“So in the vision we’re fighting other angel-bloods,” Christian concludes.

Dad nods.

I relate what Samjeeza said to me in the cemetery about Asael.

“Yes,” Dad says. “Asael is very dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous and wholly evil of the Black Wings, other than Satan himself. Without pity. Without hesitation. He takes what he wants, and if he sees you, if he knows what you are, he will take you. He has killed or enslaved many, if not most, of the Triplare.”

“Are there a lot of Triplare?” I ask tremulously.

“No,” Dad says. “There are very few of you. In fact there are never more than seven Triplare walking the earth at the same time. And at the moment Asael is in possession of at least three.”

“Seven,” Christian says, almost to himself. “So there’s you, me, and Jeffrey … that only leaves one more.”

Seven Triplare. Seven.

I meet Christian’s eyes. We have the same thought at the same moment.

The seventh is ours.

“Angela’s baby,” I realize. “Because Phen is the father.”

Dad scowls. “Phen.” He says the name like it’s a swear word. “Disgusting, cowardly creatures, the ambivalent. Worse than the fallen, in many ways.” His eyes are so fierce it’s a tad scary. “They have no conviction at all.”

“I’ll tell her on the drive back to California,” I say to Christian when we’re back at my house in Jackson, sitting on the couch in the living room in front of a roaring fire, drinking raspberry tea, which is making me miss my mother. “The sooner she knows, the better.”

He stares into the flames. “Okay. You want to meet on Tuesday night at the CoHo, since we’re going to miss Saturday?”

“Of course.” I bite my lip. “And I thought, maybe, if you’re up to it, you and I could start jogging in the mornings. I know we’re supposed to be training for the glory sword, but it could be good to brush up on our running, just in case.”

“Just in case,” he echoes. “Yeah, I’d like that. Every morning?”

“Yeah. Let’s say six thirty.” I shudder at the thought of getting up so early, but it’s for a good cause. Like, possibly extending my life expectancy.

“All right,” he says with a smile. “Just remember that it was your idea.”

“I will. So tell me what your schedule this quarter’s like.”

“Nothing too exciting. My craziest class is going to be structural engineering.”

I c**k my head at him. “Structural engineering? That sounds serious.” I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. “Are you picking a major?”

He does his laugh/exhale thing. “I’m thinking about architecture.”

“You want to be an architect? When did this happen?”

“I like building things. I was killer with Lincoln Logs as a kid.” He shrugs. “It makes a kind of sense, so I thought I’d go for it, try it out, tackle all the math and physics and drawing and see if at the end of all that I still like the idea.”

He’s not looking directly at me, but I can tell he’s watching to see how I’ll react. Whether I’ll think it’s silly, to be going toward something so heavy as architecture, whether I’ll laugh picturing him in a suit and a hard hat with a roll of blueprints under his arm.

I think it’s hot. I jostle my shoulder into his. “That’s amazing. It sounds … perfect.”

“What about you?” he asks. “Still going strong on premed?”

“Yep. I’m taking a biochemistry class called Genomics and Medicine, which I’m pretty sure is going to blow my mind.”

“What else?” he asks. “No more happiness?”

I sigh. “No more happiness. Just the normal prereqs and premed and, uh, some PE class.”

He catches my attempt to slide that by him. “Clara, what PE class?” He fishes it out of my mind. “You’re taking fencing? That’s cheating.”

“Hey, nobody ever said that we can’t train on our own time.”

He sits back, looks at me like I’m more devious than he thought. “I’m going to sign up for that class, too. When is it?”

“Monday and Wednesday, one to two p.m.”

He nods like it’s all settled, then. “So we’ll run in the mornings, and spar in the afternoons.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t make plans for next weekend,” he adds.

I look up at him. “Why not?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. He pins me with a gaze that would turn any red-blooded girl’s legs to jelly. “I am taking you out. On a date. Before things get crazy.”

My heart beats faster. “Dinner and a movie,” I remember.

“Friday night,” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Seven,” I repeat with a stupid quiver in my voice. “Friday.”

He goes to the door and starts putting on his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“Home. I have to prepare,” he says.

“For Friday?”

“For everything,” he replies. “I’ll see you at the Farm.”

“You’re speeding,” Angela says.

I don’t have to check the speedometer to know she’s right. I’m nervous about how she’s going to take the whole “maybe the seventh is your baby” thing. We’ve driven all day, about to find a hotel for the night, and still I haven’t worked up the nerve to broach the subject.

“I didn’t know you had a speeding problem,” she remarks. “You’re usually a decent driver, when you’re not crashing into angels, that is. You’re a rule follower.”

Which of course she makes sound like an insult. “Gee, thanks.”

She returns to the parenting magazine she’s reading. She’s been researching this baby thing with the same kind of passion she usually reserves for angel stuff. What she keeps stashed under her pillow lately is a dog-eared copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. And a three-hundred-year-old tome that has a passage about a woman giving birth to a Nephilim. Just a little light reading.

“So, how was your break?” she asks, and smiles suggestively. “Did you get to blow off some steam with Christian?”

I ignore her obvious innuendo. “We spent some time at the beach.”

She gazes at the window wistfully, where outside the sky has darkened to a deep, beguiling blue; her hands rest on the swell of her stomach. I wonder when the last time was, when she did anything but worry.