Luce waited for the vanishing, too. She’d seen it happen before. But the arrow glanced off Zaban’s cloak and clattered to the floor.

  “How did you—?” Phil asked.

  Zaban laughed and pulled something out from a hidden breast pocket in his cloak. Luce leaned forward, eager to see how Zaban had protected himself. But she leaned too far and slid off the table. She landed on the floor on her face.

  No one noticed. They were staring at the small book Zaban produced from his cloak. Propping herself up slightly, Luce saw it was bound in leather, the same shade of blue as Scale angel wings. It was bound with a knotted golden cord. It looked like a Bible, the kind Civil War soldiers used to stuff in their breast pockets in hopes the books would protect their hearts.

  This book had done just that.

  Luce squinted to read its title, squirming a few inches closer on the floor. She was still too far away.

  In a single movement, Phil retrieved his starshot and swatted the book out of Zaban’s hand. By a stroke of luck, it landed a few feet away from Luce. She wriggled again, knowing she couldn’t pick it up, not the way the cloak was binding her. Still, she had to know what its pages contained. It seemed familiar, as if she’d seen it long, long before. She read the golden letters on its spine.

  A Record of the Fallen.

  Now Zaban ran for it, stopping short of Luce, who lay exposed in the center of the floor. He glared at her and pocketed the book.

  “No, no,” he said. “You don’t get to look at this. You don’t get to see all that’s been accomplished by Scale wings. Nor what’s left to do to achieve the ultimate harmonious balance. Not when you’ve spent all this time too busy to take note of us, to take note of justice, selfishly falling in and out of love.”

  Though Luce hated the Scale, if there was a record of the fallen, she burned to know whose names were on those pages, to see where Daniel’s name was tallied now.

  This was what the fallen kept talking about. A single angel who would tip the scale.

  But before Zaban could hurtle any more criticism at Luce, a pair of brilliant white wings filled her vision—

  an angel descending through the largest hole in the skylight.

  Daniel touched down in front of her and eyed the cloak imprisoning her. He studied her constricted neck.

  His muscles strained through his T-shirt as he tried to tear the cloak away.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Phil lift a small pickax from a nearby table and slice it across Zaban’s chest. The Scale angel swerved, trying to spin out of range. The blade connected with his arm. The blow was so powerful it severed Zaban’s hand at the wrist. Sickened, Luce watched the pale slack fist thump to the floor.

  Aside from the blue blood streaming, it could have belonged to one of the ravaged statues.

  “Tie that on with one of your knots,” Phil taunted as Zaban fumbled after his missing appendage among the battered, unconscious bodies of his sect.

  “Is it hurting you?” Daniel tore at the knots binding Luce.

  “No.” She willed it to be true. It almost was.

  When brute force didn’t work, Daniel tried approaching the cloak more strategically. “I had the loose end just a moment ago,” he muttered. “Now it’s riddled up inside the cloak.” His fingers inched across her body, feeling close and far away.

  Luce wished that her hands, over any other part of her body, were free so she could touch Daniel right now, soothe his anxiety. She trusted him to free her. She trusted him to do anything.

  What could she do to help him? She closed her eyes and drifted back to the lifetime in Tahiti. Daniel had been a sailor. He had taught her dozens of knots in their quiet afternoons on the beach. She remembered now: the alpine butterfly, which made a straight loop in the middle of a rope with two lobed wings on either side, good for carrying extra weight on a line. Or the lover’s knot, which looked simple, heart-shaped, but could only be untied using four hands at once; each one had to loop a strand through a different portion of the heart’s core.

  The cloak was so tight Luce could not move a muscle. His fingers trolled the collar, tightening it further.

  Daniel cursed at how it pinched her neck.

  “I can’t,” he finally cried out. “The Scale straitjacket is comprised of infinite knots. Only one of them can unbind it. Who did this to you?”

  Luce jerked her head toward the blue-winged angel howling to himself, staggering in a corner by a marble faun. The starshot fletching still protruded from his eye.

