up in front of me and kick off the river bottom, taking a slow, lunging leap toward the truck.
The front left side is smashed from its impact with the boulder near the river’s edge. There’s a metallic groan up the driver’s side of the vehicle, starting at the fender, going across the door and to the rear of the truck. It could be from the boulder as well, though—
it’s from whoever ran him off the road
—I can’t be sure. The red of the truck is like a bright beacon that calls to me. I take another lunging step. Do I need air? I can’t remember the last time I took a breath. I can’t remember how long I’ve been hiding in the river. It doesn’t matter. I feel okay. I don’t feel like I’m dying. I’m not drowning. I’m fine.
I’m fine until I see the driver’s window is broken. I’m fine until a flash of white floats out of it. I’m fine until I realize it’s an arm. I’m fine until I see it’s an arm and it—
is my dad oh god that is my father
—floats up and down gently, the fingers extending in the current like it’s waving me over, beckoning me to the truck. The skin is white, so white, much whiter than my father ever was. It’s—
dead he’s dead it’s all dead
—enough to make me open my mouth. I inhale to scream, but river water pours in and I begin to choke. I kick for the surface, but it’s too late. I’m stuck under the surface, stuck in the mud and silt and current, and I can’t move. I can’t breathe, and I am drowning in this river and I—
A strong arm wraps around my chest and pulls me away.
I awake as the bed shifts, pulling me from the dream. It’s still dark, far too soon for us to head to the roof to watch the sunrise. He is moving quietly, as if to avoid waking me. He pulls on his jeans over his naked form, his skin illuminated by dim blue flashes that begin to swirl around him. A chill strikes me that has nothing to do with the sudden loss of warmth next to me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.
He stiffens for a moment, then turns to me, the top button of his jeans still undone, the auburn fur on his stomach disappearing into the denim. He reaches down and grabs me by the back of the neck, pulling me up to kiss me deeply. I wrap my arms around him, trying to pull him back down into the bed, to cover us both deep under the comforter where we can hide until sunrise.
But he won’t come, he won’t follow me down. He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead against mine. “A thread calls,” he says roughly. “I must find it.”
“You’re going to come back?” I ask, hating the way I sound, unsure and weak.
Calliel smiles at me so brightly I have to kiss him again. “Yes,” he says. “I will come back. And then we can watch the sun come up, and I will have some green marshmallows while you tell me I should eat other things because the marshmallows aren’t good for me.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” The blue lights began to flash brighter, and I can see the faint outline of wings. “They come easier now,” he tells me. “I think I might be able to call them without seeing threads first.”
I’m relieved, because I can tell myself it means he isn’t getting weaker, like the Strange Men said. Wings mean strength. Wings mean health. Wings mean vitality. He is an angel. He is not weakening.
He slides his shirt over his head and gives me one last look before he is out the bedroom and down the hall, then the door closes on Little House with a thud.
I consider following him, but I don’t. I try to sleep again, but I can’t. I’m still awake when he returns deep in the night. The hunger he comes at me with then is something wicked and bright. I don’t ask him where he went, if he has saved anyone or merely been a presence for someone who needed him. It doesn’t matter. He has returned and he wants me. That desire is evident on his face. It’s enough.
Cal’s return spreads quickly through Roseland. The first day is relatively quiet,