Chapter 2

 

The story made headlines—a naked woman's corpse found on 29^th Street. There was no mention of an attack, no comment on anything Reece witnessed. If she witnessed it. If she wasn't hallucinating. Or crazy. The reporter stated that the woman had not been herself lately. Friends and loved ones were worried about her. When police interviewed her husband, he admitted she'd been acting strangely. She left the house in a hurry that night, telling him if she didn't come home in the morning, to be happy for her. Her curse was over.

Reece reread the short, concise article. Talk about a sanitized version of an event! She wasn't about to correct anyone, though. She felt limp with relief. Her name wasn't mentioned anywhere, and that was a blessing. Being part of a murder investigation wouldn't be good for business. Parents might pull their kids from her martial arts studio. And telling people that werewolves existed would make her a laughing stock. The last thing she needed. She was thrilled for the tame version. It had to have something to do with the phone call the cop got. Everything changed after that.

Still, seeing is believing. And she'd seen the werewolf and the winged man. Hadn't she? Her mind said yes. Her instincts said no. She hadn't been drinking that night. Eugene had. But was she the one seeing pink elephants and flying men? She thought of buying silver bullets, but where did you find them? On the web? And how would that make her look? Deranged?

And what about the huge, winged man who killed the beast? He'd looked like a Michelangelo sculpture brought to life—an angel of retribution. Reece wasn't one who indulged in flights of fancy. Her dad was an engineer, a nuts and bolts type of guy. A practical man. She'd taken after him—bought her own studio with her inheritance and invested wisely. Flying heroes were the stuff of novels. But which ones? What was he? He seemed more a savior than a threat.

She turned what happened over and over again in her mind. Should she warn people? Would anyone believe her? Her gut feeling was the cops already knew there were things that went bump in the night. They seemed ready to deal with that. She wasn't. Better to shut up and move on. She still glanced at rooftops, though, looking for someone who might fly from one to another. And she still tensed when she drove past dark alleys. But one day rolled into the next. Her routine fell into place. She got up mornings, got ready for work, and taught classes. She had Joseph and Jenny over on weekends. And eventually, a month passed. There was another full moon, and she found herself at her mother's brownstone again, dealing with Eugene.

She had to admit, the full moon spooked her. It would be a while before she could pass the Patterson place without chewing her fingernails. She'd have rather stayed home tonight, hidden behind locked doors, but she swore Eugene got crazier every day. And her family was doing its usual routine, so when Joseph called, she came. Enough was enough, though. This was getting old. She waited till the kids were in bed before she started to her car. Then she stopped midway down her mom's walk and took a deep breath. Déjà vu.

Cool, crisp air filled her lungs. The moon hovered above the American elm trees that lined the street. Reece quickened her steps to her SUV just as the bus pulled to the corner and opened its doors. No, no, no. This was her street, her childhood sanctuary. Nothing bad ever happened here.

The young kid with the jeans and white T-shirt stepped onto the sidewalk. His apron was wadded like a towel around the back of his neck.

Good. He was alive. He'd survived the attack. She'd wondered about him. She'd thought long and hard, and as far as she could remember, he hadn't been scratched. She hadn't seen one mark on him before he took off.

He saw her and gave an exaggerated shrug. "Just me," he called. He pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and pressed it between his lips. He lit a match to hold to the white tip, but his hands trembled so much, he couldn't light it. Finally, he cupped one hand to the side of his mouth, more to steady himself than to block any breeze. An ember glowed in the shadows. A matching rim of yellow glowed in his eyes.

A tickle of worry squirmed in Reece's stomach. That had to be a trick of the lighting. No one had yellow eyes….except… Her feet wanted to go. They really did. Her brain gave the command. She didn't want to be here, but she stood, frozen in place. Everything felt surreal.

The kid tossed the spent match to the ground and started toward her. His steps faltered, his legs unsteady. His arms twitched. He stepped into the moonlight, and his body spasmed.

Reece stared. She hadn't seen any blood when he'd been knocked to the ground. She took a step forward, then stopped. Don't get too close, a small voice warned inside her head. The kid pressed his hands to his temples. He tilted his face skyward and howled—a gut-wrenching sound. Shivers raced up and down Reece's nerves.

The kid's body writhed. Spittle foamed from his lips. Reece reached for her cell phone. Whom should she call? What should she say? "Excuse me, but this boy is turning into a werewolf. Can you help him?"