  She wanted to tell Daniel how her captor had taken out Olianna with a flagpole, then bound her up and brought her here.

  But she could not even speak. The cloak was too tight.

  By then, Phil had the whining angel in his grasp, gripped by the collar of his blood-wet cloak. He slapped the Scale three times before the Scale ceased his self-pitying moans and pulled back his blue wings in alarm.

  Luce saw that a thick ring of dried blue blood had formed around the place where the starshot fletching protruded from his socket.

  “Unbind her, Barach,” Daniel ordered, recognizing Luce’s captor immediately, making Luce wonder how well they knew each other.

  “Not likely.” Barach leaned away and spat a stream of blue blood and a couple of sharp and tiny teeth out onto the floor.

  In a flash, Phil had a starshot trained between the angel’s eyes. “Daniel Grigori instructed you to unbind her. You will oblige.”

  Barach flinched, eyeing the starshot with disdain.

  “Vile. Vile!”

  A dark shadow fell over Phil’s body.

  Hazily, Luce processed the sight of another Scale angel, the craggy old hag with moldy blue wings. She must have roused after she’d been knocked out. Now she came at Phil with the same pickax he’d used on Zaban—

  But then the Scale angel vanished into dust.

  Ten feet behind her, Vincent stood with an empty bow in hand. He nodded at Phil, then turned back to scour the carpet of blue wings for movement.

  Daniel turned to Phil and muttered, “We need to be careful about how many we take out. The Scale do matter in the balance. A little.”

  “Unfortunate,” Phil said, strange envy in his voice.

  “We will keep the killing to a minimum, Daniel Grigori.

  But we would prefer to kill all of them.” He raised his voice for Barach’s ears. “Welcome to the realm of sightlessness. The Outcasts are more powerful than you think. I would kill you without a second thought, without a first one, even. However, I will ask again: Unbind her.”

  Barach stood a long moment, as if weighing his op-tions, blinking his one remaining wrinkled old eyelid.

  “Unbind her! She cannot breathe!” Daniel roared.

  Barach growled and approached Luce. His age-spotted hands worked out a series of knots that neither Phil nor Daniel had been able to find. Luce felt no relief in her neck, though. Not until he began to whisper something, very low, under his rancid breath.

  Lack of oxygen had made her feel faint, but the words tunneled into her foggy mind. They were an ancient form of Hebrew. Luce didn’t know how she knew the language, but she did.

  “And Heaven wept to see the sins of Her children.” The words were almost unintelligible. Daniel and Phil had not even heard them. Luce couldn’t be sure she’d heard them right—but then, they were familiar.

  Where had she heard them before?

  The memory came to her faster than she would have liked: a different member of the Scale, sweeping Luce in a different body into an older cloak than this one. It had happened a very long time ago. She’d been through all this before, bound up and then released.

  In that lifetime, Luce had gotten her hands on something she wasn’t supposed to see. A book, tied up with a complicated knot.

  A Record of the Fallen.

  What was she doing with it? What did she want to see?

  The same thing she wanted to see now. The names of the angels who had yet to choose. But she hadn’t been permitted to read the book then, either.

  Long before, Luce had held the book in her hands, and without knowing how, she had nearly untied its knot. Then came the moment when the Scale caught her and bound her in the cloak. She had watched his blue wings shudder with intensity as the angel tied and retied the book. Making sure her impure fingers hadn’t damaged it, he had said. She heard him whisper those words—the same strange words—just before he shed a tear over the book.

  The gold thread had unraveled like magic.

  She looked up at the craggy old angel now and watched a silvery tear slide from his eye down the maze of his cheek. He looked truly moved, but in a patroniz-ing sort of way, like he pitied the fate of her soul. The tear landed on the cloak, and the knots mysteriously un-knotted.

  She gasped for air. Daniel yanked the cloak the rest of the way off her. She swung her arms around him.

  Freedom.

  She was still embracing Daniel when Barach leaned in close to her ear. “You’ll never succeed.”

  “Silence, fiend,” Daniel commanded.

  But Luce wanted to know what Barach meant. “Why not?”

