My arms tightened around her. I could not make them let go.
She allowed it for a moment. Then she pulled back, took my face in her hands, made me look at her.
“Fifteen minutes. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Her thumbs traced my cheekbones. “And then we take my sister home and we never think about this place again.”
I tried to speak. Tried to say be careful or I love you or if anything happens to you I will burn this town to ash.
What came out was a sound. Low. Rough. Not words.
She understood anyway.
“Come back to me,” she whispered. The same words from the nest. A promise and a command. “Whatever happens.”
I pressed my forehead to hers. Breathed her in. Held her scent in my lungs like I could keep her there.
“Always.”
She kissed me. Quick and fierce. Then she slipped out of my arms and moved toward the house.
I watched her cross the alley. Watched her scale the garden wall and drop into the shadows on the other side.
She walked into the dark and I let her go.
Hardest thing I had ever done.
One minute.
Her scent still clung to my skin. Ink and soap and something warm underneath. I held it like a rope in a storm.
Around me the town breathed. Dogs barking in the distance. A drunk singing off-key somewhere to the south. Ordinary sounds. The world continuing like nothing was happening.
Two minutes.
She would be at the garden wall now. Climbing.
Three minutes.
The window. Wood sticking, then giving way. She was inside.
My wings wanted to extend. I pressed them flat until my joints ached.
Four minutes.
Close to the sister’s room now. Had to be.
Five minutes.
Whispered voices. I imagined them. Two sisters meeting in the dark. The smaller one’s fear turning to understanding.
Six minutes.
They would be moving. Toward the window. Almost out.
Seven minutes.
Shaking. The effort of staying still. The beast did not understand waiting. Did not understand plans. It only understood that she was in danger and I was not beside her.
Eight minutes.
