Angelfall (Penryn & the End of Days #1)(52)

Dappled waves me through.

I’m so stunned I just stand there.

Then, before they can change their minds, I turn away from them so that if they shake their heads, I can’t see it. I slide back into the car as casually as I can.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stand stiff in anticipation of a whistle blowing, or a hand on my shoulder, or German Shepherds nosing in behind me just like in the old war movies. We are, after all, at war, aren’t we?

But none of that happens. I start the engine and they wave me through. And I gain another piece of information. The angels don’t see humans as a threat. So what if a few monkeys get in through the cracks in their fence or crawl in little go-carts around the base of their nest? How hard would it be for them to take us down and contain the intruding animals?

“Where are we?” Raffe asks from the shadows behind me.

“In hell,” I say. I keep the speed at a steady twenty miles per hour. The streets are empty here so I could go sixty if I want, but I don’t want to call attention to us.

“If this is your idea of hell, you’re very innocent. Look for a club-like scene. Lots of light, lots of women. Go and park there, but not too close.”

I look around the weirdly deserted streets. A few women, looking cold and forlorn in the howling San Franciscan wind, stumble down the sidewalk toward some destination only they know. I keep driving, looking at the empty streets. Then I see people spilling out of a tall building along a side street.

As I get closer, I see a crowd of women around a 1920’s-style nightclub entrance. They must be freezing in their skimpy party dresses, but they stand tall and attractive. The doorway is arched in classic Art Deco, and the angels guarding the front entrance are dressed in modified tuxedos with slits in the backs to make room for their wings.

I park my car a couple of blocks past the club. I put the keys in a pocket on the visor and leave my boots in the passenger footwell where I can grab them in a rush if I need to. I wish I could stuff them in my sequined clutch, but there’s only room in there for a tiny flashlight and my pocketknife.

I slide out of the car. Raffe crawls out from behind me. The wind hits me as soon as I’m out, whipping my hair into a frenzy around my face. I curl my arms around myself, wishing I had a coat.

Raffe straps his sword around his waist, looking like an old-fashioned gentleman in his tux. “Sorry I can’t offer my jacket. When we get closer, I need you to not look cold so no one wonders why I don’t take off my jacket to give to you.”

I doubt anyone will wonder why an angel doesn’t offer a girl his jacket, but I let it go.

“How come it’s okay for you to be seen now?”

He gives me a tired look as though I’m exhausting him.

“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up in surrender. “You call the shots, I follow. Just help me find my sister.” I mimic turning a key in a lock on my lips and throw away the pretend key.

He straightens his already straight jacket. Is that a nervous motion? He offers me his arm. I put my hand on the crook of his arm and we walk down the sidewalk.

At first, his muscles are stiff, and his eyes constantly scan the area. What’s he looking for? Could he really have that many enemies among his own people? After a few steps, though, he relaxes. I’m not sure if it’s natural or forced. Either way, we now look to the world like a regular couple out for the evening.

As we near the crowd, I can see more details. Several of the angels going into the club are in old-fashioned gangster zoot suits complete with felt hats and jaunty feathers. Long watch chains drape to their knees.

“What is this, a costume party?” I ask.

“It’s just the current fashion for the aerie.” His voice sounds a bit clipped, as though he doesn’t approve.

“What happened to the rule of not fraternizing with the Daughters of Men?”

“An excellent question.” His jaw clenches into a hard line. I don’t think I want to be around when he demands an answer to that question.

“So producing children with humans gets you damned because Nephilims are a big no-no,” I say. “But anything up to that…?”

He shrugs. “Apparently, they’ve decided that’s a gray zone. It could get them all burned.” Then he adds in a whisper, almost to himself, “But the fire can be tempting.”

The thought of superhuman beings with human temptations and flaws sends a chill through me.

We walk past the protection of a building to cross a street, and I’m back to being whipped mercilessly by the wind. Wind tunnels have nothing on the streets of San Francisco.

“Try not to look so cold.”

I stand up straight even though I’m dying to curl into myself. At least my skirt isn’t long enough to whip up.

The opportunity to ask more questions dries up as we approach the crowd. The whole scene has a surreal feel to it. It’s as though I’m walking out of a refugee camp into an exclusive supper club, complete with tuxedos, women in formal wear, expensive cigars and jewelry.

The cold doesn’t seem to bother any of the angels who lazily breathe cigar smoke into the wind. Not in a million years would I have imagined angels smoking. These guys look more like gangsters than pious angels. Each one has at least two women lavishing attention on them. Some have four or more crowded around them. From the snippets of conversations I catch as we walk by, all of these women are trying their darndest to get an angel’s attention.