But we were the only ones on the road tonight, and the only humans I saw during the entire trip. Before the war, people would have opened their doors and windows, let fresh breezes push stale and humid air out of the house. They’d sit on porches or stoops, discuss the day or enjoy the night. But there simply weren’t that many people left. Those who were left were scattered, and many had been too shell-shocked by war to venture outside their homes unless absolutely necessary.

The refinery was huge—several structures spread over half a dozen acres. Less a campus than a really big Frankenbuilding—a main structure with a lot of add-ons here and there. Lungs of big rusting tanks. Tendons of high, covered walkways that connected the parts together. Mismatched limbs—a building dressed in a complicated brick pattern attached to another outfitted with a completely different pattern. And smokestack feet that punched through the air at the end of it.

A chain-link fence circled the site, or mostly did. It was falling over in some areas, nearly rusted through in some others. Liam found a spot where the link was down completely, carefully drove the truck through.

He moved through the web of buildings, watching for movement, then pulled in front of the largest part of the complex, a hulking rectangle of rusting steel marked with rows of windows. They glowed from the inside. Someone had turned on the power.

“I guess this is our destination,” Liam said. He reversed the truck, pivoted until it was facing the exit again. Just in case we needed to haul ass back to the city, I assumed.

We climbed out of the truck, and Liam waited while I walked around to his side. He glanced at me. “You ready?”

“As I’m likely to ever be. Let’s meet our mysterious callers.”

Quietly, cautiously, we moved inside. The building was empty, but absolutely enormous—a long rectangle of space. The outside wall had windows; the inside wall was made of metal and looked to be melting with rust. Steel girders roughly down the middle of the space supported a spider’s web of rusting beams and catwalks overhead and below a ceiling of wooden planks. Lights hung down from the beams. The floor was pitted concrete, marked by pools of bloodred water that had dripped from the rusting wall. It still dripped, sending echoes across the room.

Wings fluttered. Sound filled the room as a flock of pigeons were startled away from a rafter. We ducked as they flew over us, disappearing through broken windows at the other end of the building.

There was another whoosh of sound. We both turned back, Liam with a hand at his weapon, a gunslinger ready to fight.

A man had descended in a crouch in front of us. Wings rose high behind him, the arcs above his shoulders gleaming like white silk woven with gold, a strange contrast to the decay around us.

As he stood, his wings retracted, disappearing from sight.

He wore dark trousers and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves folded above muscular forearms. He was strikingly handsome, with a square jaw, straight nose, and strong brow over eyes that gleamed golden. His hair was dark blond and curled into soft waves. I’d have guessed his age as late twenties or early thirties, but Paras were hard to gauge.

A woman emerged from a stairway on the other end of the room, her shoes snapping noisily on the metal treads. Straight dark hair framed a lovely face. Her pinup-curvy body was tucked into rolled-up jeans and a red gingham top, and her eyes were blue behind tortoiseshell glasses.

“Sorry our entrance isn’t as good,” she said, aiming her gaze at the angel. “Not all of us have wings.”

His lips curled with faint amusement. “A pity.”

“No need for the weapons,” she said to Liam, his fingers still poised on the butt of his gun. “We’re all on the same side.”