the edge of the fort roof. The others soon joined them.
“Did any of you fly over China on your way here?” Neha asked.
“It was not on our route, but Zanaya and I deliberately detoured there,” Alexander said.
“We have sent mechanical devices that fly and take pictures above the fog,” Neha said, “but they can only go a certain distance before their energy runs out. Did you see anything unusual during your flight?”
“Darker patches in certain sections.”
“It seemed thicker,” Zanaya added, “more viscous.”
“The mechanical devices also sent us such images.” Neha’s face was thinner than Raphael was used to seeing, her bones sharp.
“Has anyone come out of the territory since the fog descended?” Michaela’s voice, her body held with a familiar languidness where she stood next to Titus. “My sentries have reported none on the Mongolian border.”
“I have had no new refugees,” Caliane said.
“Nothing alive has crossed this border,” Neha said. “Not even a bird. The ones on this side are now avoiding it, as if they have heard the death screams of their fallen brethren.” She pointed down. “My people would normally clean that up, but I wanted you to see.”
Raphael’s blood went cold at the sight that awaited: a row of birds, all fallen at the edge of the fog. Tiny corpses that told a story of cold, sudden death.
“How long between contact and death?” Astaad asked, a smear of dust on his sleeveless black tunic.
“As far as we can tell, it is instantaneous.” Neha looked to Caliane.
Raphael’s mother nodded. “The birds touch the fog and they drop, already dead. It is not the fall that kills them, that we have determined. Smaller animals, even snakes, have been found dead with their heads just inside the fog and bodies outside.”
“Enough.” Antonicus stepped back from the group on that single contemptuous word and spread out his wings. “It is time I do what must be done—I am not a child to be scared by ghost stories. I will see you all after I return from speaking to this Lijuan who believes herself a goddess even over immortals.”
The Ancient lifted off. He’d initially intended to fly to the part of the fog over Lijuan’s stronghold before he dropped down, but that would put him far from sight and they needed to know what would happen to an archangel who flew into the fog.
Antonicus had finally agreed to do a short flight into the fog within their line of sight, rise up to show them he was well, then make his way to the coordinates of Lijuan’s former stronghold—in that at least he’d accepted assistance, and was wearing a watch that would help him find the correct location. He also wore a small camera on his left shoulder that would transmit images back to a unit that sat to one side of the roof.
Antonicus crossed the border. No one spoke. Not even when the Ancient reached the test location deep within the fog area but still visible to them.
He lifted an arm, and Neha raised hers to show him they could see him. That hadn’t been guaranteed given the darkness, but enough torchlight leached out that far to make Antonicus a clear silhouette.
The Ancient flew down into the fog.
One.
Two.
Three.
No one looked at the transmitted images; those were being recorded, could be gone over at will.
Four.
Five.
Antonicus should’ve emerged by now.
“He’s dead,” Neha said, not coldly but with the conviction of belief.
An arm erupted out of the fog, the fingers locked into a tight fist. It was followed by a head, then a torso, then wings, and suddenly, Antonicus hovered over the spot where he’d gone in. Raphael’s gut clenched against the hard punch of relief. If the Ancient could survive this, they had a chance against Lijuan if—when—she made war on the world.
Antonicus wobbled, his wings dipping this way then that.
“What is he doing?” Michaela asked, but Raphael was already lifting off.
Stay here, he told the others. He flew on wings of white fire across the short distance.
Antonicus was attempting to fly toward him, but his wings were listing heavily and he was halfway back inside the fog when Raphael reached him. Grabbing his visible arm, Raphael fought to stop Antonicus’s momentum from dragging them both down into the darkness.
44
Raphael’s arm jerked in his shoulder socket, and then he had control, Antonicus’s weight less than he’d expected. Raphael hauled him out. The Ancient’s face was skeletal, his eyes glistening orbs infected with lines of liquid black.
Raphael had been hit by the same