Angel's Mark

Eighteen

I was up before anyone else, which should have made it easier, but made it worse. It felt more wrong, more like sneaking out, when there wasn't anyone awake to ask me where I was going.

It was a liquid morning, dripping sunlight and syrupy birdsong and sounds that seemed softer than they should be. I felt out of place, not bright enough, in my dark sweater and jeans and my scuffed tennis shoes. Not that it mattered. Not that any of this mattered; this was an order of business, nothing more, nothing less.

On my way outside, I paused in the upstairs hallway. Cian's door was semi-cracked, letting in just a shred of gold that melted in with everything else. I rubbed my eyes free of the sight of the knife in his stomach, wiped away the scent of his blood from my nose. Then I nudged the door open and looked in.

Cian and Lucie were a lump of sheets, all tangled arms and legs. Lucie's head was on Cian's slowly rising chest, his whole body curved into hers, dark and light hair like splatter paint on the pillows. Neither of them stirred when the door creaked; I smiled a little to myself and slipped back out into the hall again.

Zev had said this would only work in certain circumstances, but a lot of things Zev said were hogwash, so I was going to test it anyway.

I went to the backyard, where I had no risk of a neighbor seeing me vanish into thin air. It was sunny but chilly, the breezes off the bay burrowing into the fibers of my sweater, licking my skin. I stood in the center of it all, remembered that if I had healed Cian without really trying, I could do this without really trying.

I pictured the IHOP, the blue booth seats and the burnt orange walls and the smell of syrup everywhere, the view of Sailor's Point from the broad, unclean window. It wasn't the nicest place, but that made it better, gave it a charm that something too normal didn't have.

I shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was there.

I swayed a little on my feet, pressing my hand against the brick exterior to steady myself. But it had worked, and I was there, in the empty parking lot, the bay a blue-gray watercolor picture beside me.

I tried not to let my pride show on my face, stepping inside the IHOP. The bell dinged above my head; I sat in a booth by the window and waited.

And he was late.

I saw his car before I saw him; the vehicle was a fierce yellow, of course, made fiercer by the sun that showered from the skies. None of this seemed to affect Alan, however. He was as dreary, as solemn, as ever, all dark hair and shifting eyes and tense shoulders. It didn't matter how many times I'd seen him now. I still hadn't figured him out. I wouldn't be satisfied until I did—but I'd get over it, here, now.

The bell signaled his arrival. He searched the breakfast bar, then the center tables, then the booths. His eyes landed on me, then flicked away a second later. He started in my direction.

The dark blue of the booth seat made him seem brighter, somehow. He regarded me tiredly. "We're not actually here for pancakes, are we?"

I thought about lying, but it was just a thought.

I said, "Surprise."

His mouth dipped into a frown. I'd never noticed it before, or maybe I had, but it was artfully shaped, as if carved by the hand of an ancient Greek sculptor, an attractive slope of pink-red skin. I decided to examine the menu instead of him.

Alan sighed. "Is it about—"

"Like it could be about anything else?"

"I don't understand," he admitted. "I can't forget. It's not my fault, or anything. I don't know why you and Zev are so angry with me."