Downstairs, I lit the gas logs to warm the shop, and opened the safe. By the time Audric and Rupert joined me, the dregs of an argument lingering in the air, display cases were filled with our wares, coffee was brewing, and water for tea was simmering. Rupert was close-mouthed, lips tight with denial. I knew what it meant. He was always like this when it was time for Audric to head back to work. Arguments always ruined their last few days together.

Audric was a dead-miner with a claim on the entire town of Sugar Grove. He had been in Mineral City, in the Appalachian Mountains, to sell his latest finds, visit among the humans he loved, and resupply. Now he had to go back to work. In late February, in a mini-ice age, work meant a grueling three- or four-day journey to his claim through snow-covered mountain trails, Then months of work uncovering more of the gold, silver, junkyards, china and crystal, and other treasures that had survived the town's destruction and abandonment.

Unless he sold the claim to a rich prospector or a big company that specialized in dead-mining, it would be months before he returned. There had been offers for the claim, which made this leave-taking even more bittersweet. I wanted to add my voice to Rupert's and beg Audric to stay. When he left, I'd be the only supernat for a hundred miles. Maybe more. But I knew better than to ask him to give up his claim. Few dead-miners ever located an entire town. Audric was famous for his discovery. The big half-breed had pride: pride in his find, pride in his claim, pride in his mining skills, pride in his fighting abilities. If he stuck around, he'd be less independent, and Audric could never countenance that. He had to make a fortune and a name for himself.

As they argued, covering ground they had scoured clean a hundred times before, I laid out a selection of emerald pieces, the stones extracted from the nearby hills. Mineral City was known all over the US for the quartz and feldspar dug from cliffs and scraped from strip mines. The two common minerals provided financial success for the town, but its gems were spectacular, calling to the speculator and the individual prospector, and the latest claims were making us famous for gemstones. The emeralds had been sold to Thorn's Gems by a local miner, and the deep green of the stones was spectacular. I had made a chunky necklace out of some B-grade portions, and added a faceted focal stone. The necklace was too pricey to interest the locals, but I'd listed it on the store's Web site. I was hoping for a quick sale at the asking price. Two comparable pieces had been sent to retail stores that showcased our jewelry in Atlanta and Mobile. Stores all over the country hoped to carry our designs, and we had to decide if we wanted to expand the line to satisfy the current demand, or stay exclusive. Expanding meant we needed to hire help or take in a new partner. Like Audric, who could buy in if he really wanted to. Which made these arguments even more difficult.

I was a lapidary, meaning I worked with raw stone, turning it into unique jewelry, statues, vases, and, now that I had been revealed as a mage, into amulets and charms for the customers who wanted them. Not all did. The sale of conjured items was a sore spot with some orthodox practitioners, both locally and out of state.

I set our pricey items in the center display case. The top glass was damaged, making it hard to see some of the merchandise, but the blemished site was probably the only reason Thorn's Gems hadn't been broken into, vandalized, and ransacked by a mob of the local extremists. Even in a town as small as Mineral City, there were plenty of those around. The flaw was a four-inch circle, created when a seraph, an angel of punishment, had dropped by to visit me - well, to judge me - and had removed his sigil of office, placing it on the display case. The antique, Pre-Ap glass had crazed and heated almost to the melting point under the powerful amulet, leaving the top permanently etched with a symbol of the Most High - the ring and its firelike lettering of the word Adonai. I polished the defect with a cloth.

If I had been taken away that day by the seraph, whose name was still unknown to us, there probably wouldn't have been two bricks still standing for my partners to divide. Now, I figured only the burned, cracked, partially melted ring of glass kept us safe. It was a reminder to the townspeople that I had permission from the High Host to be here. Lucky me.

I had hidden in plain sight, disguised as a human, for ten years, a blatant violation of the edicts set up by the High Host of the Seraphim. Any other mage would have been carted back to Enclave in disgrace or turned over to humans for judgment. For me, either punishment would have meant certain death, though the human execution would have been more bloody and violent than the mage-death. But I had been given permission to stay on in Mineral City. The reprieve was a two-edged sword. The townspeople treated me like I was a rogue tiger. Interesting, maybe even mesmerizing, but not something you wanted living next door.

