The constant wind tugging at my hair was a new sensation, and I liked it. I liked the blast on my face, the sensation of flying without walls. I attracted stares, of course—why wouldn’t I?—but that was no longer an issue. My nerves prickled as I passed a police car, but they gave me only a flat, assessing glance and did not pursue.

I pulled to a stop in front of Manny’s house and silenced the engine. The street, as always, seemed quiet. There was rarely anyone to be seen in yards or on the sidewalks, even children. The windows, I realized, were all barred. Doors were blocked by wrought-iron gates.

It was a neighborhood of fortresses and fear.

I knocked on the door, and Luis opened it. He took a single second to look at me, and then nodded and turned away, walking into the living room. I closed the door behind me and followed.

In the bright light slanting in the windows, Luis looked infinitely tired. Older than he had only yesterday. He sat down at the table with a pile of papers and idly shuffled through them.

“I’m looking for their life insurance,” he said. “I need to file that for Ibby. Manny told me he had some kind of retirement thing, too. And their bank accounts, I need to freeze those. People sometimes read obits and try to con the banks, steal from the dead.” He shook his head. “People.” The contempt in his voice was almost worthy of a Djinn.

I reached out to the pile of papers, touched edges, and withdrew three sheets. “Insurance,” I said, and laid it in front of him. “Retirement plan. Bank accounts.”

Luis stared at me with dark, empty eyes, then nodded. “Thanks.”

I sat back, hands in my lap. He fiddled with the papers for a few more minutes, then stood up and walked around the room. It was full of things—things, I realized, that would need to have a future, whether that was with Isabel, with Luis, consigned to destruction, given to others. . . . It was a problem I had never considered. Human lives were lost, but the wreckage they left behind had to be managed. Deconstructed.

Another step deeper into the never-ending grief.

“I’m going to keep their papers, their pictures, that kind of stuff,” Luis said. “Anything I think Ibby might want of theirs.”

Would that include the small ceramic angels on the shelf above the television, the ones that Angela told me she had collected over the years? Or Manny’s books? Or the warm woven throw that trailed fringed edges over the arm of the couch, the one knitted by Angela’s mother?

So much. I realized then that Luis had stopped moving, and was staring down at a collection of objects on the battered coffee table in front of the couch.

A book, turned facedown—something Manny had been reading.

A glass with a dried residue in the bottom.

An open bag of animal cookies.

Remote controls scattered haphazardly across an uneven landscape of magazines and newspapers.

Luis collapsed on the couch and put his head in his hands, and his shoulders heaved silently. I felt the storm of emotion from him, dark and heavy.

Walk away, Cassiel. You are not mortal.

I sat down beside him and placed my hand on his back. He didn't speak, and neither did I; the silence stretched for a long time. When he finally raised his head, he took in a deep breath and sat back against the couch cushions. I took my hand away and folded it with its mate in my lap.

 “They’re gone,” he said. “I guess it took me a while to really get it, but they’re gone. They’re not coming back.”

I gathered up the cookies and the glass and took them into the kitchen. The cookies went in the trash, and I filled the glass with hot water. A flash of memory overtook me: Angela, standing here at this sink, washing up dishes from the first evening I’d been welcomed here, to this house.

They’re not coming back.

No, they weren’t, and the ache of that was like a constant gray storm inside me. A human might have succumbed to tears.

Walk away.

I yanked open the refrigerator door and began to empty the contents into trash bags. The physical sensations helped fuel a growing tide of what I realized was anger. Anger? Yes, I was angry at them for abandoning me. For leaving behind Luis and their child.

Angry at my own weakness.

“What are you doing?” Luis asked from the doorway.

“Cleaning,” I said flatly, and tossed half-empty bottles of sauces into the bin. The milk was already turning rancid in its carton. “We’re here to clean, yes?”

“Not now. Leave it,” he said. “I need to think about what I’m going to keep.”

“You won’t keep any of this,” I said, and kept pulling things from the shelves. Leftovers, wrapped in plastic, marked in Angela’s clear hand with the dates.

He charged forward, knocking a bottle of Tabasco sauce from my hand, which bounced from the counter onto the hard floor. As it hit, it shattered in a hot red spray. Vinegar stung sharply at my nose and eyes. “Stop!” he yelled. “Just stop, dammit! Stop touching things!”

I shoved him backward, and he rushed toward me again. He drove me back against the counter with bruising force, and his hands grabbed my shoulders. I took hold of his shirt, my fingers wrapping into a convulsive fist, and felt a wild, black desire to hurt him, hurt. . . .

“Stop,” he said, and there was so much despair in the single word that my anger shattered. My fist relaxed, and my hand rested flat against his chest. “Stop, Cassiel. Please stop.”

His whole body was pressed against mine, and the wildness in me mutated, twisted, became something else.

I wanted . . .

. . . I didn’t know what it was I wanted from him. The conflict in his own expression told me he felt the same, torn in so many directions his self-control was tattering like a flag in a hurricane.

His hands slid from my shoulders up my neck, to cup my face. I could feel every rapid pulse beat in his veins, every ridge and whorl of the lines in his fingertips.

Luis’s eyes were huge and very dark, like midnight lakes where the unwary drowned alone.

I knew, in that frozen instant, that the next thing we did would chart the course of our futures, together and apart. This is the moment of choice.

“Stop,” I said, and a warning flare, not quite a shock, passed from my splayed fingers into his chest.

He did, but he didn’t retreat, not for a long few heartbeats. When he did, it was fast and decisive, leaving me there without a word as he stalked to the kitchen door. His boots crunched shards of glass and left pale red Tabasco-colored prints in their wake.

I heard him go into another room. Doors opened and closed, wood banged. I followed his wet footprints and found him emptying out drawers from a dresser, tossing the contents onto the neatly made bed. He barely paused when I appeared behind him. “I’m going to need some bags in here,” he said. “Most of this has to go in the trash or to some charity.”

His voice was his own again—calm, controlled, with a dark undercurrent of anger traveling beneath the surface.

I silently fetched him bags, and helped him fill one bag with underthings and clothing too worn to donate, one with donations, one with items he thought Isabel would treasure. That one was the smallest. When he came across a sealed white garment bag in the corner of the closet, he took it down and laid it gently on the bed, unzipping it enough that I could see lace and white satin.

“Angela’s wedding dress,” he said. “For Ibby.”

I met his gaze. It went on a long time. “Which one of us do you really think they’re trying to kill?” I asked him. “You or me?” It had assuredly not been only Manny or Angela, or our enemies would have stopped trying.

The question didn’t confuse him. It had been on his own mind, from the lack of surprise in his expression. “I think the more important question is how long is it going to take them to get their power back together to try again.” Some of the grief receded in him, which was what I’d intended. “They aimed for you, alone, twice. You do realize that, don’t you?”