Still, there is a good chance that Mom made herself scarce before things got too ugly. She is probably hiding somewhere, most likely tracking my movements until she feels safe enough to come out.

I survey the scene again. I see only buildings with dark windows and dead cars. If I hadn’t spent weeks secretly peering out of one of those dark windows, I might have believed I was the last human on the planet. But I know that out there, behind the concrete and steel, there are at least a few pairs of eyes whose owners are considering whether it is worth the risk of running out into the street to scavenge the angel’s wings along with any other part of him they can cut off.

According to Justin, who was our neighbor until a week ago, word on the street is that somebody has put a bounty on angel parts. A whole economy is being created around tearing angels to pieces. The wings fetch the highest price, but hands, feet, scalp, and other, more sensitive parts, could also fetch a nice sum if only you can prove they’re from an angel.

A low groan interrupts my thoughts. My muscles tense instantly, ready for another fight. Are the gangs coming?

Another low moan. The sound is coming not from the buildings, but directly in front of me. The only thing in front of me is the bleeding angel lying on his face.

Could he still be alive?

All the stories I’ve heard say that if you cut off an angel’s wings, he would die. But maybe that is true in the way that if you cut off a person’s arm, he would die. Left unchecked, he would simply bleed to death.

There can’t be that many chances to get yourself a piece of angel. The street might be flooded with scavengers any minute. The smart thing to do would be to get out while I still can.

But if he’s alive, maybe he knows where they took Paige. I trot over, my heart beating furiously with hope.

Blood streams down his back and pools on the asphalt. I flip him over unceremoniously, not even thinking twice about touching him. Even in my panic, I notice his ethereal beauty, the smooth rise of his chest. I imagine his face would be classically angelic if it hadn’t been for the bruises and welts.

I shake him. He lies unresponsive, like the Greek God statue he resembles.

I slap him hard. His eyes flutter, and for a moment, they register me. I fight the panicked urge to run.

“Where are they going?”

He moans, his eyelids dropping down. I slap him again, as hard as I can.

“Tell me where they’re going. Where are they taking her?”

A part of me hates the new Penryn I’ve become. Hates the girl who slaps a dying being. But I shove that part deep into a dark corner where it can nag me some other time when Paige is out of danger.