Mr. Phibbs.

I’ve never seen a more welcome sight than Mr. Phibbs in his tacky brown polyester suit, strolling toward us with a smile like he’s taking a leisurely walk in the middle of the night. I feel stronger as he nears, like I can do this, whatever I’m asked, whatever it takes. I feel hope.

“Evening,” Mr. Phibbs says, nodding to me. “How’s everybody?”

“She’s hurt.” I point down to Wendy. Still breathing, thank God. “The paramedics are on their way. They should be here soon.”

Samjeeza eyes him.

“I see,” Mr. Phibbs says. He turns his attention to the brooding Black Wing. “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Who are you?” Samjeeza asks.

“I’m a teacher.” Mr. Phibbs readjusts his glasses. “These are my students.”

“I have business with the girl,” Samjeeza says almost politely. “We’ll be on our way, and then you can tend to the others.”

“Afraid I can’t allow that,” says Mr. Phibbs. “Yes, you could probably squash me like a bug if you took a mind to. If you could get to me,” he adds. “But I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, whom you have defiled. So slither back into the dark, Watcher.”

I hope, for our sake, that he’s not bluffing.

Samjeeza doesn’t move.

“Are you having trouble hearing me?” Mr. Phibbs asks like this fallen angel is a tardy student. “I see you have some damage to your ear. That your doing, Clara?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Well, good for you.” He turns back to Samjeeza.

“Be careful, old man,” growls the angel. Around him the air starts to crackle with energy. I begin to get very worried that he’s going to zap us into hell.

“Corbett,” I say nervously.

Faster than a blink, Mr. Phibbs holds up one of his hands and the light surrounding us brightens into it, swirling itself into a long, thin shape with a point of fiercely shining light at the end. An arrow, is my first thought, an arrow made from glory, and before I even have time to analyze what that could mean, Mr. Phibbs makes a sweeping motion with his arm and fires the thing straight at Samjeeza.

I watch in slow motion as the arrow arcs through the air like a falling star, then strikes the angel in the shoulder. It makes a noise like a knife sinking into a watermelon. He looks at it, startled, then back at Mr. Phibbs incredulously. The light from the arrow seeps from his shoulder like blood, and wherever it touches it hisses, eating away that second layer that he wears over his true self. He reaches up and closes his hand around the shaft. His brows knit together, then he wrenches the arrow out. He howls in pain as it comes free. He drops it, and it bursts into tiny sparkles when it strikes the ground. Breathing hard, he looks right at me, not at Mr. Phibbs or Tucker but at me, and his eyes are sad. His body suddenly has a transparent quality to it, muted and gray, even his skin, like he’s becoming a ghost.

And then he’s gone.

Beside me Mr. Phibbs exhales slowly, the only indication that any of this was mind-blowingly scary. I finally let go of the glory, and it fades.

“Well, now we know why he’s mad at me, don’t we?” he says cheerfully.

“How did you do that?” I gasp. “That was so cool.”

“David and Goliath, my dear,” he answers. “All it takes is one smooth little pebble to drop a giant. Although, to be honest, I was aiming for his heart. I’ve never been the best shot.”

Tucker stumbles off a few steps into the weeds to throw up. Mr. Phibbs wrinkles up his nose as we listen to him losing his dinner.

“Humans and glory don’t mix well, I’m afraid,” Mr. Phibbs says.

“You okay?” I call to Tucker.

He straightens up and comes back out to the road, wiping his mouth on his tux sleeve.

“Will he be back?” he asks.

I look to Mr. Phibbs, who sighs.

“I’d assume so.”

“But you wounded him,” I say, my voice straining. “Doesn’t it take time for them to heal? I mean, I tore his ear off months ago, and that wasn’t fixed yet.”

Mr. Phibbs nods grimly. “I should have struck at the heart.”

“Would that have killed him?”

“Lord, no. You can’t kill an angel,” he says.

“Look.” Tucker points off in the distance, where we see a police car, followed by an ambulance and a fire truck, tearing along the highway toward us.

“Took them long enough,” I say.

Mr. Phibbs kneels to examine Wendy, his fingers touching lightly at her neck. Her eyes flutter, but she doesn’t wake. She moans. It’s kind of a beautiful sound.

“Will she be okay?” Tucker asks, his face still a bit green.

“Oh yes, right as rain, I think,” Mr. Phibbs answers.

Then we’re all quiet as the sirens get closer, the pitch changing as it draws near, until we’re bathed in the red and blue flashing lights of the clueless people coming to help.

Chapter 14

Sing a Song of Sorrow

It’s almost morning when I walk through the front door, still wearing my stained-and-rumpled prom dress, missing my shoes. Jeffrey and Mom are waiting in the living room. She makes this strangled cry when she sees me, gets up so fast that it alarms Billy, and practically falls into my arms to hug me.

“I’m so sorry,” she says against my hair. “Are you all right?”

Dumb question.

“Mom . . . ,” I say awkwardly, holding her. “I’m okay.”

Behind me, Mr. Phibbs clears his throat. He stayed with me the whole time at the emergency room, even after Billy showed up, through all the unnecessary exams they put me through, waiting in the lobby with the Averys for news about Wendy, who was okay, just as Mr. Phibbs said she would be, and the barrage of questions from the police I didn’t know how to answer.

Mom pulls away from me, looks at Mr. Phibbs with shining eyes. “Thank you, Corbett.”

“Welcome,” he says gruffly.

“What did you tell them happened?” Jeffrey asks, and by “them” he means everybody fully human.

“The official story is that she hit a moose.” Corbett chuckles.

A moose. Maybe someday I’ll find that funny. But not today.

“I shouldn’t have tried to hit him with the car,” I say, rubbing my temples. “That was stupid.”

“Are you kidding? That was gutsy as all get-out,” Billy says.

“You were amazing tonight, Clara,” Mom adds. “You faced him. You kept everyone safe. You summoned glory all by yourself, under an incredible amount of pressure, and you held it until help came. I have never been so proud of you.”

There’s wet stuff on my cheeks. I wipe at it.

“Oh, honey,” Mom says, taking me by the arm, drawing me into the living room, where I think she means to plop me down in front of the fire and try to make everything better with words.

I pull my arm away. “How about you tell me now, Mom?”

“What?”

“Samjeeza said there’s something you’re not telling me, about my purpose or my visions or something strange about me. Is there?”

She flinches like I slapped her. She and Billy exchange a look that’s a silent argument.

So there is something.

“Samjeeza had some sort of plan,” I say. “He wanted to make you stay with him this time.”

Mom frowns and goes quiet. Then Billy says, out of the blue, “Mags, don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t,” Mom says.

“You were. I know you. That man, if you want to call him a man, can’t be redeemed. He’s made his bed. You can’t talk him out of being a Black Wing.”

“He thought if he took you to hell with him, it would make things right with the other Black Wings. What does that mean?” I ask.

“He was supposed to kill me, once,” Mom says like it’s no big deal. “He didn’t do it. For that he was punished.”