I arranged the emeralds as my friends bickered and the townspeople strolled back from sunrise kirk services, many peering into the shop in curiosity, many more turning their heads away, as if the sight of me might contaminate them. It wasn't as if I flaunted being a neomage. I kept my skin blanked to human dullness and I dressed in human clothes, never displaying my amulets or weapons. With the exception of a few new scars, I didn't look any different from before the seraph had outed me, but now I sometimes felt like I had the words "Whore witchy-woman" tattooed on my forehead.

An elderly woman dressed in unrelieved orthodox black, from her dress to her boots and heavy overcoat, paused at the front window and deliberately turned to stare into the shop. When she caught my eye, I paused, holding a stunning turquoise necklace with silver beads that dangled. The woman lifted her hands and made a version of devil horns at me, thumbs and little fingers pointed up, the others folded under. The symbol had once meant other things. Now it was the sign of evil. My friends fell silent. Outside, the passersby seemed to stop, all watching. It was the most blatant reaction to me since the day the seraph had come. Up the street, two others dressed in orthodox black paused and gaped, their eyes gleaming, faces arrested in midconversation. My face flamed. The beads in my hands clattered.

A little farther, an elder also watched, his brown robes blowing in the frozen wind. Elder Jasper halted, his Bible in one hand, his crucifix dangling. Jasper, who had once been my friend. The elder looked censorious, not of me, but of the old woman.

The hateful woman dropped her hands and moved on, her boots crunching the frozen snow. Sleet wisped against the building and onto my porch over the front walk. The townspeople moved on, some clearly embarrassed, others openly gleeful. The hatred was now out in the open. On some level, I knew that things would change now. And they wouldn't be getting better.

Jacey, my other best friend, opened the door, the bells jingling cheerfully. Storming inside, she threw her walking stick into the umbrella stand and her cape over the coatrack all in one motion. The walking stick clattered. The coatrack wobbled. "Did you see her? The old bat. You just let Old Lady Vestis come by the shop again on a Monday when we're closed, needing a favor, a last-minute gift. That's the last time - " Jacey looked at me, standing unmoving behind the counter, still holding the turquoise necklace, and stopped speaking. She pointed a finger at me.

"You will not let that old harpy make you feel bad. You will not!" When I couldn't manage a smile, Jacey stomped over and took the necklace, setting it on the countertop with a clank. Then she bent and hugged me tight, hard, turning my face to her shoulder, before she pushed me away and shook me like she might one of her many children and stepchildren. "You will not feel bad about her. She's only one of a few - a very few - who feel that way. Most people are excited at the thought of having a neomage living in town." She shook me again. "How many people have come to the shop for a charm? Or a special amulet? Lots!"

"After hours," I said. "Sneaking around, ashamed. People I've known since I came here, went to school with; people I liked." I remembered the faces, the shock, at the sight of the old woman. A sudden realization hit me. "Or they're afraid of me." I looked up at Jacey's brown eyes and mussed brown hair, bangs tangled by the wind. "That's it, isn't it? They're all afraid."

"Not of you," Rupert said softly from behind me. "Of the orthodox."

"What's going on?" I asked. I tried to jerk away, but Jacey held me firm, her strong hands gripping my shoulders, human muscle mass winning out against mage swiftness. "You promised you'd tell me if there was trouble starting."

"There's been talk. A little," Jacey said. "But you know we're standing up for you."

"Talk? About what? Strangulation? Drawing and quartering? Hot pincers and knives? Stones and blood. I've put all of you in danger, haven't I?"

To the left of the shop windows, the front door opened again, bells jaunty. A cold wind skittered across the floor. We all turned. Elder Jasper stood in the opening, his face harsh, the crucifix dangling against his robes of office. His Bible was tight in his hands, his knuckles white against the dark leather. I knew he hadn't heard me curse - he'd still been outside - but I clamped my mouth shut in fear. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped inside.

Just as deliberately, Rupert, Audric, and Jacey flanked me. Audric slid one hand into his sleeve. Jasper's eyes tracked the movements and his forward motion halted. To the side, the gas flames flogged the fake logs in a jittery, hungry rhythm. Outside, sleet shushed down, the sound cutting off the rest of the world. Audric pivoted, clearing his target line. Violence wavered in the air between the elder and us. Tension constricted my throat. Faster than their eyes could track, I slipped to the side, around the display case, and up to Jasper.

