Nobbi gazed up at the ceiling. He felt silly. He wished this had not happened. He felt sorry for the girl with the paint-pool eyes. Then he was in the car and it was sliding away downhill. The sensation was quite pleasant.

He thought, Poor Marilyn.

"Daddy!" screamed Tray. She screamed again. "I want my daddy."

On the floor of the hall Nobbi's dead body with Michael kneeling there, and Ruth standing totally motionless.

And above, Tray screaming and next rushing down. And then Tray tumbling into the blood. "Daddy! Daddy!"

Eric and Miranda were statues.

Tray lifted her head. "I want my daddy!"

Sounds came out of her that human things cannot make, yet do.

When the screaming sounded in the house, like a siren, Malach moved faster than Connor had ever seen occur. But Camillo cowered down, and, over by the trees, the idiot Lou-girl put her hands over her ears in her fake red hair.

Cardiff scrambled up, and Pig and Rose and Whisper all tried to bolt toward the house.

Connor planted himself on the slope above them, holding wide his arms, and Viv crouched at his feet, snarling.

"No."

They fell back, staring at each other.

"But," said Rose.

"No," Connor said. "And no. And no."

One by one they sat down.

The Lou-girl chased off into the oak trees.

The first screams had stopped.

Malach lifted Tray up off the corpse and turned her into his body. He held her as she resisted, and the touch of his hands made her give in. Then she hung against him a moment in silence.

She said, "I want my lion."

Miranda came and took Tray from Malach, and Tray explained, "My lion. He's my friend."

Tray was covered in blood, as Ruth was covered in blood. The blood had covered them, however, differently. In any case, the blood was Tray's, had made her. Ruth had no right to it.

As Miranda led Tray up the stairs again, softly, Malach looked at Ruth.

"He threatened them," she said.

"Who?"

"That man."

"No," Malach said. "You learned nothing."

"Yes. The Scarabae. I killed for them."

"You're filth," he said, "like some plague. I taught you nothing, you learned nothing."

"Yes," she said. Her eyes came slowly back to life and fixed on him, swimming, startled. "Malach—he was an enemy—"

"Only a fool. But you, with your gold claw. You."

Above, miles high, Rachaela had come on to the top of the stairs, alone. Drawn by the screaming as if to some ancient rite. From a tower, she looked down and saw Malach standing, warrior in armor, priest in stone. And the child, Ruth, cringing there in her clothes of green and blood.

"But," said Ruth, "he was—"

"Nothing," said Malach.

"Then—I was wrong. I was wrong."

"It doesn't matter to me," he said.

Rachaela thought: These words come out of vaults of time. Spoken over and over.

"Malach," said Ruth.