Mom is deeply worried. So much so that she’s hardly left Paige’s side since we found her in the basement lab of the aerie. Paige’s skin is corpse white. It’s as if all her blood drained through the red-stained holes of the uneven stitches.

“Look at her eyes,” says my mother, as though she understands that Paige’s otherness dominates when I look at her now.

But I can’t. I keep staring at her stitches while I offer her some cornbread. The cut on her cheek is crooked, as if the surgeon couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.

“Look at her eyes,” Mom says again.

I force myself to raise my eyes. My sister does me the favor of looking away.

It is not the eye motion of a beast. That would be too easy. It is the downcast look of a second grader who is all too familiar with rejection. That’s the look she used to get when other kids pointed at her as she wheeled by in her wheelchair.

I could kick myself. I force myself to look at her but she won’t meet my eyes. “Do you want some cornbread? I got it fresh from the oven.”

She gives the slightest shake of her head. There’s nothing sullen about it, just sadness, as if she’s wondering if I’m mad at her or think bad thoughts about her. Somewhere behind her stitches and bruises, I glimpse the lost lonely soul of my sister.

“She’s starving,” says Mom. Her shoulders are slumped, her posture dejected. My mother is not exactly a glass-half-full kind of person. But I haven’t seen her feeling this hopeless since Paige’s accident when she lost the use of her legs.

“Do you think you can eat some raw meat?” I hate asking this. I’ve gotten so used to her being a strict vegetarian that it seems like I’m giving up on the idea of Paige being Paige.

She steals a glance at me. There’s guilt and shyness. But there’s eagerness too. She looks down again as if ashamed. Her gulp is unmistakable. Her mouth is watering at the thought of raw meat.

“I’m going to see if I can find some for her.” I put on my sword.

“You do that,” says Mom. Her voice is flat and dead.

I walk out, determined to find something that Paige can eat.

The cafeteria has a line like it always does. I need to come up with a story that convinces the kitchen workers that they should give me raw meat. I can’t think of a single reason. Even a dog will eat cooked meat.

So I reluctantly turn away from the food line and head for the grove across El Camino Real. I brace myself to go cave woman and hope I can catch a squirrel or rabbit. Of course, I have no idea what I’ll do with it if I catch it.

In my still-civilized mind, meat comes as packaged food in the refrigerator. But if I’m lucky, I’ll find out up close and personal why Paige decided to go vegetarian when she was three years old.

On my way to the grove, I take a detour to do a little shopping first. Joking around with Dee-Dum the other day got me thinking. Guys want a weapon. A badass killing machine whose primary job is to intimidate when you wave it around. But if the same sharp sword was disguised as a cutesy cuddly toy, then the big bad men might look elsewhere for a weapon to steal.

I’m in luck. There’s a toyshop in the strip mall. The second I walk into the colorful store full of giant blocks and rainbow kites, I get a tug of nostalgia. I just want to hide in the play corner, surround myself with soft stuffed animals, and read picture books.

My mother has never been normal, but she was better when I was little. I remember running around in play corners like this, singing songs with her or sitting on her lap while she read to me. I run my hands over the soft plush of the panda bears and the smooth plastic of the toy trains, remembering what it was like when bears, trains, and moms made me feel safe.

It takes me a while to figure out what to do. I finally decide to slice the bottom of a teddy bear and jam it onto the hilt. I’ll just have to pull off the bear if I need to use the sword.

“Come on, admit it, Pooky Bear,” I say to the sword. “You love your new look. All the other swords will be jealous.”

By the time I cross the street to the grove, my teddy bear is wearing a multi-layered chiffon skirt made of a wedding veil that I found in one of the boutiques. I tinted the veil in the bathroom with the stained water of new clothes so that it no longer has that bridal white meant to attract the eye. The skirt falls just below the end of the scabbard, hiding it entirely—or it will when it dries. The backside is split open so that I can yank the bear and skirt off without having to think about it.

It looks ridiculous and says all kinds of embarrassing things about me. But one thing it doesn’t say is killer angel sword. Good enough.

I weave across the street and scale the chest-high fence that surrounds the grove. This area feels open, but there are enough trees to give dappled shade from the late afternoon sun. A perfect place for rabbits.

I pull off the stuffed bear, satisfied when it comes off so fast. I stand on the overgrown grass with the angel sword pointed like a divining rod. A certain angel, who shall remain nameless because I’m trying to stop thinking about him, told me that this little sword is not an ordinary sword. There’s enough weirdness in my life as it is but sometimes, you just have to go with it.

“Find a rabbit.”

A squirrel clinging onto the side of a tree laughs in a series of chirps.

