We camp for the rest of the night in an old cockatrice cave in the hills. It's so old that the smell has aged out of the den—and for that, I'm grateful. While I watch over Kayleigh, the Striker goes about camouflaging the entrance to the den. There wasn't that much he had to do with it, but a few extra branches and rocks didn't hurt. Then he seals the entrance with his own type of ward—one that glows demon yellow, before fading into the ether.

"So, where exactly in Alaska are we headed?" Glaris asks, settling down on a thin blanket. He's given up his bedroll to the kid and lent me an extra sheet to ward off the chill of the cave floor. Although I've slept on nearly every surface, I've always done so with padding between me and the ground. Privately, I'm thankful because I didn't relish the prospect of lying on bare stone.

"Deer Mountain," I tell him, spreading out the blanket and sitting cross-legged on it. Behind us, the stallion and pony stand quietly together, dozing, while Ego is curled around Kayleigh. "Have you been there before?"

"No. I spent most of my time in the Midwest before coming out here two years ago." He pauses then asks, "Have you been there?"

"No." I didn't even know such a place existed until I deciphered Mom's coordinates. The only thing is that my initial plan to get there involved, well, planning. Routes, rest-stops, how much food and other provisions I'd need to pack, etc. Now I'm headed up there blind.

Glaris studies me as if he expects me to say more. You'd think he'd know better by now.

"You know, if we're going to be traveling together, I need you to work on elaborating," he says.

I glare at him. "I've been honest," I tell him. "What more do you want from me?"

The Striker folds his arms over his bent knees. "Well, you can give me more than one-word answers for starters."

As if. I roll my eyes and snort. "Yeah, no." Look, two words!

Glaris groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm not asking for us to be friends by the end of this trip, but you've got to help me out here."

I make a sound of irritation deep in my throat and grumble, "Fine. What do you want to know?"

He studies me for a moment, and then asks, "What's at Deer Mountain?"

I shrug. "I don't know what's in it, exactly, but I know that it holds a top-secret research facility."

Glaris is quiet a moment. He stares at the tops of his dusty boots and fiddles with the cuff of his black pants. "What do you think your parents are doing there?"

"No clue. I have no idea what their real jobs were." I have a hard time picturing either Mom or Dad chanting over runes on the floor or sacrificing goats in order to summon demons. My father was the type to rescue cats from trees or put baby birds back in their nests. My mom used to bake cookies every year for the neighborhood cookie swap.

You could call them nice, wholesome—if those words existed anymore.

"Say that we get to Deer Mountain—what then? Do you even have a layout of the facility? Do you know where they're being held?"

And there it is—the giant, gaping hole in my plan. "No," I reply through grit teeth.

"Well, we had better come up with a plan—or two—on the way there, don't you think?"

"Do you have experience breaching demonic strongholds?"

Glaris leans forward and arches an eyebrow. "I got into Dust, didn't I?"

Shit. He did.

I need to stop talking. The Striker is making me feel more and more inferior by the moment and I don't like it one bit. I've always prided myself on my independence and practicality, but Glaris has made it clear that I don't know a goddamn thing.

To save myself any further embarrassment, I fake a yawn and stretch out on the thin sheet, pillowing my head on my satchel. It's lumpy and not all great for my neck, but it'll have to do.

Glaris sighs and shakes his head. He turns and faces the warded entrance to the cave.

Burying all of my insecurities deep down, I close my eyes and try to fall asleep.

------------

After what seems like a few seconds, my eyes flutter open. For a moment, I think that it's still night, but it's actually morning. Sunlight streams through the holes in the rock barrier and the horses whicker softly at the back of the cave. Behind me, I hear Egon snoring softly, his claws scraping over the cave floor as he acts out some enfield dream.

Come ...

I hear the word like the peal of a bell, soft and gentle. What the hell is that?

Slowly, achingly, I get to my feet. My neck feels like a giant has rested his foot on it all night and each one of my bruises are starting to announce themselves quite plainly.