"Thorn's Gems is honored to receive the kirk elder," I said, placing myself between Audric and Jasper.

Jasper's eyes widened, then tightened at my blatant use of mage-speed. His gaze moved from my face to the three beyond, taking in their taut postures, the locations of Audric's hands, the anger on the faces of my friends. Gently, he closed the door, so carefully that the bells didn't chime. "My blessing on your house," he said, the formal words an elder spoke when he came calling. But then he added, "And may you find absolution and forgiveness in the countenance of the Most High." Not casual words, but words of mercy, words uttered before judgment, when one has been called to trial for a crime worthy of punishment or death. Seraph stones. I was being called before the kirk.

Jasper was two years my senior, one of the few Cherokee to stay with the kirk rather than to withdraw his religious practices to the hills. He had dark eyes and black hair worn long and braided in a single thick plait. His hawklike eyes were black and piercing, his nose a commanding beak. At the moment, however, he looked anything but hawklike, his face creased with compassion. "I'm sorry, Thorn. I voted against this - I want you to know that."

"But?" Rupert said, black eyes belligerent. He elbowed his way between the elder and me, as if he would protect me with his body. And I knew he would. The thought warmed me. Maybe some in Mineral City hated and feared mages, but not my friends. I raised my head and watched the tableau, seeing through the storefront windows as two crowds gathered in the street, orthodox in one small group, progressives and reformed in another. Split fifty-fifty.

Jasper was still speaking. "I was able to help some, but Elders Perkins and Culpepper have a lot more clout than I do. They want you charged." He pulled a sheaf from his Bible, the pages sealed with the red wax of a kirk summons. "I want you to know I'm on your side. I always will be." He took a deep breath, gripped his Bible across his chest, and said, "Thorn St. Croix, you are officially served." He handed me the papers. So much for compassion, friendship, and the loyalty of old friends.

I held the legal summons as Jasper left, icy winter air again blowing across the shop floor, like a mistral of omens. The thick paper felt cold on my chapped skin as I cracked the wax seal, unfolded the pages, and smoothed them across the display glass. Rupert, Jacey, and Audric moved into a half circle behind me to read over my shoulder.

It was a legal writ, the paper signed by the Council of the Town Fathers - elected officials and kirk-appointed elders - who judged all things spiritual and most things legal in Mineral City. I read it twice before I understood the charges. I had been accused of practicing abominations. Meaning black magic or forbidden sexual practices. Fear raced up the back of my neck. The charge was a federal crime. If found guilty, judgment would be swift and lethal. My heart rate kicked up a notch. Fight or flight. Rupert cursed foully.

I held up a hand to stop him. There was something peculiar about the summons. Such a charge usually meant immediate arrest - shackles, leg irons, the witch-catcher: a special mask humans had created just for mages, with iron rods that were inserted between the teeth, holding the mouth open wide to keep a mage from chanting a defensive conjure. Maybe Jasper had more clout than he claimed he did. Or maybe I had more support than I feared.

I wasn't being summoned to the kirk, but to a meeting in the old Central Baptist Church building - the town hall - at ten today. That was both good and bad. Good, because it meant any judgment rendered would be secular, and would have to be ratified by a unanimous vote of town fathers rather than a few kirk elders in private. And confirmation of a guilty verdict would take time, time I could use to get away. It was bad for two reasons: because the whole town would be present, and because I wasn't being given time to prepare a legal defense. If the crowd turned to violence, a lynch mob taking the proceedings into its own hands, I'd be toast. Or I'd have to fight. Either outcome was bad.

As likely scenarios, tactics, plans, and possibilities ran through my mind, I refolded the writ and tucked it into my tunic. My hands, which had shaken so badly only moments before, were suddenly steady, as if my emotions had entered some kind of stasis, and the part of me that had studied as a battle mage in a different life had taken over. I looped the turquoise necklace over Jacey's neck, thinking while I tidied the rest of the display case.

