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rest of them came closer, too: Cam. Roland. Mol y. Arriane.
    And Dani l, long-ago Daniel, rounded out their motley group.
    “If you’re here to warn us about something,” Arriane cal ed, “then say your piece and go.” Her iridescent wings folded forward, almost protectively. She stepped in front of Dani l, who looked a lit le green.
    It was unlawful and unnatural for the angels to interact with their earlier selves. Daniel felt clammy and faint—whether that was because he was having to relive Luce’s death or because he was so close to his previous self, he couldn’t say.
    “Warn us?” Mol y sneered, walking in a circle around Daniel. “Why would Daniel Grigori go out of his way to warn us about anything?” She got in his face, taunting him with her copper-colored wings. “No, I remember what he’s up to—this one has been skipping through the past for centuries. Always searching, always late.”
    “No,” Daniel whispered. That couldn’t be. He’d set out to catch her and he would.
    “What she means to ask,” Roland said to Daniel, “is what transpired to bring you here? From whenever you’re coming from?”
    “I’d almost forgot en,” Cam said, massaging his temples. “He is after Lucinda. She has fal en out of time.” He turned to Daniel and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe now you’l forsake your pride and ask for our help?”
    “I don’t need help.”
    “Seems as if you do,” Cam jeered.
    “Stay out of it,” Daniel spat. “You’re enough trouble to us later.”
    “Oh, how fun.” Cam clapped. “You’ve given me something to look forward to.”
    “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Daniel,” Roland said.
    “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Daniel,” Roland said.
    “I know that.”
    Cam laughed a dark, sinister laugh. “So. We’ve final y reached the endgame, haven’t we?” Gabbe swal owed. “So … something’s changed?”
    “She’s figuring it out!” Arriane said. “She’s opening up Announcers and stepping through and she’s stil alive!” Daniel’s eyes blazed violet. He turned away from al of them, looking back at the ruins of the church, the rst place where he’d laid eyes on Luschka. “I can’t stay. I have to catch her.”
    “Wel , from what I remember,” Cam said softly, “you never wil . The past is already writ en, brother.”
    “Your past, maybe. But not my future.” Daniel couldn’t think straight. His wings burned inside his body, aching to be released. She was gone. The street was empty. No one else to worry about.
    He threw his shoulders back and let them out with a whoosh. There. That lightness. That deepest freedom. He could think more clearly now. What he needed was a moment alone. With himself. He shot the other Daniel a look and took of into the sky.
    Moments later, he heard the sound again: the same whoosh of wings unfurling—the sound of another pair of wings, younger wings, taking flight from the ground below.
    Daniel’s earlier self caught up with him in the sky. “Where to?”
    Wordlessly they set led on a third-story ledge near Patriarch’s Pond, on the roof across from Luce’s window, where they used to watch her sleep. The memory would be fresher in Dani l’s mind, but the faint recol ection of Luce lying dreaming under the covers stil sent a warm rush across Daniel’s wings.
    Both were somber. In the bombed-out city, it was sad and ironic that her building had been spared when she hadn’t. They stood in silence in the cold night, both careful y tucking back their wings so that they wouldn’t accidental y touch.
    “How are things for her in the future?”
    Daniel sighed. “The good news is that something is dif erent in this lifetime. Somehow the curse has been … altered.”
    “How?” Dani l looked up, and the hope that shone bright in his eyes darkened. “You mean to say, in her current lifetime she has not yet made a covenant?”
    “We think not. That’s part of it. It seems a loophole has opened