I watch the keeper sleep for another long moment, afraid that his wounds might reappear now.
I’m not frightened to see them. They have to be faced. But I’m worried they’ll be worse than they were before.
Finally, I force myself to rise, move into the dressing room, and consider my clothing choices.
I opt for simple jeans and a snug, sleeveless shirt. Both black—not that there’s really any other color choice. I find a new pair of boots, ankle-length, which are easy to walk in.
Then, I face the shelf containing my treasures. All my various blindfolds. My feathers. The jewelry box containing the torn-out page my mother left for me.
When I first looked on that page, it contained a picture of a family that never existed: my father, his black wings extended protectively around my mother, who was holding a baby in her arms.
They loved each other.
Now, I leave that memory locked up in the box because that’s where it belongs, put away in the dark.
I reach for my mother’s old shirt. It’s so tattered and threadbare that it barely takes up any space.
I swore I wouldn’t retrieve this material until I avenged my mother, but I need her with me now. I need the strength of my memories of her. Just as I will take with me the knowledge of her final moments.
I tie the old shirt around my eyes, tucking it in tightly around my head. It isn’t the most elegant look, but the aged weave is still the perfect protection for my eyes while allowing me to use my strong eyesight to see clearly.
Then I reach for the thick, black sash I took from the angels’ stronghold. A place called ‘the Cathedral’. I use it like a belt, hooking it through the loops at the waistband of my jeans.
It feels fitting to take it with me, since there is certainly a part of me that is an angel, even though there is a larger part of me that is a wolf.
Finally, I take my two feathers, using the angel’s sash to tie them securely at my waist.
My father can kill me with these feathers. It could be reckless to take them with me, but they’ll also be a temptation I’m certain he won’t be able to resist.
I can draw him in closer this way. Close enough to use my claws.
Satisfied that I’m ready, I check the time. Enough to arrive when I need to.
As quietly as I can, I creep past the keeper, pausing only at the bedroom door.
I close my eyes, unable to turn back now.
I tell myself I have time to save him. He said he could hold on for another day, and I’ve only used up a third of it.
Vengeance will heal my heart.
Ithasto.
With that thought, I continue on, reaching the outer door and slipping as quietly as I can through it, stopping in the corridor outside to listen in case the keeper woke up.
My senses tell me he’s still sleeping deeply.
I turn and hurry away.
Vines and flowers cover the tavern’s front wall, the scent sweet and cloying.
The vines reek of magic. Halle’s magic, to be precise. I recognize it now from the slightly charred threads that extendalong the length of each vine, along with the vaguely charcoal hue at the center of each flower. Marks of Halle’s power.
She is a contradiction of death and life, and so are her vines.
I approach the tavern door cautiously, remaining aware of the supernaturals I’ve already identified standing guard at points nearby. Mom taught me how to identify the energy around supernaturals to determine their species, even if they’re in a completely humanoid form.
When I first emerged from my cage, I was putting my knowledge to the test, but now I make my assessments with confidence.
