“Hi,” Angel whispered. She didn’t feel any whitecoats around—just the scrambled, incoherent thoughts of these kids.
Mouth noise girl wings new new
The other children stared without answering. Trying to smile, Angel looked at them more closely. She thought they were both boys. One had rough, scaly skin—literally scaly, like a fish, but just in patches, not all over. Not a happy effect.
The other one just looked like . . . a mistake. He had extra fingers and toes, and hardly any neck. His eyes were huge and bulging, and the hair on his head was sparse. It made Angel’s heart hurt just to look at him.
“I’m Angel,” she whispered again. “Do you have names?”
Noise noise bad girl wings bad noise
The two boys looked afraid, and they turned from her and edged farther back in their cage.
Angel swallowed hard and was quiet. What had happened to Max and the others? Were they in cages too?
A door opened and footsteps sounded on the linoleum floor. Angel felt the caged boys trembling with dread, crazed, swirling thoughts of fear crashing in their brains. They huddled together at the back of their cage. But the two whitecoats stopped in front of Angel’s.
“Oh, my God—Harrison was right,” one whitecoat said, hunching down to stare at Angel through the grate. “They got her! Do you know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on this one?” He turned excitedly to the other whitecoat. “Did you ever read the Director’s precept report about this recombinant group?”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure I believed it,” said the other whitecoat, a woman. “Are you saying this is Subject Eleven? This little girl?”
The first whitecoat rubbed his hands together with glee. “You’re looking at it.” He leaned forward to unhook her cage door. “Come on, little thing. You’re wanted in lab seven.” Oh, yes! Man, when I section her brain . . .
Angel winced, then rough hands dragged her out.
Pathetic relief washed through the boys that it was she who was being taken and not them.
Angel didn’t blame them one bit.
14
“Max? I’m starving.”
I had been ignoring my own ferociously growling innards for half an hour. There was no way I was going to break first—and give Fang the satisfaction? I don’t think so. But I did have an obligation, as leader, to take care of Nudge. As much as I hated to stop and lose time, it was a reality.
“Okay, okay. We need food.” How’s that for incisive leadership? “Fang! We need to refuel. Ideas?”
Fang pondered. It always amazes me how he’s able to seem so calm at the absolute worst times. Sometimes he seems like a droid—or a drone. Fang of Nine. Fang2-D2.
Below us were mountains—the San Francisco Peaks, according to our map.
Our glances met—it was creepy how we knew what each other was thinking so much of the time. “Ski slopes,” I said, and he nodded. “Summertime. Empty vacation houses.”
“Would they have food?” Nudge asked.
“Let’s go find out,” I said.
We flew in a big circle around the edge of the mountains. Small towns that came alive in winter dotted the foothills. I led us away from them, to where a few homes stood like train-set models among the trees. One house was apart from the others. No cars parked outside, no smoke coming from the chimney. Nobody home?
I banked and slowed, tucked my wings in a bit, and started to drop.
We landed a hundred yards away. As usual, after flying for hours, my legs felt a tad rubbery. I shook them out, then folded my warm wings in tight against my body.
Nudge and Fang did the same.
We crept quietly through the woods. No signs of life. The porch was covered with pine needles, the driveway hadn’t been used, the shrubbery was way overgrown.
I gave Nudge the thumbs-up, and she smiled, though, amazingly, she stayed quiet. Bless you, child.