I look around. Glaris and the kid are all still fast asleep. How can the Striker not hear it? I wonder as I pick my way around them and approach the barrier.

The invisible ward gives me pause. If Striker magic is anything like my own, I should be able to pass through without incident—right?

Come ...

I reach up and gently brush my fingers over where I believe the ward to be. My skin tingles and I catch a whiff of sulfur, but that seems to be the worst of it. Clutching a shim in both hands, I step through the ward, pushing aside branches, and into the daylight.

A lone figure stands on the edge of the highway. A bright light shines directly into my eyes and I raise my arm to block the worst of it. When I lower it, the figure remains standing there with their hands behind their back.

Come ...

I'm coming, I grouse, feeling some of my old dry wit returning. As I pick my way down the hill, the figure resolves into something more man-shaped than woman-like.

"Did you call me?" I demand, stopping well before the highway barrier. Why the hell can't I make out his features?

"I did," he replies softly, his voice deep and soothing. It washes over me like a balm, easing my fears and leeching away the pain. I blink and find that my strength has returned. Wh-what the hell?

It's not a man who stands before me, but an angel. The angel.

I've never been one to call a full-grown man "beautiful", but I'll be damned if that's not the best description I can come up with for him. The angel has the face and body of a Greek statue, sky blue eyes, and bright, golden hair that curls at his neck. He wears a long white belted tunic edged in gold. Over that is a chest plate and bracers of pure silver. The diamond hilt of a sword peeks over one shoulder; twin daggers are sheathed at his belt. His legs are bare, save for silver guards. He's just wearing plain brown sandals.

A pair of shimmering wings lay tucked at the angel's back, which he extends slightly and then pulls in.

"Good morning, Grace."

The sound of my old name knocks me back a step. "G-good morning." How does he know my name?

He's a goddamn angel, idiot, the dry, rational part of me argues.

The angel cocks his head to the side. "You can come closer. There's nothing to fear."

Against all my training and personal code, I allow curiosity to override caution and step over the barrier. I stop a few feet away, staying out of his range. The angel regards me non-threateningly.

"I'm sure that you have questions for me."

"Are my parents alive?" I blurt out, feeling something that I might have once called hope spring to life in my heart.

"Yes."

It's everything I had hoped to hear—and yet, I still feel hollow. A part of me rejoices in them still being alive, but there's still the matter of getting them out of the Deer Mountain facility. "How do I rescue them?"

The angel smiles gently. "That, I'm afraid, is something you are going to have to figure out for yourself." He gestures towards the sky. "There is so much demonic energy in this world that it clouds my abilities."

His answer bothers me—but only a little. I've spent the last ten years relying only on myself; why start expecting a supernatural being to suddenly hand me everything I've ever wanted?

"Fine," I sigh. "Do you have any advice for me?"

"Trust more."

"That doesn't help."

"It will," he replied firmly, then glances over his shoulder back towards the City of Dust.

I look in that direction, too, body tensing up. "Is Ehtab coming?" I ask, unable to stifle the tremor in my voice. I can't face the demon lord again—not so soon.

Slowly, the angel shakes his head. "No. It took all the strength that I had to keep him at bay. He is in his so-called temple, licking his wounds." The angel pauses and looks at me. "I've come here to warn you, Grace, that Ehtab will hunt you down."

"I figured." I'd hunt myself down too if I was responsible for unleashing a cosmic ass-kicking.

The angel smiles. "I also wanted to apologize to you."

"For what?" I cock my head.

"For the loss of your elk."

I frown, confused. "But ... that was you, wasn't it?"

He nods. "It was—and it wasn't. I was trapped within the animal, but his actions were nearly wholly his own."

Sudden tears prick my eyes. "So, Winston's dead?" I knew it, but somehow the way the angel was talking made it seem as if there was a way the elk was still alive.

"I'm afraid so, child. But, I have a gift for you."

The angel's wings open, blocking out everything around him. When they're lowered and folded, a large battle-elk stands behind him.

I squint against the sunlight. "That's ... not an elk."

The angel smiles. "No, this is a peryton."

