He scoffs. “What I wouldn’t give for a computer.” He fiddles with the dials and buttons on the old TV.

“It’s not like anyone is stopping you. Computers litter the Bay Area, ready for the taking.”

“Angels aren’t exactly a fan of man’s machines. They prefer playing with life and the creation of new and hybrid species. Although I get the impression they’re not really supposed to be doing that.” He says this last part in a mumble, like he’s talking to himself. “I’ve snuck some equipment in but the infrastructure on this rock was far from state-of-the-art to begin with.”

“The stuff out there looks pretty cutting edge.” I nod toward the window. “Way more than what was in the aerie basement.”

Doc raises his eyebrows. “You saw the aerie basement?”

I nod.

He cocks his head like a curious dog. “Yet, here you are. Alive to tell me about it.”

“Believe me, I’m as surprised as anyone.”

“The aerie lab was our first,” he says. “I still clung to the old ways back then—the human ways. It required test tubes, electricity, and computers, but they wouldn’t let me have a lot of what I needed. The angels’ resistance to human technology hampered me in ways that made that lab into some kind of 1930s Frankenstein basement.”

He presses PLAY on the video machine. “Since then, I’ve grown to like the angelic ways. They’re more elegant and effective.”

A grainy, gray picture of a dismal room appears on the screen. A cot, a bedside table, a steel chair. It’s hard to tell if it used to be a jail cell for solitary confinement or sleeping quarters for a sad bureaucrat.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Somewhere along the line, somebody installed a surveillance system on this rock. Not surprising, considering it was a busy tourist attraction. I added sound in some of the rooms. The angels obviously don’t know they’re being watched, so don’t go around announcing it.”

On the screen, the metal door of the room slams open. Two shirtless angels shuffle in holding a giant between them. Even through the grainy video, I recognize the demon Beliel. He has a bloody bandage wrapped around his stomach.

Behind them is another angel who looks familiar. I can’t tell the color of his wings in the grainy video but I’m guessing it’s burnt orange. I remember him from the night Paige was taken, the night he and his buddies cut Raffe’s wings. He holds little Paige in one arm like a sack of potatoes.

Her face is uncut and her legs dangle, atrophied and useless. She looks tiny and helpless. This must be the night Paige was kidnapped.

“Is that your sister?” asks Doc.

I nod, unable to say anything.

Burnt angel tosses Paige toward the shadowy corner of the room.