“It’s not funny.” In fact, it’s as serious as can be. Raw animal meat is my best hope for Paige. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if she can’t eat that.

I charge the squirrel, my arms loose and ready to be adjusted by the sword. The squirrel takes off.

“Sorry, squirrel. One more thing to blame on the angels.” An image of Raffe’s face comes to mind—a halo of flames around his hair, showing lines of grief on his shadowed face. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he’s in pain. Adjusting to new wings must be like adjusting to new legs: painful, lonely, and during war, dangerous.

I heave the sword above my head. I can’t look and I can’t not look, so I do a weird combination of turning my head and squinting while looking just enough to be able to aim.

I swing the sword down.

The world suddenly tilts, making me dizzy.

My stomach lurches.

My vision falters and flashes.

One second, the sword is coming down on the squirrel.

The next second, the sword is being held up to an azure sky.

The fist that’s holding it is Raffe’s. And the sky is not my sky.

He hovers at the head of an army of angels who stand below him in formation. His glorious wings, white and whole, frame his body, making it look like a statue of a Greek warrior god.

Chpater 15

RAFFE RAISES his sword into the air. The legion of angels lift their swords in response. A war cry goes up as row after row of winged men take flight.

It’s a breathtaking sight to see so many angels lift in formation. The legion flies to battle, led by Raffe.

There’s a whisper of a concept in my head.

Glory.

Then, as quick as a heartbeat, the blue sky and winged men disappear.

We’re in a field at night.

A horde of scary-as-all-hell, bat-faced demons rush at me like an avalanche, screeching a hellish cry. Raffe steps ahead and starts swinging his sword with perfect precision, just like in my dreams.

Fighting beside him and protecting his back are angel warriors, some of whom I’ve seen before at the old aerie. They’re joking and egging each other on as they fight and defend each other from the monsters of the night.

Another concept echoes in my head.

Victory.

The scene changes again and we’re in the sky, only this time it’s in the middle of a lightning storm. Thunder rumbles through the dark clouds and lightning lights up the scene in stark contrasts. Raffe and a small group of warriors hover in the rain, watching another group of angels get dragged away in chains.

The prisoners fly with spiked shackles around their wrists, ankles, neck and head. The spikes are on the inside so they’re driven into their flesh. Blood washes away with the rain in jagged rivulets down their faces, hands, and feet.

A squat, bat-faced demon with bat wings rides on the shoulders of each prisoner. The demons hold the chains to the collar, using it as a bridle. They jerk the chains one direction, then another, cruelly driving the spikes in and making them fly like drunks. More hellions hang off some of the ankle and wrist shackles that bind the prisoners to each other.

Some of these angels had fought beside Raffe in the field. They had laughed with him and protected his back. Now, they watch him with excruciating pain in their eyes as they’re driven like tortured cattle.

The other angels watch with immense sadness, some with their heads bowed. But Raffe is the only one who flies out of the group, brushing hands with a few of the prisoners on his way down toward earth.

As the scene fades, another word takes shape in my head.

Honor.

And then, I’m standing under the trees again in Stanford’s grove.

My stomach lurches as I finish my swing and smash the blade into the ground where the squirrel stood a second ago. My hands are clenched so tightly around the hilt that my knuckles feel like they might split.

The squirrel has scampered into a tree and is watching me. It looks puny and insignificant after the things I’ve just seen.

I let go of the sword and land on my butt.

I don’t know how long I sit there panting, but I suspect it’s a long time. There’s nothing but the blue October sky, the smell of grass, and the unusual quiet that’s been everywhere since people abandoned cars.

Could the sword be communicating with me? Sending me the message that it was made for epic battles and glory, not for chasing squirrels and being dressed up as a cutesy stuffed animal?

Of course, that’s crazy talk.

But no crazier than what I just saw.

I want to bury my train of thought. Anything that smells remotely insane is a scent I don’t want to follow. But I let myself do it just this once.

Raffe said the sword was sort of sentient. If by some truly bizarre chance that’s true, then maybe it has feelings. Maybe it has memories that it can share with me.

On the night those men attacked me, did it get frustrated that I had no idea how to use it during the fight? Is it embarrassing for a sword to be wielded by someone who swings it like a bat? Was it actually trying to teach me how to use it through my dreams?

The thing freaks me out. I should switch over to a gun or something that’s a little less invasive and has fewer opinions. I actually get up, turn my back on it, and take a couple of steps away.

But of course, I can’t leave it.

It’s Raffe’s sword. He’s going to want it back someday.

ON MY way back, I hesitate near the food line. It’s a new group of people but the line is about the same length. The Resistance is setting up a system that includes limiting food to two meals a day. But while that’s getting set up, the newcomers are still hoarding and spending a good deal of their time standing in the food line.