The elk is as tall as Winston—he's even wearing all of Winston's gear, including all of my lost saddle bags. But there are three things different about this elk: one, he's got a third, smaller horn sticking out of the middle of his forehead, like a unicorn; two, he's got feathers where his tail should be; three, the damned thing has wings.

Large, mottled grey wings that match the peryton's fur.

"Perytons eat people!" I protest, recoiling slightly. While I've never encountered one here in California, tales of them flourishing in the forests of Russia have made it across the ocean. They are born without shadows and spend their whole lives trying to get one—and they do that by consuming those of humans.

After they've killed the owner of said shadow, first.

My eyes immediately shift to the peryton's cloven hooves. A small but distinctly cervine shadow is cast along the highway.

The angel nods at the peryton. "This one already has his shadow. He no longer seeks more."

Well, that's wonderful. But I keep that comment to myself because the peryton is watching me with a level of intelligence that is concerning. There's a soul behind those silvery eyes, but it's not exactly innocent.

The angel watches me, waiting for a response.

"Does he ... have a name?"

"No. Feel free to give him one, if you'd like." The angel turns and spreads his wings.

"Wait!" I lunge forward, arm outstretched. The angel pauses and looks at me expectantly. "I have another question. You're not the kid's father, are you?"

The angel shakes his head sadly. "No, child. I am not."

Well, that would have been too easy, wouldn't it? Another question rises to my lips. I know it's absurd, but part of me just needs to know so I don't have to keep thinking about it. Hesitantly, I ask, "You're not my father, are you?"

"No, child. I am not. Your father is your own. I am Balthial."

"Balthial—"

But Balthial is gone—vanished in the blink of an eye. The only thing that remains on the road is me and the peryton. The winged elk cocks his head at me, waiting for something.

Slowly, cautiously, I approach the beast, one hand raised and palm up, for him to sniff. The peryton's nostrils flare, but he lowers his head and sniffs my hand. His breath and whiskers tickle my skin, bringing a smile to my face despite seeing a hint of fangs.

No, he's not Winston—not with the grey-mottled coat, crystalline horns and feathers, and slimmer build—but then again, nothing will ever replace that big bull. I wouldn't even want to try.

"So, boy," I say, running a hand up the elk's face to a spot between his eyes. Winston loved it when I scratched him there—and it seems that the peryton enjoys it, too. "What do you think about being called ... Ray?"

The peryton's silvery eyes snap open, the skin between them crinkling. I quickly snatch my hand away. I don't know enough about him to tell if he's amused, affronted, or indifferent.

"Okay ... if you have a name, perhaps you can tell me?"

The massive wings rustle and lift in what appears to be a cervine shrug. Well, unless he can tell me differently, Ray it is.

I study the peryton, eyes falling on the wings.

Ah, God, the wings.

"I wish you could hide those," I mutter more to myself than the peryton. I'm not particularly fond of heights and I certainly am not comfortable being in the open air. Not to mention that his entire coloring makes him stick out like a sore thumb. Those crystal antlers alone must be worth a couple thousand dollars. How will I be able to go anywhere if my mount has a bounty on his head?

To my surprise, the beast actually sighs. The air around him shimmers slightly like a heat wave; when everything settles, a dark grey battle-elk stands in the peryton's place.

"Huh." I'm actually impressed. I reach out and touch the area where his wings were, but I don't feel anything. It's not a glamour that Ray's put up, but an actual shifting of forms. "Nice job."

Ray swishes his tail, apparently pleased. In the distance, I hear the sound of a car engine. I gesture for Ray to follow me up to the cave. There's no way I'm losing a second mount—especially to a car.

As we climb up the hill, the kid is waiting outside, eyes wide, fairly dancing in place with excitement. Behind her stands Glaris, sword drawn.

I've traveled alone for as long as I can remember. Now, I find myself relying on others and being relied upon. I want to say that it bothers me—but that is strangely not the truth.

Maybe God exists and He has an incredible sense of humor. Who knows? Maybe I'll find that out, too, in Alaska.