Her cheeks go instantly pink. She shakes her head, suddenly super interested in her salad.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.Italian or otherwise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It was silly,” she says, “and I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t hound you about Christian, you don’t talk about my nonexistent Italian boyfriend, okay?”
“You already hounded me about Christian. That’s hardly fair,” I say, but there’s genuine pain in her eyes, which surprises me, so I let it drop.
My mind wanders back to the dream, to Christian, the way he’s always looking out for me, catching me, keeping me on my feet. He’s become my guardian, maybe. Someone who is there to keep me on the path.
If only I knew where that path was headed.
We’re in the parking lot when the sorrow hits me. At least, I think it’s sorrow. It’s not as overwhelming as it was that day in the forest. It doesn’t paralyze me in the same way. Instead it’s like suddenly, in the space of a few minutes, I go from fine, laughing even, to wanting to cry.
“Hey, are you okay?” Angela asks as we walk to the car.
“No,” I whisper. “I feel . . . sad.”
She stops. Her eyes go saucer wide. She glances around.
“Where?” she says much too loudly. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t tell.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me through the parking lot toward the car, walking fast but trying to stay composed, like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t ask me if she can drive my car; she goes straight to the driver’s seat, and I don’t argue. “Put on your seat belt,” she orders me once we’re both inside. Then she floors it out of the parking lot and onto the street. “I don’t know where to go,” she says in a half-terrified, half-excited rush. “I think we should stay somewhere well-populated, because he’d have to be crazy to obliterate us in front of a bunch of tourists, you know, but I don’t want to go too close to home.” She does a quick check of the mirrors. “Call your mom. Now.”
I fumble in my purse for my phone, then call. Mom picks up on the first ring.
“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately.
“I think . . . maybe . . . there’s a Black Wing.”
“Where are you?”
“In the car, on 191, driving south.”
“Go to the school,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”
It’s the longest five minutes of my life before Mom lands in the parking lot at Jackson Hole High School. She gets in the back.
“So,” she says, reaching up and feeling my cheek like sorrow is some kind of fever, “how do you feel?”
“Better now. I guess.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
She turns to Angela. “How about you? Did you feel anything?” Angela shrugs. “Nothing.” There’s an edge of disappointment in her voice.
“So what do we do now?” I ask.
“We wait,” Mom says.
So we wait, and wait, and wait some more, but nothing happens. We sit in the car in silence, watching the windshield wipers push the rain off the glass. Occasionally Mom asks me how I’m doing, which is hard to answer in any clear way. At first, what I feel most is terrified that any second now Samjeeza’s going to show up and murder us all. Then I downgrade to just plain scared—that we’re going to have to run now, pack up and leave Jackson, and I’ll never see Tucker again. Finally I arrive at mildly freaked out. Then embarrassed.
“Maybe it wasn’t sorrow,” I admit. “It wasn’t as strong as before.”
“It would surprise me if he came after us so soon,” Mom says.
“Why?” Angela asks.
“Because Samjeeza’s vain,” Mom says matter-of-factly. “Clara mangled his ear, burned his arm and his head, and I don’t think he’ll want to show his face until he’s healed, which is a long process for Black Wings.”
“I would have thought they could heal quickly,” Angela says. “You know, like vampires or something.”
Mom scoffs. “Vampires. Please. Black Wings take a long time to heal because they’ve chosen to cut themselves off from the healing forces in this world.” She touches my cheek again.
“You did the right thing, getting out of there, calling me. Even if it wasn’t a Black Wing. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Angela sighs and looks out the window.
“Sorry,” I say. I turn to Mom. “I guess I’m kind of on edge.”
“Don’t be,” she says. “You’ve had a lot to deal with.”
She and Angela switch places. Then she pulls out of the school parking lot and onto the road, heading back toward town.
“What do you feel?” she asks as we pass the restaurant.
“Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “Except I have a feeling I might be losing my mind.”
“It doesn’t matter whether this is a false alarm or not. Samjeeza will come after us, Clara, eventually. You’ll need to be ready.”
Right.
“How does one get ready to be attacked by a Black Wing, exactly?” I ask sarcastically.
“Glory,” she says, which immediately gets the told-you-so look on Angela’s face. “You learn to use glory.”
“Hey, I think I see a flicker,” Christian says, startling me. “You’re doing it.” My eyes snap open. Christian wasn’t here earlier, when I got up onstage and started trying this bring-the-glory thing, but here he is now, sitting at one of the tables down in the audience at the Pink Garter, staring up at me with amusement like he’s watching a show. For a split second our eyes meet and then I glance down at my hand, which is definitely not glowing. No glory.
Clearly I suck at bringing glory if it’s not a do-it-or-die situation.
“What flicker?” I ask.
One side of his mouth hitches up. “Must have been my imagination.” Uh-huh. Insert another one of the classic Christian-Clara awkward silences. Then he coughs and says, “Sorry I interrupted your glory practice. Carry on.” I should close my eyes and try again, but I know it’s no use. There’s no way I’m going to achieve glory with him watching me.
“God, this is frustrating!” Angela exclaims. She slams her laptop closed and pushes it across the table, blowing out a long, aggravated breath. She’s been scouring college websites, trying to figure out what college she’s supposed to go to, which to most people is a pretty big deal, but for Angela, it’s a huge deal, the hugest, since she thinks it’s a college campus she’s seeing in her visions. Talk about pressure.