  “You are not the one!” Barach said.

  “Silence!” Daniel shouted.

  “Never, never, never. Not in a million years,” the angel chanted, rubbing his sandpaper cheek against Luce’s—right before Phil loosed the arrow into his heart.

  EIGHT

  HOW HEAVEN WEPT

  Something thudded at their feet.

  “The halo!” Luce gasped.

  Daniel swooped down and snatched the golden relic from the ground. He marveled at it, shaking his head.

  Somehow it had remained when the Scale angel and his strange, regenerating clothes had disappeared.

  “I am sorry for taking his life, Daniel Grigori,” Phil said. “But I could not tolerate Barach’s lies any longer.”

  “It was beginning to grate on me, too,” Daniel said.

  “Just be careful with the others.”

  “Take this,” Phil said, sliding the black satchel off his shoulder and handing it to Daniel. “Conceal it from the Scale. They are hungry for it.” When Daniel opened the satchel, Luce saw his book, The Book of the Watchers, tucked inside.

  Phil zipped it up and left the bag with Daniel. “I will now return to stand guard. The wounded Scale could rouse at any moment.”

  “You’ve done well against the Scale,” Daniel said, sounding impressed. “But—”

  “We know,” Phil said. “There will be more. Did you encounter many outside the museum?”

  “Their numbers are legion,” Daniel said.

  “If you would let us use the starshots freely, we could secure your escape—”

  “No. I don’t want to disturb balance to that extent.

  No more killing unless in absolute self-defense. We’ll just have to hurry and get out of here before the Scale rein-forcements arrive. Go now, guard the windows and the doors. I will be with you in a moment.” Phil nodded, turned, and was gone, wading among the carpet of blue wings.

  As soon as they were alone, Daniel’s hands searched Luce’s body. “Are you hurt?”

  She looked down at herself, rubbed her neck. She was bleeding. The skylight’s glass had sliced through her jeans in a few places, but none of the wounds looked fatal. Following Daniel’s earlier advice, she told herself, It doesn’t hurt you. The stinging eased.

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “What happened to you?”

  “Precisely what we wanted to happen. I held off the majority of the Scale while the Outcasts found this way in.” He closed his eyes. “Only I never meant for you to get hurt. I’m sorry, Luce, I shouldn’t have left you—”

  “I’m fine, Daniel, and the halo is safe. What about the other angels? How many more Scale are there?”

  “Daniel Grigori!” Phil’s shout rang out across the lofty room.

  Luce and Daniel crossed the wing quickly, stepping over blue Scale wings to the arched threshold of the room. Then Luce stopped short.

  A man in a navy blue uniform lay facedown on the tile floor. Red blood pooled around his head—red mortal blood.

  “I—I killed him,” Daedalus stammered, holding a heavy iron helmet in his hand and looking scared. The visor of the helmet was slick with blood. “He rushed in through the doorway and I thought he was Scale. I thought I would just knock him out. But he was a mortal man.”

  A mop and bucket on wheels lay tipped over behind the body. They had killed a janitor. Until then, in some ways, the fight against the Scale hadn’t seemed real. It was brutal and senseless, and yes, two Scale members had been killed—but it had been separate from the mortal world. Luce felt sick watching the blood seep into the grooves of the tile floor, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  Daniel rubbed his jaw. “You made a mistake, Daedalus. You did well to guard the door from intruders. The next one who comes in will be Scale.” He scanned the room. “Where are the fallen angels?”

  “What about him?” Luce stared at the dead man on the floor. His shoes were freshly shined. He wore a thin gold wedding band. “He was just a janitor coming in to see about the noise. Now he’s dead. ” Daniel took Luce by the shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers. His breath came short and hot. “His soul has sped to peace and joy. And many more will be lost if we don’t find our friends, get the relic, and get out of here.” He squeezed her shoulders, then released her too quickly. She choked back a cry for the dead man, swallowed hard, and turned to look at Phil.

  “Where are they?”

  Phil pointed a pale finger skyward.