He moaned in agony, fell to his knees. His eyes rolled. His body stretched. His shoes split as his feet grew longer. Claws sprouted from fingers and toes. Fur covered his face. "Run!" he cried. He stooped, bent double. His shoulders shook with tremors. His jawline protruded. When he looked up, his eyes gleamed yellow. "Damn it, run!"

Reece sprinted for her car. She should stop him somehow. He'd hurt somebody. But what could she do?

He struggled to his feet. Stumbled. Couldn't find his balance. He heaved himself onto all fours. She slammed her door, locking it. A heavy weight thudded on top of the SUV. Claws raked the metal. She turned her key and stomped her foot on the gas. The vehicle lurched forward. He flew off its roof. Landed in the street.

Reece roared to the corner, ready to race away, until she looked in her rearview mirror. The wolf's attention had shifted to the brightly lit front room of her mother's brownstone. Her mom had her arm around Eugene, she knew, helping him up the stairs. The boy loped toward the picture window. Reece could imagine shattered glass. Then he'd be on top of them. And once he finished with them, what if he went to the kids' rooms?

Reece jammed the SUV's gears into reverse. She screeched back to her mother's brownstone and squealed to a stop. The boy turned, distracted by the noise. Reece stepped out of the SUV. She gripped the gun in both hands and braced herself. This wasn't going to be pretty. No silver bullets, but enough impact to do something.

He sniffed the air—fresh prey—then sped toward her. Whoever the kid was, he'd been a nice boy. She felt sorry for him, but she was going to hurt him.

When he jumped, she ducked. He landed on the cement sidewalk across the street. He looked surprised. He was stronger than he realized. He planted his paws to steady himself. Before he could spring again, Reece shot him. Six hits directly to the head and chest.

Lights flickered on up and down the street. Good, someone would call the cops. The sooner, the better.

The bullets didn't faze him. Holes opened, the metal cartridges entered, and flesh closed. His muscles bunched. Holy shit! What did she do now?

She reached for her door handle. She'd run him over if she had to.

A neighbor stepped onto his front stoop. "Reece, do you need help?"

"Get inside. Lock your door!"

His door slammed, and the wolf spun toward her. He sprang again. She tried to step aside, but he was too quick. Standing on his hind legs, he pinned her against the SUV, his front paw jammed against her chest. She yanked strands of silver chains out from under her sweatshirt. She pushed them toward his face. He snarled and whacked them aside. His fur smoked where they'd touched him.

He growled, enraged. Great! She'd managed to make him mad. He pulled back thin lips, showing sharp fangs. His jaws opened, and she glanced at her mother's house. It was dark. Eugene had turned off the lights to hide. A good thing. The kids shouldn't see this.

The wolf lunged to rip her to shreds. Something yanked him off her. The winged man held him by the scruff of his neck. The kid wriggled and scratched. He broke loose and threw himself on her rescuer.

The two pushed and parried. The boy bit and clawed. Would her angel survive? How could she help? Bullets didn't slow the kid down.

The boy changed strategy. He and the man circled each other. Suddenly, the boy zigged, and zagged, then leapt for Reece. The man snagged him in midair. They went down in a writhing heap. Claws grabbed at a wing, stretched it out. Fangs sank into supple leather, ripped and tore. Massive hands circled the boy's neck. She heard a loud snap. The wolf's tongue lolled. His body went limp. And he transformed back into the kid.

The man pushed himself to his feet. Sirens neared. His wings unfurled and he leapt. They didn't hold him. He crashed back to the pavement.

"Get in my SUV," Reece told him. "Hurry!" Had she lost her mind? Maybe. What was he?

He stared at her in surprise. Brakes squealed at the corner.

"Duck down in the backseat. Don't let anyone see you."

He slipped inside and disappeared before the first cop stepped from his squad car. What could she say this time? Sorry, officer, but people keep turning into wolves on this block?

The cop put his hand on the butt of his gun as he approached her. He looked down at the kid's naked body. His eyes scanned her disheveled appearance and .38, her ripped sweater and bloodied shoulders. She followed his gaze, looking at her shoulders in surprise. When had that happened? When the man pulled the wolf off her? Its claws had searched for something to hold on to.

The cop shook his head and gave her a look of pity. "I'm really sorry, ma'am. I'd shoot you now if I could and spare you."

