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lights painting the house’s walls in garish colors. A handful of students pressed around the periphery, standing on tiptoe and craning their necks.
    “What happened, then?” Andy asked one of the nearest students, a tall, thin young man.
    “I think someone hit a window and the alarms went off,” the youth said.
    Two police officers left the building. One began to order the crowds back, and another slid into one of the cars, picking up the radio transmitter.
    Andy touched Jack’s arm.
    “There’s the provost,” he said, jerking his head to one side.
    A slender, middle-aged man in a long wool coat strode down the sidewalk toward them, his pale hair shining in the streetlights. He cast an evaluating look at the crowd and then approached the Gudrun house. Students fell back as he stepped past them.
    The officer who was monitoring the onlookers intercepted him.
    “Are you campus security?”
    “No. I’m the university provost, Gregory Penemue. I received a call about some sort of problem here.”
    “Yes, sir.” To Jack’s frustration, the officer lowered his voice and ushered Penemue to one side. The two men’s expressions were grave as they spoke.
    Another siren split the night and everyone turned, looking for the source. A minute later the ambulance turned the corner, cutting its siren and driving into the parking lot. More students gathered, and the neighbors across the street from campus stepped out onto their front porches.
    Two paramedics left the ambulance carrying bags and hurried into the house.
    “That’s not good,” Jack breathed. A similar murmur slithered its way through the assembled students. Several pulled out phones.
    Penemue had his own phone to his ear and was speaking in a low, controlled voice.
    “Do you want to stay?” Andy asked, turning. “We should give Edward a call if we’re going to be here much longer.”
    “I don’t know.” Jack jammed his cold hands into his jacket pockets. He craved a cigarette, but his pack and lighter were back in the apartment. “Seems likely whatever happened here is linked to the bones and the angel, don’t you think?”
    Andy nodded. Neither of them believed in coincidences when mal'akhim were involved. “Let me see what I can do.” He edged his way through the crowd to the ambulance driver and began speaking in a low voice. The driver shrugged and pointed to the police officer, who glanced at them and strode over.
    Jack saw Penemue fold his phone and walk over to join the conversation. A familiar prickle ran down his back. He turned and searched the crowds for whatever had set off the protective sigils sewn into the lining of his jacket.
    The angel stood on the other side of the parking lot, its black wings folded around its body. It turned its head as soon as Jack perceived it, and for a moment its blank eyes faced him. Jack shuddered and crossed himself, knowing as he did that the gesture would only make him easier for the angel to detect.
    For a long moment the angel regarded him. The sigils in his jacket and the blessed medal of St. Jude around his neck set his teeth on edge with their auric clatter. Then the creature turned its attention back to the house, and the alarms lowered their intensity to a warning prickle.
    Jack swallowed and studied the house and those around it with renewed intensity. Something here had caught an angel’s attention, and he didn’t think it would be good news.
    Members of the mal'akhim, whether b'nei elohim or nephilim, could only see that which was closely allied or actively opposed. Most of what humans perceived about the world around them—indeed, most humans themselves—went unseen by the Host, neither good enough nor evil enough to elicit the Host’s attention or affect their substance. God might mark every sparrow’s fall, Andy had once told him, but the eyes of the mal'akhim were fixed on each other.
    Jack knew he was a shadowy figure on the border of the Host’s perception, a mortal who had