Black Wings by Christina Henry Page B

from his back like an angry cat’s fur.
    “Ms. Greenwitch? Are you all right?”
    Her eerie gray eyes were wide and staring and fixed on mine. When she spoke it was through clenched teeth, almost as if the words were pouring unwillingly from her mouth.
    “You are the last. He is coming for you. In smoke and flame, he is coming for you. There is only death in his wake and the heavens will pour fire, and all that you are will be destroyed.” The pupils of her eyes widened, until there was only a thin ring of gray around the black, and she stumbled back, releasing my hand.
    “Get away from here,” she spat. “And never return.”
    I had never really been friends with Ms. Greenwitch, but I was a semi-regular client and I’d always thought we’d at least had a decent business relationship.
    “What just happened?” I asked, confused beyond measure.
    “Get out !” she screamed, and her face was drawn in lines of desperation. Her eyes went to the small window near the ceiling. All that was visible through the glass were the bars that protected the basement-level apartment and the cement gangway that ran along the side of the building.
    I reached for her—to comfort or calm her, to try to figure out what the hell was going on—and she threw her hands forward, blasting me in the stomach with a punch of magic. The force sent me into the hallway, crashing into the wall. Beezle clung to my neck like a needle in a pin-cushion and I felt little rivulets of blood running from the places where his claws dug in. There was a strong scent of sage and thyme in the air as I struggled to my feet. It felt like a few new friends had been added to my very bruised ribs. I was getting really, really tired of getting beat up.
    “Right,” I said, flicking my fingers in salute at her. It hurt just to do that. “Leaving now.”
    “You stay away from here, Madeline Black,” she called after me, her voice shaking. “Keep your cursed blood out of my path.”
    Cursed blood? I mouthed to Beezle as we walked up the stairs. He shrugged. By the time I got to the front door, I was gasping for breath even though the flight of stairs wasn’t very long. I stumbled out onto the street and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to remind my lungs that they liked oxygen and they should take all of it they could get.
    “You need to take up running or something,” Beezle said. “And maybe lay off the desserts for a while.”
    I smacked the side of his head, and the movement pulling on my ribs caused me to see stars. “I’m not out of breath because I’m fat, Beezle. I’m out of breath because I’ve gotten beaten up three times in the last couple of days.”
    “Three?” he asked.
    “Ms. Greenwitch, Antares and Ramuell. You know, the soul-sucking demon I have sworn to destroy because he killed my mother and Patrick.”
    “I forgot about that,” Beezle said, with a little note of wonder in his voice. “It seems like a long time ago. But, you know, you probably could stand to lose a few ...”
    “Beezle, if you finish that sentence, I will never buy popcorn again for the rest of my life.”
    He snapped his jaws shut and crossed his arms, going into broody mode.
    I walked very carefully down the sidewalk, intending to disappear into a nearby alley that ran underneath the El tracks and unobtrusively push out my wings. Ms. Greenwitch lived a few short blocks from the Western El stop, and a steady stream of late commuters flowed past as I shuffled my way down the street. Most of them appeared not to notice the gargoyle glaring from my shoulder, and the early-autumn darkness did a fair job of disguising my bruised face unless I passed directly beneath a streetlight.
    A young woman and man, both of them in their late twenties, went by. They were dressed like young professionals, just off work. She carried the cardigan that matched her short-sleeved sweater over one arm, while he had a take-out bag in one hand and a leather messenger bag slung