He knew. She'd suspected as much. "Then do it. Don't let me hurt anyone."

"Can't, but I'll tell Wedge what happened. He'll take care of you."

"Wedge?"

"He can help you if you let him."

Reece tried for a bit of reason. "Do you need my name and address? So that Wedge knows where to find me?" Whoever the hell Wedge was.

The cop shook his head. "Damian followed you home last time."

She frowned. What was the deal? Was there a werewolf commission in their city? "What do I do? Is there a vaccine? A shot?"

Sympathy washed over his face. "It will be better if you hear it from Wedge." He turned to his partner. "Are the techs on their way?"

"They'll be here any minute."

He put a hand on Reece's shoulder. She wasn't sure why it surprised her so much. Did cops touch? If he were older, fatherly, maybe, but he looked only a couple years older than she was—maybe in his early thirties. He kept trying to reassure her. What was up? "You might as well get along now. No reason for you to stay and watch. It's not a happy sight."

She turned to walk to her car. Her mind swam with questions. She felt muddled. He called after her. "I'm Officer Petersen. If you need me, call. And tell Damian I said hi."

"I'll meet him too?"

"You already have. He'll have answers for you."

Reece reached her SUV in a daze. What had just happened? Why weren't they arresting her? Or telling her not to leave town? Or locking her behind silver bars?

When she climbed behind the steering wheel, she hoped the poor man/angel hiding in the back wasn't crippled from bending over so long. She didn't glance at him until she was a few blocks down the street. "Are you all right?"

He let himself stretch with a sigh of relief. "I'll be fine. It takes my wings longer to heal than the rest of me, though. And you?"

Wings. Yes, he'd said wings. Just like they were normal. "I'm bleeding. I want to talk to you about that." Could she chain herself to her walls every full moon? Would she stay sane once the virus spread? "Do you have someplace to stay? Someone to call? You can hide in my condo until your wing's back to normal." Was that a good idea? How else could she get answers?

He studied her in the dim light as she drove. "You're inviting me to stay with you?"

She made herself sound braver than she felt. "You saved my life. It's the least I can do."

She glanced at him in her rearview mirror. He looked as though she could knock him over with a powder puff. He must not get gratitude very often. "I'd prefer your condo, since you offered."

For a man of action, he was awfully well spoken. "I don't live that far from here. We'll be there soon." She gripped her steering wheel to steady her nerves. If seeing was believing, she should be a believer, right? She pushed worries and questions out of her mind. First, they'd get home. Then, she could fall apart.

When they reached her parking garage, she was relieved to find it empty of people. She walked to the elevator and punched the button for the thirteenth floor. He followed her. "What if someone sees me?" he asked.

"We'll go straight to my loft. If someone tries to get on, I'll jam the doors."

That satisfied him. He stepped in beside her. On the ride up, she looked at his wing. One was furled tightly to his back. The damaged one sagged, half-open. A pang of guilt stabbed her. He'd been hurt trying to save her. "It looks pretty mangled."

"It's been worse." He looked at her shoulder. "You're hurt too."

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"You have questions. I'll try to find answers."

She liked the sound of his voice—rich and deep. She liked his calmness. His face had a patrician look with a strong, straight nose, chiseled cheekbones, and a high forehead. What the heck was he? When the elevator stopped on 13, Reece motioned him into the small foyer that led to her loft.

She unlocked the door and let him go ahead of her. The building was long and narrow, with only one apartment on each floor. It had been offices before it was converted.

He took in the big, open space in one glance. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yup. Just me, myself, and I. I rent with an option to own. Got it cheaper than the rest of the units because most people are superstitious. Not me. 13 is my lucky number." She wasn't feeling too lucky right now. She was babbling, a sign of nervousness. She'd never invited someone with wings to her place before.

He looked at the sparse furniture, the spotless kitchen. "How long have you lived here?"

"Ten years. I thought it would be temporary." At one time, she thought she'd move when she married and had kids. Now, at the grand age of twenty nine, she was leaning toward staying single forever. Half of her friends were already divorced. Having kids no longer appealed to her. She'd helped raise Joseph and Jenny, and they satisfied whatever motherly instinct she'd ever had—if she had any.

"And now?" He turned a thoughtful gaze on her.

"I'm happy, doing my own thing. Why change?" Hell, she'd taken out a fifteen year loan. She'd own the place in five more years…if she lived that long…and was still human.

