65
ANGEL CURLED HER body tighter into the nook of the fir tree, where one of the branches met the trunk, and wept.
She held her throbbing head in her hands, her fair hair twisting around her fingers as she gripped it. The images in her head played on a loop now, but they were often just glimpses, like small snippets of film. Close-ups of yellow eyes narrowing, yellow teeth flashing. Fists clenching, feathers falling. Snow stained dark with blood.
Angel wasn’t sure if what she was seeing was in the past or the future, and it was so hard sometimes to know what to do.
It was even harder to wait for the answer.
Angel had been waiting a long time. As the migraines had worsened, she’d sought out the quietest place she could find. Far north, in the middle of nowhere. She’d crawled inside this tree days ago, and the branches had grown heavy with snow, forming a cocoon around her small body.
She chewed a piece of bark to stave off her hunger, working the soggy wood methodically between her teeth. There wasn’t much else to eat—in this deep cold, most of the animals had gone into hibernation. Like the bears and the squirrels, Angel just wanted to sleep until things got a little easier.
Her mind wouldn’t let her rest, though. Her temples were electrified with each pulse of her blood as horrible scenes flashed behind her eyes, again and again.
Trust in yourself, she tried to remember. Nothing else matters.
But she was exhausted and hopeless, and sometimes she fantasized about smashing her forehead into the trunk of the tree, hitting it over and over until her skull caved and the pain stopped…
Angel.
It was a voice inside her head—a male voice, and Angel sat up.
She’d been Max’s voice, projecting her own thoughts to Max, trying to help her when she was struggling. Angel had never had anyone to guide her like that, but for a second, she thought that had changed.
Come on, Angel, where are you?
No. This wasn’t a voice. She was hearing someone’s thoughts—someone nearby.
Someone who knew her.
Angel separated the branches and looked out into a world coated in white. She blinked against the harsh brightness of the snow, feeling like a siren was screaming in her skull.
There. She saw a figure coming out of the blizzard, a fuzzy outline slowly taking shape.
Angel watched the heavy boots sinking in the snow. The broad shoulders looking a little stooped. The powerful wings sagging low behind him. It was something out of a dream—a dream she knew well.
Angel tensed. She had prepared herself for this moment for so long, steeled herself against it, but she was still surprised to feel the icy tears running down her face.
She saw how strong he was, how powerful, and knew her intuition had been right: He would always be the one to prevail.
“It’s you,” Angel whispered as the figure stopped in front of her. “I knew you’d come.”
66
HORSEMAN PEERED THROUGH the branches of the fir tree and looked Angel in the eye. Her lashes were icy webs—she’d been crying—but unlike the others, Angel stared back at him with a wounded look of acceptance.
Of course she’d known. Angel had a different sort of power.
More power, even, than the Remedy, who had planned out the future he wanted. Angel saw that future. She knew the outcome of today, and all the days after that.
But could she change it?
Horseman was silent as they regarded each other warily. She was probably reading his mind, anyway. He curled his toes inside his boots, willing himself not to turn away from her relentless blue gaze.
For the first time in a long time, Horseman felt his vulnerability. His reflexes, his superior programming, none of it mattered. Angel was the only one in the world who was ready for whatever happened next, and he found himself waiting for her cue.
Sensing this, Angel swung her legs over the branch and jumped down from the tree, landing almost silently in the deep snow. She stood in front of him, tall for her age and malnourished, and for a moment neither of them moved.