“So I’m not the only one who finds that confusing? I’m not very good with metaphors.”

“No,” laughed Ángel, rummaging in the refrigerator for milk. “I’m not sure anyone has a handle on that metaphor.”

“Do you have a favorite ABBA song?”

Ángel paused thoughtfully. “I like ‘Angeleyes’ a lot,” he said at last. “It’s simple but kind of sad. Really fun to sing. You might have to explain what angels are, but at least you won’t need to write a master’s thesis on European history.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” said Oberon. “I will listen to it.”

The air thrummed between them with a low pulsing note, just below hearing. It did something strange to Ángel, made his blood rush, the hair on his arms stand up.

“What is that?” demanded Ángel, his face hot. “Are you humming? I can almost hear it.”

The subsonic vibration briefly intensified, then died away. “It only means that I’m pleased, Ángel.”

Chapter 10

After Oberon went into his office, Ángel took his coffee into the living room and leaned against the big picture window, taking in the view. The clouds were low and gray, blustery. He thought it was threatening rain, and as he sipped his coffee he was surprised to see a few feathery white flakes whirl past. A moment later the sky was full of snow.

Ángel nearly jumped up and down with excitement. He was not a complete stranger to snow—he’d seen dirty piles of it on the sidewalks and street corners on recording trips to Nashville, and even a few flakes now and then in Florida—but he’d never been outside in an actual snowstorm before. He went to the kitchen to leave his cup in the sink, then dashed up the stairs to his room to put on his new boots and coat. Then he went outside, tramping around the outside of the house, enjoying the cold wind on his face.

Who knew that falling snow made a noise? It was a hushed, whispery sound, the snow falling straight down from a low gray sky, landing on the crisp brown lawn. He leaned his head back and caught a flake on his tongue.

He came around the side of the house to the garage, and saw that the morning’s workers had forgotten to close the side door. They must have gone in there for tools, he thought, walking toward the building to close the door for them.

Tools. In the garage there were tools.

Heart beating in his throat, he went into the dark garage through the side door. He didn’t dare turn on a light—if the security force wasn’t already tracking his movements, that would alert them to his presence here. A red tool box shone in the dim light coming through the rectangular garage door windows. Inside he found a tidy array of clean, well-cared-for hand tools.