind Gabe. I glance at the shelf above his computer and assess the ongoing war between his action figures. Ninja Turtles fight against X-Men. Chewbacca throttles Batman. A Precious Moments figurine has an eye patch black-markered onto its ceramic face and a plastic sword buckled over its pale blue overalls. Superman has lost his leg, but he’s still up, leaning against the back wall and plowing his fist toward a Jonas brother action figure.

  “Angels, no. Obit of the Day, maybe,” Gabe answers. “Listen to this—guy is found face down in the street with Christmas lights wrapped around his leg. Electrocuted. But there’s no outlet anywhere, and no one can figure out what the hell he’s doing with Christmas lights in October.”

  “Huh.” I stare at the spread of his three monitors. The Google map on the left screen is a quilt of different-colored pins. Whites are confirmed icicles, reds are maybes, and those black beads each represent an angel found and killed. There are over 100 black pins scattered across the country, each surrounded by or trailing a cloud of white.

  “Think it qualifies as Obit of the Day?” Gabe asks. The middle monitor displays obituaries. The best way to find an angel is to follow the trail of bodies. On the right monitor, Rashad Patel, our murderous college recruiter, gives me a rakish grin from his Facebook page.

  He’s handsome. His friend count indicates that he was well liked. Those same friends have scrawled sad, hope-filled messages across his wall. They want him to be found. They want him to be alive and back in their lives. His wife most of all. She posts a long, elegant request for some sort of communication from him. Anything. She begs.

  Does she know what he is? I wonder. Is it possible to hide something like that? To kiss her and touch her without losing control? She must know. She’s not a victim.

  “Well?” Gabe asks. I study the color of his aura, its gentle currents, searching for a reflection of my distress. Nothing. He’s been playing this game his entire life, and he still hasn’t figured out that the pieces aren’t plastic.

  “I don’t like Obit of the Day,” I answer.

  “You just can’t appreciate the divine comedy of death,” Gabe says. “Oh, hey, since you’re here, have either of you seen my hat?”

  “Which one?” I ask casually.

  “Tree,” Tarren calls from the kitchen. He’s washing off an apple in the sink.

  “What?” Gabe yells over the water.

  “It’s in the tree outside. Tall one.”

  “Maya, what the hell?” Gabe swivels around to face me.

  “Whoa, let’s cool it on the wild accusations.” I hold up my hands. “Clearly it was Tarren. You know how he’s always pulling shameful pranks for attention.”

  I consider giving Tarren my patented Squint O’ Death when he walks in the room, but decide to tone it down to a Squint O’ General Aggravation. Tarren takes a bite of his apple and shrugs.

  We follow Gabe outside and crane our necks up at the maple tree that stands at the edge the forest behind the house. It is a gorgeous specimen, with roots thicker than my thigh and long branches that carry bouquets of bloody leaves. Up top, the branches grow wafer thin. Gabe’s lucky hat is threaded through the highest one.

  “Oh, you suck,” Gabe groans. “Clearly you’ve gone dark side and are now using your powers for evil.”

  Tarren takes another bite of his apple.

  “The wind will probably knock it down,” Gabe says after a while.

  “No, she used duct tape. See.” Tarren points with the apple, and I laugh.

  “Whoops, I suppose I did.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Just watch your back from now on.” Gabe extricates himself from his hoodie revealing a threadbare Transformers t-shirt.

  “Gabe don’t,” Tarren says. “Maya, go get it.”

  “She put it up there cause she thinks I can’t get it,” Gabe objects, “but I can.”

  “It’s too high,” Tarren says.

  “Oh ye of little faith.” The air curls around Gabe’s nostrils. He runs a hand through his wavy locks, which are the same coffee color as his eyes.

  “I hate this fucking tree,” he grumbles then takes a running start and grabs hold of the lowest branch.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Tarren says and tosses the apple core a little ways into the woods.

  I cup my hands over my mouth and yell, “Come on Chuck Norris!”

  Tarren’s aura grows brighter, more jagged.

  “Relax,” I tell him, though now I’m beginning to tense. Gabe is climbing swiftly, moving up toward the top of the tree where the branches are too thin for his weight. Tarren’s energy sparks the heat in my hands. I anchor down the skin on my palms, but I still feel it, hear it. The song sings me lullabies of murder.

  “He shouldn’t be doing this,” Tarren says, and his aura picks up pace around his body.

  Gabe finds a perch and stands, panning the upper branches and catching his breath.

  “Alright, you’ve proven your point,” I yell to him. “Let me go up and...”

  “No, I can get it. I see how.” Gabe is moving again. A branch snaps under his foot, and Tarren’s energy flares. I’m already running to the tree, calculating how to get to him, but Gabe deftly swings to another branch that doesn’t seem wide enough to stand on. He wobbles and crouches low to catch his balance. And then he’s there, just below the hat, reaching up, unwinding the tape, and pulling it off the branch.

  He puts the cap backwards on his head and shouts triumphantly, “The forces of good always prevail!”

  His descent is slower and more wrenching to watch. I know that Gabe is incredibly agile, but to my eyes, to my humming body that could shimmy up and down that tree like a staircase, he seems awkward and limited in his movement and balance. Tarren’s as rigid as a corpse in rigor, and I don’t think Gabe has any idea of what goes on in his brother’s head, how wildly Tarren’s energy whips when Gabe is in the least bit of danger.

  There are two more close calls, and by the time Gabe drops to the ground his elbows are scuffed and bleeding, and he’s got leaves and twigs tangled in the waves of his hair. With dignity, he scoops up his hoodie.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” he says dismissively and brushes past me. Tarren and I watch him walk back to the house.

  “You’re right, it was stupid and dangerous,” I say.

  “He’s a lot happier now. With you around,” Tarren says and follows Gabe into the house.

  I sway on my feet. This is a stunning pronouncement coming from Tarren—he who often displays only resentment, distrust, or open malice toward my presence. My knees feel funny, so I sit down at the base of the tree. The wind picks up, blowing moist, defeated maple leaves through the grass.

  I hardly notice. Instead, I play Tarren’s words in my head, touching them again and again with my mind like they were a talisman. I try to hold it back, but a smile breaks through my reservations. These little bits of happiness seem dangerous and brittle, but I give in, let the smile linger, and listen to the wind.

  Chapter 5

  Something is wrong. After the boys get back from their CrossFit class, they retreat into the basement and lock the door. A sign taped to the door reads in Gabe’ handwriting, Restricted Area – Alpha 5 Clearance required. All unauthorized personnel attempting to access this facility will be roundhouse kicked to death upon capture.

  I don’t care at all. Especially not when I press my ear against the floor in the kitchen and hear boxes opening, scissors clipping and strange grating noises below.

  I go up to the roof, far away from hushed voices and enigmatic sounds. The sun is already sinking low, leaving me to the night. An hour later, Gabe sticks his head out the window and tells me to get ready to go out. His appearance does nothing to ease my suspicion. His hair is washed and actually combed. He’s wearing a buttoned-up shirt, which I would have never guessed he owned, along with what must be his only pair of jeans without holes in the knees.

  And then there’s those trickster green filaments wriggling through the blue in his aura and the smug smile he’s trying to hold back but can’t because he’s Gabe.

  This is bad.

  I choose jeans and a loose green peasant blouse that I bought for $11 at the used clothing store. The clothes are flexible in case I need to dive or run or punch Gabe in the face for whatever he’s planning. I also add some smoky eyeliner, because, well, I’m not really sure why.