"Is Zeddy available?" I asked the quiet room. Jacey nodded, her trembling fingers on my arm; tears glittered in her eyes. I patted her icy hand. "It's okay," I said, not certain if I was lying. "It'll be fine. But just in case, would you have him saddle Homer and gather supplies for a week in the mountains? If it looks like they're going to decide against me, I'll run. You guys need to be ready to take off too, or to defend the shop. I'll set a few wards - "

"Stop," Audric interrupted. "There will be no problem with Thorn's Gems. Concentrate on taking care of yourself." The big man pushed me between my partners and toward the stairs. "Go, little mage. You don't have much time to prepare. Jacey, call this number and tell the man who answers what has happened. Then call Zeddy. Have him saddle both the horses and put supplies for two on the mule, enough for ten days. What?" he asked when I looked at him, surprised. "You think they'll stop with you? If they find you guilty, they'll come for the rest of us. We've been planning for this. Now go change." Turning his back on me, Audric continued instructing Rupert in the defense of the shop. Jacey, taking a steadying breath, picked up the telephone and dialed the number Audric had written.

I turned and went up the stairs, my footsteps hollow on the cold, warped boards.

He fell, rolling across the nest of feathers to the rock wall on the far side of the cell. Pain and desire lanced through him, setting fire to the bones of his clipped wings, burning in his loins. Agony raced through him, and lust, and need. He groaned. The cell door behind him closed, a ringing finality, the demon-iron scattering frost crystals with the vibration. He heard the shackles hit the ground on the hallway floor outside his cell.

"See you in twenty-four hours, Watcher," his captor said.

He moaned again, turning to lie facedown on the feathers. His feathers. The delicate bones of his severed wings gave beneath his weight. In an hour the new wounds would be clotted over, leaking a bit of thin, clear, serous fluid. Another hour, and that too would be gone; his flesh would heal over, his bones would start to regenerate, the agony would diminish. Shortly after his wounds healed and the bones began to redevelop, the lust would start to fade, unrelieved, unfulfilled.

In twenty-four hours his tormentors would return, shackle him in demon-iron, and take him back to the torture chamber. There, with human steel, they would again shear the new growth off his wings. Demon-iron would cause more pain, which they liked, but it would cauterize the damaged tissue with ice, and they wanted him bleeding. While he dripped blood and suffered, the pain weakening him, they would bring in a mage, likely one bred when he stimulated her captured mother into heat. He had been here long enough to be working on a second generation. Maybe a third.

He laughed silently, bitterly. Because of him, the Dark had hundreds of mages born in captivity. He was an aphrodisiac to mages. They were an aphrodisiac to him. Like today, this new offering would go into mage-heat, ovulating, as the species could do only in the presence of a seraph. And once again, he would refuse to mate. Refuse something he wanted almost more than forgiveness itself. Refuse to create kylen that could be used by the Lord of Darkness. When the mage was screaming and mindless with desire, their captors would take her away to breed with the being of their choice, to impregnate her, perhaps to create a new captive with special genetic traits. Half mage, half something Dark. But not half seraph. No.

Once they dragged her away, he would be tossed back into his cage to partially heal; twenty-four hours of recuperation until they came for him. Again. His laughter sounded half mad. When he sucked in a breath, the air reeked of his own misery and fear. Tears trickled across his flight feathers, mixing with his blood. A rich, iridescent green, the feathers threw back the dim light of the one candle they allowed him.

How long? How long imprisoned in the wretchedness of this river of time? How many times mutilated? Tortured. Tied to the earth, without flight. That was the worst of it. Was this the humans' concept of purgatory? The pain started to ease. His tears dried.

Watcher. Who are you?

"Go away," he said aloud, his voice a cracked bell trying to ring, speaking to the voice that no one else heard. It came when his pain was still fresh, but becoming bearable, a new temptation devised by his torturers. "Get thee behind me," he muttered. "There are no seraphs in the pit of Darkness, none but me. None."

Watcher. Who are you?

"Blood and feathers," he cursed. "I am no one. The Most High has so decreed. But if you wish to address me, you may call me Barak."

You who were once called Baraqyal? the voice belled, a startled tone. It was a seraphic intonation, the sound like gongs and the soughing of the wind.

Barak rolled swiftly to his feet. "Who are you?" he shouted.

Zadkiel. We are trapped. Help me. Help us.

His wild laughter roared, the sound more than mad, reverberating off the walls of his small cell. "Then we shall die together, O mighty one," he said. "For by decree of the Most High, I cannot transmogrify. And the Dark One has clipped my wings. I cannot fly."

Oh, a softer voice belled. What have they done to us?