Black Wings by Christina Henry Page A

north of where I lived. Greenwitch was her real name, and perhaps it wasn’t coincidence that she was also a bona fide witch. It was likely that the power in the blood had led to the naming of one of her ancestors as Greenwitch, and the line had been marked by both their name and their abilities ever since. My mother had occasionally used her services, and I had maintained the acquaintance because it is handy to know a witch. Occasionally Agents need charms of protection when our duties lead us into dangerous areas, like vampire nests or faerie rings. Vampires aren’t put off by the cloak of invisibility around an Agent, and if they’re hungry, they’ll eat anything.
    Beezle was perched on my shoulder trying to look unobtrusive. Gargoyles don’t make great accessories, and he’d flat-out refused to hide in my coat. We’d gotten quite a few strange looks from passersby on the street while we waited. Of course, it’s possible they weren’t staring at Beezle but at my mangled face. No adults said anything, though. People tend to avoid contact with strangers, and they didn’t want to look too closely at Beezle. One kid had pointed at us and said, “Look, Mommy, a rat!” before his mother averted her eyes and hurried away. Beezle was beyond thrilled about that comment.
    “What kind of a foolish child would mistake a gargoyle for a rat ?” he said, puffing up with injured dignity.
    After several minutes of knocking and waiting, knocking and waiting, the door finally opened to reveal a very tall and athletic woman in her fifties, with her silver hair in a close-cropped pixie cut. Her eyes were a pale gray, so light that she almost looked blind. Her face was all strong lines and planes, and that face told you she was not to be trifled with. She was dressed in a slim-fitting black bodysuit.
    “Good evening, Ms. Greenwitch,” I said.
    “You interrupted my nightly yoga practice,” she said. Her voice was low and husky, like Kathleen Turner’s. “Come in.”
    She closed the door behind us as we stepped down the stairs into a short hallway. The white walls were covered in black-and-white photographs of trees. Ms. Greenwitch led us to another small room just a few steps down the hall. There was a closed oak wardrobe, a long oak table and little bunches of herbs drying on hooks in the ceiling. It was as clean as a hospital surgery room. She waved fingers covered in silver rings at my face. “I’ve got a healing charm for that.”
    I was tempted, since I knew Ms. Greenwitch’s charms were spot-on and it would not only take away my pain but make me a little less obvious in a crowd. “How much?”
    She named a price that was three times what I had in my pocket.
    “Just the concealment charm, please,” I said, and Beezle snorted.
    Ms. Greenwitch shrugged and went to the wardrobe. She took a key from a silver chain around her neck and unlocked it, carefully opening the door in such a way that I couldn’t see the contents inside. A moment later she closed and locked the door again and handed me a small paper bag, which I pocketed. I handed her the wad of bills from my pocket and she unrolled the cash, carefully counting aloud until she was certain I hadn’t cheated her. Not that I would dare. You don’t want a powerful witch pissed off at you. You might wake up one day and find your mattress had turned into a bed of scorpions, or that lightning was suddenly attracted to you every time you stepped outside.
    She nodded and I assumed that meant she was satisfied. “Thanks for the rush job,” I said, holding out my hand.
    She grasped my hand firmly for a shake, and suddenly she went rigid. Sweat broke out all over her face as her skin blanched white as paper. I tried to pull my hand away so I could help her to a chair—I thought she was about to faint, or maybe having a heart attack—but she gripped my fingers tighter, so tight that the pressure hurt. Beezle dug his claws into my shoulders and hissed. His wings rose