  Dangling from a thick crossbeam near the shattered skylight were three black burlap pods. One of them bulged and swayed, like something trying to be born.

  “Arriane!” Luce shouted.

  The same sack bulged again, more violently this time.

  “You will never free them in time,” a voice warbled from the ground. A Scale member with a fish face rose up on his elbows. “More Scale are on the way. We will bind you all in the Cloaks of the Just and handle Lucifer ourselves—”

  A bronze shield thrown like a Frisbee by Phil nicked off a piece of the Scale’s scalp, sent him back into the pile of blue wings.

  Phil turned to Daniel. “If you do need Scale assistance to unbind your friends, we’ll have more luck while their force is small.”

  Daniel’s eyes burned violet as he flew around the wing, moving from one scaffolded restoration station to another, then to a wide marble table that looked like one of the museum restorers’ workstations. It was stacked with paperwork and tools—mostly useless after that night—which Daniel dug through with intense scrutiny, flinging aside an empty water bottle, a stack of plastic binders, a faded picture in a frame. Finally, his hands seized a long, heavy-duty scalpel.

  “Take this,” he told Luce, sliding Phil’s heavy satchel across her shoulder. She held it close at her side and held her breath as Daniel arched back his wings and lifted off the ground.

  She watched him rise effortlessly, magically, and wondered how it was that his wings could make everything in the dim museum glow. When Daniel finally reached the ceiling, he drew the scalpel cleanly along the rafter, slicing through the rope from which each of the three black pods hung. They slipped into his arms without a sound, and Daniel’s wings beat once as he carried the whole mass easily back to the floor.

  Daniel laid the black pods side by side on a bare stretch of floor. Hurrying over to him, Luce could see each of the three angels’ faces poking out of the top.

  Their bodies were bound up in the same type of rigid black cloak that had kept Luce breathlessly constricted.

  But the angels had also been gagged with a strip of black burlap cloth. Even as she watched, the gags seemed to slither through the mouths of her friends. Arriane writhed and strained and grew redder in the face and looked so furious Luce thought she would explode.

  Phil glanced at the struggling black forms. He lifted one up under the arms. The Scale angel blinked, in a daze. “Would you like the Outcasts to select a Scale vol-unteer to help you unbind your friends, Daniel Grigori?”

  “We will never reveal the secrets of our knots!” the Scale angel came to enough to hiss. “We would rather die.”

  “We would rather you die, too,” Vincent said, approaching their circle with a starshot in either hand, drawing one to the throat of the Scale angel who had spoken.

  “Vincent, hold your fire,” Phil instructed.

  Daniel was already kneeling over the first black cloak—Roland’s—working his fingers over the invisible knots. “I can’t find the ends.”

  “Perhaps a starshot would slice it,” Phil suggested, holding out a silver arrow. “Like a Gordian knot.”

  “That won’t work. The knots are blessed with an oc-cult charm. We may need the Scale.”

  “Wait!” Luce dropped to her knees next to Roland.

  He lay still, but his eyes told Luce everything about how powerless he felt. Nothing should restrict a soul like Roland’s. Through this cloak she could see none of the class and elegance that made the fallen angel who he was—

  whether he was out-fencing all the Nephilim at Shoreline, spinning records at a Sword & Cross party, or stepping through Announcers more deftly than anyone she knew. That the Scale had done this to her friend in-furiated Luce to the point of tears.

  Tears.

  That was it.

  The Hebrew words came back to her. Her traveling had given her a gift for languages. She closed her eyes and, in her memory, watched the golden thread fall off the book. She remembered Barach’s chapped lips self-righteously mouthing the words—

  And Luce said them now to Roland, not knowing what they meant, only hoping they could help.

  “And Heaven wept to see the sins of Her children.” Roland’s eyes widened. The knots slithered loose.

  The cloak dropped to his sides and the gag in his mouth slid off, too.

  He gasped for air, rolled to his knees, stood up and shot out his golden wings with stunning force. The first thing he did was clap Luce on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, Lucinda. I owe you a solid for a solid thousand years.”