He walked to the center of the loft and turned in a slow circle. "Windows on three sides. I like that." It felt surreal, discussing everyday things with him.

A bathroom jutted into the brick wall that held the foyer and elevator. The rest of the area was open with half walls separating the kitchen, in the center, from the rest of the space. Her bedroom was tucked behind high shelving units. His gaze swept upward to the steel beams that supported the ceiling. There was a balcony off the dining area and he opened the door and went out on it. The city stretched below them.

"Great view," he said when she joined him.

She almost laughed. It sounded like such an ordinary statement, but there was nothing ordinary about him. Streetlights beamed up and down the boulevard. Stars sparkled in a velvet sky, and the full moon bathed everything in silver beams.

He waved a hand, encompassing the entire area. "You can keep watch without being seen."

"A voyeur? I never thought of that."

"If an invasion comes, you'll be ready."

"Invasion?" She hadn't thought of that either. She touched a hand to her shoulder. She couldn't concentrate, her thoughts on the scratches there.

"The rogues are changing more and more people."

"What rogues?" What was he talking about?

"Werewolves gone wild. The good Weres have rules. They guard their privacy. Something's different with these."

Reece rubbed her arms. "There are good Weres?" Is that what she'd become? A nice werewolf? How did that work? "And you?" she asked. "What are you?" He wasn't an angel. No halo. He'd saved her, but why?

He gave a slight smile. "I was wondering when you'd ask. Most people refer to us as gargoyles. Not technically correct, of course."

Of course. He wasn't like any gargoyle she'd seen—the gray figures that hunched on buildings. "What is correct?"

"We're mankind's guardians."

She gave a derisive sniff, then regretted it. She was too cynical, and knew it. "What do you protect us from? Ourselves?"

"We don't interfere in mankind's business. No, from others."

"Others?" She didn't like the sound of that. What did that make him? Some kind of mythical vigilante? She gave him a level look. If there were others out there besides werewolves, she'd just as soon not know. She needed to deal with everyday things, things that felt real. "I'm Reece Rutherford. My mother and her family live on 29^th Street."

"I assumed that. I've seen you visit many times."

"Really? You've been watching us?"

"I watch over the city. You're part of it."

"And you're?"

"Damian." A good name. She liked it. She trusted him, even though she wasn't sure she should.

"The Damian the cop told me about?"

"Pete and I have worked together before. He knows about the problems in Bay City."

"Do you have a last name?"

"No."

Why would he? One name seemed to be sufficient. After all, how many gargoyles were there in the world? Before now, she hadn't thought there were any. She gripped the balcony's railing and worked up the courage to ask the question that scared her most. Who knew? If he gave the wrong answer, maybe she'd jump.

"Okay, I need to know. The first werewolf attacked the kid who got off the bus. This month, when the moon was full, he changed and attacked me. He didn't want to, but he couldn't stop himself." She nodded toward the scratches on her shoulders. "Am I next? Will it happen to me? Is that why Officer Petersen said he'd shoot me if he could, that it would be a mercy killing?"

Damian turned to her, giving her his full attention. His eyes narrowed, studying her. "It's not easy being a Were, but I'm not sure about you. That's why I came here. I'm curious."

"When will you know?" Then his words sank in. He hadn't jumped in her SUV to hide. He knew Petersen. He probably even knew his partner. He came home with her to decide if she'd change in a month, like the kid did.

"There's something different about you." He pulled back the shreds of her sweater. The deep gashes on her shoulders were already healing. "I'm not sure what you are, but our clan elder will know. He's old and wise."

"Different? What do you mean?" Was the infection already changing her? Would she become some kind of mutant—half Were, half human? She covered her face with her hands. At the next full moon, would she turn into some freak show display?

"This is hard, I know." His voice was sympathetic.

He was trying to help her. She needed help. "Can I meet your elder, get some answers?"

"He's on his way."

Reece looked up at him, surprised. Damian could have used a cell phone when he was crouched in her SUV, but he didn't know where she was taking him. No, she was wrong. Petersen told her Damian followed her home the last time they met. "Did you call your elder? Does he know you're here?" He was shirtless—a thing to behold. Even in her state, she felt grateful there were no T-shirts with slits for wings. She looked at his snug jeans. There were plenty of bulges, but none that looked the size of a phone.

