Angels of Darkness

range of songs, because he stayed out more than an hour. I never entirely lost sight of him against the overcast sky, but more than once I was certain he had gone too high or ranged too far to be able to hear me. I guessed that the distance was deliberate. He wanted to prove to himself that he could slip the tether of my voice but still make it back to safety. I hoped he was right. I couldn’t imagine what I would do if he disappeared in the night and I had no idea where he had come to ground.

But no such disaster occurred. Just as I was beginning to think my voice would give out completely, I saw his silhouette pass directly over the imperfect circle of the moon and then drop rapidly toward the ground. Too rapidly, it seemed to me—when he was within hailing distance, I abruptly stopped singing and started shouting.

“Corban, slow down! You’re too close! You’ll crash!” I heard him laugh right before he did something that caused his descent to slow dramatically. Now he was hovering a yard or two above the roof, and the night air was windy with the sweep and drag of his wings.

I took a deep breath. “All right. You’re about five feet up. Come down slowly. I’m putting up my hands—reach out for me—just a little nearer—”

And there. His fingers closed around mine; his body was still so inclined toward flight that he lifted me to my toes, like a boat tugging against its mooring and almost pulling it loose from the pier. Then all at once his feet were solidly on the roof and the sudden cessation of motion caused us to stagger, almost into each other’s arms. There was a hectic moment of feathers and body heat and dizziness, and then we both straightened and I stepped away. He let go of my hands.

“That was even better than last night!” he exclaimed. “I remembered things—how to bank into a turn, how to slip into a downdraft. It all seems so—so effortless. I can’t believe I was afraid before.”

I couldn’t help laughing. He hardly seemed like the same person I had met a few nights earlier. Maybe it was the moonlight, so enchanted by the sculpture of his wings that it could not resist gilding them with radiance, but he seemed to glow with energy or excitement or hope. Even his skin seemed to hold a faint light. By contrast, I seemed to be hidden in shadows. Even if Corban hadn’t lost his sight, I doubted he would have been able to see me.

“Excellent,” I said. “The more you practice, the more familiar it will become.”

But some of his buoyancy faded as his face showed dissatisfaction. “Well, I can’t learn much by flying in circles over the school,” he said. “I have to go farther. I have to fly for longer periods.”

“Maybe you need to establish routes that you can take from the house to specific destinations,” I said. “Routes that have markers that let you know where you are.”

He was listening closely. “Yes. For instance, when I fly about ten minutes in that direction”—he pointed straight north—“there’s a distinct noise that I catch whenever the wind blows. It sounds like—clattering.”

Oddly, I knew exactly the spot he was talking about. I had passed it on my journey to the Gabriel School, and I had convinced the driver to pull over so I could investigate. “It’s an abandoned mine,” I said. “There are four or five collapsed buildings, and an old windmill that once must have pumped water to the surface. Half of the blades are missing, but when the wind blows, they spin enough to hit one of the old buildings.”

“So I know where I am when I’m over that,” he said. “Then if I can find a landmark that’s nearby, I can go out another few miles—”

“And eventually you can fly from point to point to anyplace in Samaria.”

But that was going too fast for him. He shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem possible,” he said. “So many factors would have to be considered. The effect of the wind—the possibility of being blown off course—the fact that any man-made structure could be destroyed at any time and I would lose my point of reference. I could fly for miles in the wrong direction and be completely lost.”

I flung my hands in the air. My fingers were practically icicles by now. “Fine! Find reasons it won’t work instead of trying to find ways it will,” I said. “I’m going inside before I freeze to death.”

“It’s just that there are obstacles,” Corban argued, following me to the trapdoor and down the stairs. “I want to fly again, but I have to be careful.”

I went straight to the table where our scraps of dinner remained and gulped down a glass of water. The singing and the arguing had left me parched. “Fine,” I said again. “I think you’re right to take it slowly. But I don’t think you should give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” he said. “I just need more help. You have to come with me.”

I almost choked on my last sip of water. “Come with you where?”

“The next time I fly.”

I stared at him, unable to answer.

Oh, I’d been carried in an angel’s arms before. But not far, and not lately, and not of my own free will. I had no desire to repeat the experience. “No,” I said shortly. “But that’s the right idea. You can go anywhere you want if you bring someone with you to tell you where you are.”

My words had roused his curiosity; he cocked his head. “You’re afraid to fly with an angel?” he asked. “You? You’re not afraid of anything. And you don’t think anyone else should be, either.”

“I’m not afraid,” I said stiffly. “Just not interested.”

“You sound afraid.”

“Perhaps you’re not as good at reading emotions as you like to think.”

“Is it the height? Some people are too petrified to even stand on top of a tall building.”

“I don’t mind reasonable heights. Corban—”

“Have you ever flown before? It’s utterly magical. It’s not just being in the air, so high above everything, it’s the speed and the motion and the sense of—of—limitlessness. It seems like exactly the sort of thing you would love.”

I was silent.

He knew precisely where I was, though, because he came a step closer to where I stood by the table. “You have flown,” he decided. “And you didn’t like it. Why not? Some angels are careless about the comfort of their human companions, I know. They go too high—they forget how cold it is for mortal flesh.”

“And certainly you were never one of those thoughtless angels,” I said, hoping my sneering tone would make him drop the topic. “You’ve always been so considerate.”

But he came closer still, brushing aside my words. “That can’t be it. I can’t see you suffering in silence, even to please an angel. You would have spoken up if the issue was merely discomfort.”

I set down my water glass, turned away, and began stacking the dirty dishes on the tray. “I’m going to take these down to the kitchen—”

He caught my arm and turned me back to face him. His darkened eyes were half closed, as if to aid his other senses in picking up information I didn’t want to impart. “So you were in an angel’s arms, but you didn’t want to be,” he mused. “Maybe you were embroiled in some kind of legal dispute. Perhaps—were you being brought to an angel hold for a trial? Or even a sentencing?”

Again I refused to answer, but I knew he could feel me trembling. I didn’t even bother trying to pull away; his grip was too tight, and I already knew how strong he was.

“An adjudication,” he decided. “Your word against someone else’s. What was the accusation? And who was your accuser?”

“I’ll tell you if you let me go.”

He smiled, genuinely amused. “If I let you go, you’ll run from the room.”

“Corban, this is an old story.”

“But one that still haunts you,” he said. “I want to hear it.” When I still didn’t answer, he prompted, “At least tell me where the trial occurred. If an angel was transporting you, you must have gone to one of the holds.”

“The Eyrie,” I said reluctantly.

His eyebrows rose. “And your case was put before the Archangel?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive! Who was your accuser?”

“My employer. A Manadavvi lord who owned property up by Monteverde.”

“And what was the crime?”