I was up before anyone else, which should have made it easier, but made it worse. It felt more wrong, more like sneaking out, when there wasn't anyone awake to ask me where I was going.

It was a liquid morning, dripping sunlight and syrupy birdsong and sounds that seemed softer than they should be. I felt out of place, not bright enough, in my dark sweater and jeans and my scuffed tennis shoes. Not that it mattered. Not that any of this mattered; this was an order of business, nothing more, nothing less.

On my way outside, I paused in the upstairs hallway. Cian's door was semi-cracked, letting in just a shred of gold that melted in with everything else. I rubbed my eyes free of the sight of the knife in his stomach, wiped away the scent of his blood from my nose. Then I nudged the door open and looked in.

Cian and Lucie were a lump of sheets, all tangled arms and legs. Lucie's head was on Cian's slowly rising chest, his whole body curved into hers, dark and light hair like splatter paint on the pillows. Neither of them stirred when the door creaked; I smiled a little to myself and slipped back out into the hall again.

Zev had said this would only work in certain circumstances, but a lot of things Zev said were hogwash, so I was going to test it anyway.

I went to the backyard, where I had no risk of a neighbor seeing me vanish into thin air. It was sunny but chilly, the breezes off the bay burrowing into the fibers of my sweater, licking my skin. I stood in the center of it all, remembered that if I had healed Cian without really trying, I could do this without really trying.

I pictured the IHOP, the blue booth seats and the burnt orange walls and the smell of syrup everywhere, the view of Sailor's Point from the broad, unclean window. It wasn't the nicest place, but that made it better, gave it a charm that something too normal didn't have.

I shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was there.

I swayed a little on my feet, pressing my hand against the brick exterior to steady myself. But it had worked, and I was there, in the empty parking lot, the bay a blue-gray watercolor picture beside me.

I tried not to let my pride show on my face, stepping inside the IHOP. The bell dinged above my head; I sat in a booth by the window and waited.

And he was late.

I saw his car before I saw him; the vehicle was a fierce yellow, of course, made fiercer by the sun that showered from the skies. None of this seemed to affect Alan, however. He was as dreary, as solemn, as ever, all dark hair and shifting eyes and tense shoulders. It didn't matter how many times I'd seen him now. I still hadn't figured him out. I wouldn't be satisfied until I did—but I'd get over it, here, now.

The bell signaled his arrival. He searched the breakfast bar, then the center tables, then the booths. His eyes landed on me, then flicked away a second later. He started in my direction.

The dark blue of the booth seat made him seem brighter, somehow. He regarded me tiredly. "We're not actually here for pancakes, are we?"

I thought about lying, but it was just a thought.

I said, "Surprise."

His mouth dipped into a frown. I'd never noticed it before, or maybe I had, but it was artfully shaped, as if carved by the hand of an ancient Greek sculptor, an attractive slope of pink-red skin. I decided to examine the menu instead of him.

Alan sighed. "Is it about—"

"Like it could be about anything else?"

"I don't understand," he admitted. "I can't forget. It's not my fault, or anything. I don't know why you and Zev are so angry with me."

Because you could ruin everything. If it were anybody else but Alan, I would have said it without hesitation. But because he was Alan, I didn't. Some people radiated with fragility, instability, a box with a bright red warning label. Alan was one of these people; something in his eyes told me so.

The waitress swung by, filled two mugs of coffee. We ordered pancakes.

"Yeah, I don't expect you to understand," I told him when we were alone again. "But this—you, remembering everything—is dangerous for us angels. We can't risk exposure. Our worlds, they're just...they're just better if they don't mingle so much. It's not...safe."

Alan's fingers twitched; he clasped them together. There were smudges of ink across his red knuckles, a callous on his left thumb. "What do you want me to do?"

I shrugged. "Forget."

"I couldn't if I wanted to."

I waited a moment, tilting my head. "If you—so you don't want to?"

Alan hesitated, then let out a breath, collapsing back against the booth seat. Black hair splayed across blue leather; hazel eyes regarded me from underneath coal eyelashes. He said, frowning again, "Can I tell you something?"

"I'm all ears."

"I'm not sure why," Alan said, "but I feel safer around you than I do around Zev."

It was a very obvious statement; I would have been able to guess it if he'd said nothing at all. Zev was anything but consistent, anything but trustworthy. Danger was inked all over him. I knew all this, had known it since Zev and Alan had first met. So I wasn't sure why hearing him say it changed something. It made my eyes go wide and my heart palpitate inside my chest, my stomach do an involuntary flip. Everything that had been firm and cemented was now mushy and incomprehensible, and all because of those few words.

I didn't say anything.

"Vinny?" Alan said.

I had to fight to gain my logic back. I was numb. Or, no, maybe the opposite of numb, I felt too much, like all my senses were bleeding together. "It's not—safe," I stammered. "I mean, you saw what happened last night. You hang out with people like us so much, you get hurt in the end. I'm sorry, Alan, but I just...I just wanna make sure you know. Your life will be so much easier if you just forget about all of this."

Alan scoffed. Not that I'd known him very long, but I'd never heard him scoff before. It struck a strange chord within me, like it was too bitter for someone as subdued as him. "Vinny, you don't know anything about my life. Like I said, I don't want to forget," he said. "You intrigue me. So I'm going to stick around."

"There's nothing intriguing about me."

Alan looked genuinely flabbergasted. My heart palpitated again. "Who on earth told you that?"

Our pancakes were ready; the waitress brought them, steaming, on two immaculate white plates. The scents of syrup and batter and chocolate swelled into the air, an almost sickening sweet. I'd gotten chocolate chip pancakes for the sole reason that they were Cian's favorite, and I could rub it in his face that I'd eaten some and not brought him any.

I could bring him some, I suppose, but that wouldn't be any fun.

Alan eyed his pancakes, stuck a fork in one, then seemed to reconsider it. He sipped his coffee, looking at me over the mug's porcelain rim. His eyes blended with the liquid morning perfectly, a soothing, careful green in this light, sunlight filtering through leaves. He confused me in a way I'd never been confused before. Everything melted together around Alan, like he was heat and the world was wax. His to simmer and then meld again.

I sliced one of my pancakes into quarters and drizzled syrup over it, gnawing at my lip. "Zev's not going to agree with this."

I wasn't sure what this was. I just knew I'd given up. I just knew there wasn't a point to it anymore.

"He doesn't have to," Alan told me, "but I do want you—both of you—to know. This is the most interesting thing about my life probably ever, and I would never do anything to jeopardize that. I would never—I would never hurt you or Zev."

My eyebrows raised. "Can you keep a secret?"

There was a crack in his expression. It was the first time I'd ever even noticed he was wearing a shell. "Yeah," he muttered. "I'm pretty good at that."

I decided not to ask, for fear of breaking him. So I just said, "I guess I can't say no, then."

Alan hesitated a moment, working at his pancake. "Good," he said after a beat, not looking up from his plate, "because I have...an idea."

"Is it a good idea?"

"It's an idea," Alan said with a shrug. I didn't have to ask what it was about, either, because a moment later, he added, "I think I might to know how to figure out who's going after your brother. Unless, you know, it was a one person thing, and it won't happen again—"

"It's never like that," I said curtly.

Alan nodded. "That's what I thought."

I pointed towards his breakfast, which he'd only made a small dent in. "Well, tell you what, Alan. You finish your pancakes and we can go back to my house. You can share your idea with everyone there."

Alan seemed a bit put off by this. He stammered, "E-everyone?"

"Yes, everyone," I assured, smiling down into my coffee mug rather than at him. "So, yeah, this idea of yours had better be a good one."