"I have a cell." He pulled a slim phone from his front pocket. "But gargoyles don't communicate that way. We use our minds—telepathy."

She rubbed her forehead. A headache, she could deal with. But this felt more like overload. A car stopped at the corner. It honked its horn, and a girl flew out of the apartment building across the street, off to meet friends probably, to have a good time. Reece stepped back inside her loft. The balcony was too open. She needed the comfort of walls and familiar items. It felt as though some fickle deity had turned her world topsy-turvy.

Damian stayed outside. Eventually, there was a soft thud, and Reece glanced through the French doors to see a second gargoyle standing beside him. They talked for a moment, then Damian led him inside.

"Reece, this is our elder. Benito, this is the woman I told you about."

Benito was taller and leaner than Damian, but gave the impression of being every bit as powerful. His skin glowed like white marble. Instead of dark hair and light gray eyes, Benito's hair was pure white and his eyes a brilliant blue. He came closer to study Reece's shoulder. "May I?" When she nodded assent, he pulled back the material of her sweater and gently touched the scratches that were fading rapidly.

"That's never happened before, has it?" Damian asked. "Usually, they fester and the fever comes. She smells different too. I caught her scent the first time I saw her. It's not strictly human."

Benito raised his eyes to Reece's face. He inhaled slowly and looked surprised, almost amazed. "Did the wolf touch you anywhere? Lay a paw on you?"

Reece touched the spot. "On my chest."

"I don't mean to embarrass you, but may I see that too?"

She'd never been especially modest. Not all body parts were created equal. She pulled off her sweater and both gargoyles stared. They seemed so surprised, she looked too. A blood red hexagram was embedded in her skin, like a tattoo over her heart. "Is it a curse?"

Benito shook his head. "We consider it a great blessing."

"What kind of blessing?"

"My dear child, the wolf's touch awakened your magic."

What was he talking about? Reece glanced at her reflection in the French doors. She looked and felt the same, but maybe the wolf's mark had changed her somehow. "What kind of magic?"

"Each species has its own." Benito nodded at the hexagram. "Your sign is two interlocking triangles. The one that points up symbolizes male energy. The one pointing down is female. Your energy is balanced. You're a witch."

"A witch?" Did they really exist? Why wouldn't they? If werewolves roamed the streets and gargoyles plummeted from rooftops, why not witches? She licked her lips. Was she completely losing it? "There must be an antidote, something that will save me."

"Save you from what?" Benito smiled. "Being a witch is a gift. You've been given new powers."

"I don't want them. There has to be some mistake. Witches are evil, aren't they? They sell their souls?"

"Dear girl, what you do with your talents is up to you."

"The werewolves didn't have a choice." She remembered the poor woman, sitting on the stoop, rocking back and forth, afraid of what she'd become. The boy told her to run.

Damian must have heard the panic in her voice. He tried to calm her. "Weres can learn to control their shifts. They can learn to deal with them. Witches, too, can nurture their gifts until they reach their full potential."

"Then I can deny them, right? Just ignore them? If I don't pay attention to the tattoo, maybe it will go away."

Damian glanced at Benito. "It's not that simple, is it?"

"You're frightened of something you don't understand," Benito said. "But I can assure you that your gift is a blessing. And it might ease your mind to hear that your family's known for practicing white magic."

"My family? Neither of my parents were witches."

"How would you know?"

"They were just people, ordinary."

Benito chuckled. "Damian said that you're a Rutherford. Your bloodline came from your father. Men are usually carriers of the gene with little or no magical abilities of their own. Did you know your grandmother well?"

"She was a warm, loving woman."

"Not her then. How many brothers and sisters did your father have?"

"Three brothers."

"No witch would have only males. And your grandfather's mother?"

Reece raised her eyebrows. "People thought she was psychic."

"There you have it." Benito pondered a moment. "Your grandfather's mother—how many children did she have?"

"One son and one daughter, but the daughter moved away. Our family lost touch with her."

"Not uncommon. Witches like their freedom. She's probably still around if you'd like to look for her."

"She has to be ancient by now."

"She's a witch. She won't age unless she chooses to, like us." His blue eyes sparkled with possibilities. "If I'm right, your genes promise great gifts and enormous power, especially since they've had time to brew from one unused generation to the next."

"Are you sure you have the right bloodline?" He had to be wrong. This couldn't be happening to her.

