The silence is heavy. There’s more to this story than he’s telling me.

“So,” I prod. “The long and short of it is that angels aren’t allowed to get together with humans? Otherwise, they’re damned?”

“Very.”

“That’s harsh.” I’m surprised I can feel any sympathy for angels, even ones in ancient stories.

“You think that’s bad, you should have seen the punishment for their wives.”

It’s almost as if he’s inviting me to ask. Here’s my chance to find out more. But I find that I don’t really want to know the punishment for falling in love with an angel. Instead, I watch the dried needles crunch under my feet as we walk.

~

Skyline Blvd. abruptly ends at Highway 92, and we follow Highway 280 north into the once highly-populated area just south of San Francisco. 280 is a main artery into San Francisco, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to hear an actual working truck on the road below us. But it is.

It's been almost a month since I heard a moving car. There are plenty of cars that work, plenty of gas, but I hadn't realized there were any clear roads left anymore. We crouch down in the shrubs and scan the road. The wind cuts through my sweatshirt and teases hair strands loose from my ponytail.

Below us, a black Hummer weaves in and out, following a path that's been cleared between the jammed cars. It stops and idles for awhile. If it turned off its engine, you'd never know that it was any different from the thousands of other cars abandoned on the streets. When it was moving, I could see the path of cleared cars that it followed. But now, I see that the path cleverly winds and even backtracks to hide the fact that it is a path.

Now that the Hummer has stopped, the path is blocked, and it would be very tough to see the trail at all unless you knew about it. The Hummer is just one in a sea of empty cars, the path just a random pattern of gaps among an infinite maze. From the ground, you could probably see the driver and passengers in the Hummer, but from the air, you'd never know. These guys are camouflaging themselves against the angels.

“Obi's men,” Raffe says, coming to the same conclusion I have. “Clever,” he says with some respect in his voice.

It is clever. The roads are the most direct way to get anywhere. The Hummer cuts its engine, and it effectively disappears into the scene. A moment later, Raffe points up. Tiny specs mar the otherwise clear sky. The specs move fast and quickly turn into a squad of angels flying in a V formation. They sweep low over the freeway as if searching for prey.

I hold my breath and crouch as low as I can in the brush, wondering whether Raffe will call out for their attention. It hits me again just how little I know about angels. I can't even guess as to whether Raffe wants this new group's attention. How can he tell if they're hostile?