Waking the Moon

angular face, with high, planed cheekbones and slanted eyes, a strong jaw and jutting chin. But there was something feminine about it as well, something soft in the wide mouth and rosebud lips, the enormous eyes and arching brows. Its pupils were almost without color, pale and icily prescient, like those of a malamute. Its skin was the color of thick cream, ivory tinged with yellow, its body smooth and hairless as an infant’s.

It had wings.

“Eisheth,” Angelica repeated.

“Yes,” the thing replied, its voice a whisper. A girl’s voice, or a boy’s before the change. Its arms remained crossed; whatever it held neither struggled nor cried out.

“Do you know me, Eisheth?”

The thing bowed its head very slightly. “I do, Mistress.”

“And you have brought what I commanded you to bring me?”

“I have, Othiym.”

Othiym, thought Cloud. She dug her nails into her thighs to keep from crying out. Othiym, it called her Othiym—what is this shit?

“And the other naphaim: they have done as I asked? They are heeding when they are called?”

“They are.”

“And they do as my priestesses bid them?”

“They do, Othiym.”

Cloud’s knees shook uncontrollably.

Othiym. Angelica was calling herself Othiym. And this other—thing, whatever the fuck it was—it was calling her Othiym, too!

The two of them were barely fifteen feet from where Cloud squatted. Behind her, past more ocotillo and the deactivated electric fence, stretched the gravel road that led to the highway and open desert. If she took off now, she could be out of sight in moments. Cloud knew she could outrun Angelica—all that personal trainer stuff was great for keeping your stomach flat and your thighs taut, but it didn’t do shit for your stamina.

But was this Angelica? And could she outrun something with wings?

“Let me see him, then.” Angelica’s voice was impatient. Cloud forced herself to look up again.

Behind the naphaim, the fiery wall had died away. There was only the pool, still and calm as before, though streaks of lavender and green occasionally flickered across its surface.

“Now!” demanded Angelica.

The naphaim’s wings spread into a shimmering tent of gold and bronze and black. It opened its arms. From them something staggered, something pathetically small and frail-looking. It took a few steps, stumbled, and clumsily got to its feet again.

“Hey.” The figure looked around slowly. “This isn’t the bus station.”

Oh, shit, thought Cloud.

It was a kid. A boy, no more than sixteen or seventeen. He wore standard street gear—baggy pants cut off at the knees, a paisley shirt once brightly colored but now faded to grey tears. Busted-out boots with no socks, filthy bandanna, bruised knees. Kind of a sweet face, sunburned pink where it wasn’t grey with dirt. Blue eyes, freckles: basic Midwest issue. Probably hadn’t seen a shower in a month. His hair was blond and very dirty, hanging limply to his shoulders. What Cloud could see of the rest of him was dirty as well.

“Hello,” murmured Angelica. Almost imperceptibly she gestured at the naphaim. “Eisheth—go now.”

The boy lifted his head, blinking. Behind him the naphaim took a step backward. Its wings shuddered, beating the air. There was a sound like thunder. For an instant the air grew darker, as though a cloud had swept before the moon; but of course there was no moon. The boy covered his head, like he expected to see something bearing down on him, crazed eagle or renegade jumpjet or some other desert weirdness. After a moment he lowered his arms, gazing stupidly into the empty air and then at the ground, where a single feather trembled, as long as the boy’s arm and the deep crimson of fresh blood.

“Hello,” Angelica said again.

The boy’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

“Who—oa,” he breathed.

Angelica smiled. One hand flicked playfully at a lock of hair falling into her eyes, a fleeting motion that for an instant made her look more human. So that, Cloud thought, maybe—like if you were this kid and hadn’t had a hot meal in a week and were homesick and heartsick and probably sick with other things as well—just maybe you could imagine she was something like a normal woman. He was gaping like a gigged frog, running one hand nervously through his stringy hair and staring at Angelica—beautiful, unearthly, naked Angelica—like he didn’t know whether she was real or just some hemp-fueled vision.

“What’s your name?”

Angelica stepped toward him, still smiling. It was all so crazy and horrible and yet so real, and of course the only sane thing for Cloud to do was to run, get the hell away from there as fast as she could. But Cloud was paralyzed.

“Russell,” said the boy, his voice cracking.

“Russell,” repeated Angelica. “How old are you, Russell?”

“Uh—seventeen.”

Her necklace cast a delicate silvery glow across his face, so that for a moment you could see that he really was a nice-looking kid, but definitely younger than seventeen—Cloud thought fifteen, tops. He closed his mouth and swallowed, unable to tear his gaze from Angelica. The amazement in his eyes flickered into something else. Confusion, a certain wariness.

Fear.

“You must be awfully hot—would you like to go swimming?”

Angelica’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Cloud hadn’t seen her move to touch him, and apparently the boy hadn’t either. He jumped, then shook his head.

“Uh—no—I mean, I don’t have like, a bathing suit or anything? I was trying—I was trying to get to the bus station…”

He frowned, looking up at Angelica, then peered into the darkness behind her as though searching for someone. Cloud’s heat pounded. Surely he must see her crouching there amidst the thorny scrub, he’d point and say something and Angelica would turn and then—

“No?” Suddenly Angelica’s voice was exasperated: she might have wasted hours talking with him, instead of minutes.

One hand lay upon her breastbone, fingers spread to cover the silver crescent. Bluish light streamed between her fingers. As Cloud stared Angelica’s hand tightened about the pendant. “Well then, Russell—”

She pulled the necklace over her head, held it with both hands, her fingers curling over its curved points. The boy stared at her, his expression frozen between surprise and disbelief. Before he could move she was upon him.

A streak like the moon through a shuttered window. The boy’s hair fell across his face. His mouth yawned hideously. Cloud saw Angelica’s hand snatched backward, the silver crescent a swath of darkness, blood flowing in its wake. The boy’s head flopped onto his chest. Cloud glimpsed his eyes, wide and startled, his mouth brightly crimson as though lipsticked.

“Ah,” he said.

There was a glistening darkness where his throat had been cut, a net of red covering his face and hands. Very slowly his body crumpled, until he lay on his side like a sick child, his dirty hair fallen across his face.

Above him stood Angelica. She held the crescent before her, its silver tarnished black and crimson. Smoke threaded between its two prongs. Her upturned gaze was beseeching yet triumphant, her voice like hail hammering against the desert floor.

Haiyo Othiym! Othiym Lunarsa!