I looked at Fang. His dark eyes questioned me.

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” I agreed ungraciously. I felt as taut as a bowstring and wondered how soon I could get rid of them both.

“Dylan, you can just fly up, like the rest of us,” said Fang. “Jeb, we’ll put down the ladder for you.”

Dylan glanced up at the house’s doorway, frowning. Angel and Nudge jumped up and were through the door with a couple of wing strokes. Dylan looked at me again, then at Jeb. “Yeah, okay,” he said finally.

He set his jaw, rolled his shoulders a couple times, then gave a jump into the air and tried to flap hard. But he hadn’t given himself enough room, and he just thunked back to the earth again, his wings whapping painfully against the ground. Typical newbie.

I heard barely suppressed snickering from Gazzy and Iggy as they flew up onto the porch.

Dylan’s chiseled face flushed as he let out a controlled breath and shook his head. “Not as easy as it looks,” he said wryly. “I’ve been trying —”

“Max taught the younger kids to fly,” Jeb said. “Max, why don’t you take a minute, give Dylan some pointers?”

My jaw all but dropped open. “Oh, he’ll get it soon enough,” I said, glaring meaningfully at Jeb.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” said Dylan, acting casual. “It’ll just take practice. Max doesn’t need to waste her time on this.” I wondered if he didn’t want a girl teaching him.

Incidentally, other people not wanting me to do something has often been Step One in making sure I do something. Plus, for a minute I actually felt a little sorry for him. It’s one thing to be a three-year-old with baby wings and learning how to fly. But this guy was … almost … a man. A little pathetic.

“Well, whatever. I can take a minute,” I heard myself say.

“Yeah?” Dylan raised an eyebrow and looked at me. He seemed to be trying not to look too eager.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” I said, making a mental note to get a good look at his wings. For all I knew, they were remote-controlled and duct-taped to his back.

“Have at ’im,” Fang said easily, and he was on the front porch with an almost silent flutter of his wide deep-black wings. God, Fang’s wings were gorgeous. They looked like they belonged on the Angel of Death.

“Good — thanks, Max,” said Jeb, climbing the ladder Fang had just lowered, and I indulged in a moment’s fantasy about someone slamming the trapdoor on his head.

Then it was just me and Dylan alone out here in the canyon, in the moonlight, and I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin.

“Okay,” I said, but my voice came out weird. I gave a little cough. “Let’s do this thing.”

Chapter 35

35