gets in the back.
“So,” she says, reaching up and feeling my cheek like sorrow is some kind of fever, “how do you feel?”
“Better now. I guess.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
She turns to Angela. “How about you? Did you feel anything?” Angela shrugs. “Nothing.” There’s an edge of disappointment in her voice.
“So what do we do now?” I ask.
“We wait,” Mom says.
So we wait, and wait, and wait some more, but nothing happens. We sit in the car in silence, watching the windshield wipers push the rain off the glass. Occasionally Mom asks me how I’m doing, which is hard to answer in any clear way. At first, what I feel most is terrified that any second now Samjeeza’s going to show up and murder us all. Then I downgrade to just plain scared — that we’re going to have to run now, pack up and leave Jackson, and I’ll never see Tucker again. Finally I arrive at mildly freaked out. Then embarrassed.
“Maybe it wasn’t sorrow,” I admit. “It wasn’t as strong as before.”
“It would surprise me if he came after us so soon,” Mom says.
“Why?” Angela asks.
“Because Samjeeza’s vain,” Mom says matter-of-factly. “Clara mangled his ear, burned his arm and his head, and I don’t think he’ll want to show his face until he’s healed, which is a long process for Black Wings.”
“I would have thought they could heal quickly,” Angela says. “You know, like vampires or something.”
Mom scoffs. “Vampires. Please. Black Wings take a long time to heal because they’ve chosen to cut themselves off from the healing forces in this world.” She touches my cheek again.
“You did the right thing, getting out of there, calling me. Even if it wasn’t a Black Wing. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Angela sighs and looks out the window.
“Sorry,” I say. I turn to Mom. “I guess I’m kind of on edge.”
“Don’t be,” she says. “You’ve had a lot to deal with.”
She and Angela switch places. Then she pulls out of the school parking lot and onto the road, heading back toward town.
“What do you feel?” she asks as we pass the restaurant.
“Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “Except I have a feeling I might be losing my mind.”
“It doesn’t matter whether this is a false alarm or not. Samjeeza will come after us, Clara, eventually. You’ll need to be ready.”
Right.
“How does one get ready to be attacked by a Black Wing, exactly?” I ask sarcastically.
“Glory,” she says, which immediately gets the told-you-so look on Angela’s face. “You learn to use glory.”
“Hey, I think I see a flicker,” Christian says, startling me. “You’re doing it.” My eyes snap open. Christian wasn’t here earlier, when I got up onstage and started trying this bring-the-glory thing, but here he is now, sitting at one of the tables down in the audience at the Pink Garter, staring up at me with amusement like he’s watching a show. For a split second our eyes meet and then I glance down at my hand, which is definitely not glowing. No glory.
Clearly I suck at bringing glory if it’s not a do-it-or-die situation.
“What flicker?” I ask.
One side of his mouth hitches up. “Must have been my imagination.” Uh-huh. Insert another one of the classic Christian-Clara awkward silences. Then he coughs and says, “Sorry I interrupted your glory practice. Carry on.” I should close my eyes and try again, but I know it’s no use. There’s no way I’m going to achieve glory with him watching me.
“God, this is frustrating!” Angela exclaims. She slams her laptop closed and pushes it across the table, blowing out a long, aggravated breath. She’s been scouring college websites, trying to figure out what college she’s supposed to go to, which to most people is a pretty big deal, but for Angela, it’s a huge deal, the hugest, since she thinks it’s a college campus she’s seeing in her visions. Talk about pressure.
“Didn’t get that ancient text you wanted on eBay?” asks Christian.
She glares at him. “Funny.”
“Sorry, Ange,” I say. “Can I help?”
“The vision doesn’t give me very much to go on. There’s a set of wide steps, a bunch of stone archways, and people drinking coffee. That describes practically any college in the country.”
“Look for trees,” I tell her. “I have a good book if you’re trying to identify what area certain trees grow in.”
“Well, I hope I get something decent to go on soon,” mutters Angela. “I have to apply, you know? Like, now.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Christian says nonchalantly. He glances down at his notebook, where I think he’s working on calculus homework. “You’ll figure it out when you’re supposed to figure it out.” Then he looks up, and his eyes catch