Benito reached out a hand and tipped her chin upward. "You are a Rutherford?"

"Yes."

His expression took on a faraway look. "I met Luna once."

"No such person in our family."

"We met in Europe. Luna's her chosen name, the one she took after her husband and son died. You're as pretty as she—same smooth, mocha skin—except that your eyes are green with gold flecks. Hers are like looking into a lake—a clear, crystal blue."

Reece pushed her hair back from her forehead. This was too much. She'd assumed her great-grandmother died years ago, like mortals are supposed to. She'd assumed Luna's daughter was dead and gone too. This was impossible to take in.

Benito's smile returned. "A witch will change the balance of things."

She didn't like the sound of that, didn't like anything about it. She balled her hands into fists, fighting down frustration. A buzz of energy hummed through her veins. She tried to squelch it, and fragments of white lightning danced across her knuckles. They fell to bounce across the floor. With a yelp, she pulled her feet out of the way. That would be her luck—she'd zap herself with some kind of energy she never knew she had.

Benito chuckled. "Calm down, child. You don't want burn marks on your oak planks."

She glared. "This isn't funny!" She couldn’t keep up with the information he was giving her. She felt overwhelmed.

"You'll get used to it," Damian told her, his voice calm. "You didn’t choose this, but it chose you. You'll learn to deal with it."

"And my mark?" Reece asked.

"Witches, most often, are born with protective spells, passed down through their families. The mark's a good thing." Damian motioned to her shoulders, free of scratch marks. "It made you immune to werewolves, as are gargoyles."

His words soothed her. If she had to choose, she'd rather be a witch than a werewolf. "How does my being a witch shift things?"

"You can join our battle, help us protect people."

"Join you?"

"Being turned is bad enough," Damian said. "But shifting is difficult and painful. Not every human survives their first or second change."

Reece thought of the kid from the restaurant. He'd suffered through each and every morph his body made.

Benito nodded sadly. "Not every human turns out as expected."

"What happens to them?" Reece imagined strange creatures with furry faces and smooth bodies, three-legged dogs, and fun-fair oddities.

"They become pitiful freaks at every full moon and have to hide from the world. It's depressing to see."

Reece decided her images might not be so off base. She felt sorry for anyone who had to endure that fate. Then it angered her that someone could be callous enough to inflict that on innocent victims. How cruel were they? Energy sizzled from one of her fingers to the next. Eyes wide, she looked at Damian.

"Witches channel energies," he told her. "You'll learn to control them."

"Energies? As in, more than one?" She felt like a damned parrot, repeating words, but she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Avatars can direct one sort of energy," Benito explained. "Practiced witches can channel them all. That's why alchemists used a hexagram to illustrate their powers—one symbol for wind, another for earth, one for water, the fourth for fire, and then the male/female points. You can direct any or all of them against your enemies."

Reece stared. She ran her hands up and down her thighs. She didn't feel any different. The same, old body. The same, old ideas. Except that she gave off sparks when she didn't control her temper. Literally.

"Is she safe?" Damian asked.

"No. You must stay with her."

"Can she hurt herself?"

"Not much, but if a werewolf's near, he'll smell her. He'll know."

"The young boy didn't."

"It was his first change. He didn't know anything yet, hadn't joined a pack. The woman you killed before him was just learning. But new wolves aren't Reece's biggest danger. It's the old wolves who'll hunt her down."

Reece shivered. "They can't hurt me until the next full moon, though, right? I'm safe until then."

Benito looked at her with sympathy. "Nothing is ever that simple or easy, child. Every wolf changes at full moon, but there are other triggers, as well. The old ones, who've lived one generation after another, can change when they please."

"Any time?"

"Shamans gave the first wolves strong magic. They created them to be mighty hunters and fierce in battle. They can change at will. After time, with enough practice, all Weres can, but most don't survive that long."

Reece gripped a countertop, stunned. She felt off balance. Damian glanced at his elder. "Perhaps she's heard enough for one day."

Benito looked out the loft's window at the pink that tinged the eastern horizon. "I'd prefer to be home before daylight. Take care of her." He went to the balcony, stretched his wings, and disappeared into the gray of twilight.

Reece turned her attention to Damian. "What now?"

"We rest. We'll heal faster. And you have things to do today, I'd suppose."

She nodded. Bed and sleep. Then classes to teach in late morning. Her ordinary routine. It would ground her.