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They drove the meandering streets. Giselle seemed to have a goal in mind, following a map only she could see.
"The streets move all the time," she offered up. "The farther away from there"--she jerked her chin toward the center swirl of lavender smoke--"the more stable things are. The outer fringes near the bog are where most of the traders set up and where more of the permanent structures tend to be. We're headed to one of those. We'll get something to eat before we hike in closer to the shrine."
She pointed out a couple of landmarks--a series of steel buildings large enough to house a dozen leviathans each. "That's equipment for a conglomerate of growers. Tractors, harrows, bailers, threshers, all that kind of thing. Magic does a lot of things, but good old-fashioned technology can be a lot cheaper and more efficient."
The steel corrals they passed covered thirty or forty acres and contained a variety of livestock, many of which Shoftiel had never seen before. One area looked like an aviary.
"That's where they keep the pigs." She grinned. "They really do fly now."
Eventually she pulled up in front of a pair of rippled-glass gates. They were set in a tall, thick wall made of stone layered in more glass, like ice. Giselle rolled her window down and tapped the button on a speaker.
"Yes?" came the instant response.
"Giselle from Horngate. I've got an angel with me. Need a place to park, food, and rooms for a couple of days. Usual payment, plus some extra goodies for Merri."
"Enter and be welcome."
The gates slid apart just wide enough for them to pass. A curtain of magic continued to guard the entrance. It sizzled over Shoftiel with unexpected--and familiar--power.
"Your spell?" he asked Giselle.
She nodded. "Money's no good anywhere, but witch services are always in demand. I laid down the wards and recharge and strengthen them whenever I come down."
"All this in just three and a half years?" He waved his hand in the direction of the rest of the city.
She shrugged. "People want to survive. They got their shit together fast. Humans are resilient that way. They worked with magic-kin to develop farms and continued with a lot of city-based industry. Electricity still works there, along with most trappings of life like refrigerators and air-conditioning and streetlights. Gasoline is harder to come by, but magic works just as well as any motor. Trains still operate. Planes do, too, though warding them is tricky. Same with ships on the ocean. If the Guardians meant to knock us back to the Stone Age, they didn't realize what they were up against."
Inside the compound, she drove to a parking barn and was directed to a spot by a wizened woman with a shock of white hair who gave Shoftiel's wings a startled look. Once parked, Giselle pulled a backpack out of the back along with a heavy coat.
"Let's go. I'm starved."
Shoftiel was, too. His mouth watered at the thought of eating, of chewing and tasting. He'd gone years in the Mistlands without. His stomach actually growled.
They entered a rambling two-story inn. Giselle made a beeline for the front desk. A young man waited on the other side. He had pointed ears, smooth black hair, and a narrow jaw. Delicate green designs wrapped every inch of exposed skin. His eyes, when he looked up from his ledgers, were almond shaped with slit pupils. An elf. Probably one of the Irish variety, but he could very well have come from any number of places.
He smiled at Giselle, and bowed his head in greeting. "Welcome back, mistress."
"Hello, Nior. It's good to be here."
With little ceremony, he provided her with a blue crystal key on a chain with a number tab on it. "It's an honor to serve you. May your endeavors be successful."
He bowed again and Giselle led Shoftiel away. He expected her to drop her gear in the room she'd rented, but instead she wound her way to the restaurant at the back of the inn. It was three-quarters full, with a couple dozen diners wearing lavender robes and white-and-black face paint.
"Supplicants," Giselle said before Shoftiel could ask. "They must have come in on a bus." Her frown indicated disapproval.
"What's wrong with them?"
She gave a little shrug and found a table in the corner. Shoftiel followed, ignoring the gasps and rising voices his presence generated.
"You're causing a lot of excitement," Giselle said. "Most people never get to see an angel and there's still a bunch that believe you guys are holy."
His gaze sliced across the watchers and then dismissed them. He speared the witch with his eyes instead. "Why don't you like the supplicants?"
"They come for miracles at the shrine. Most of them get heartache in one shape or another--at least, those who come out. A lot don't."
He considered her words. "What happens to them?"
"Who knows? Enough come out with their prayers answered that people keep pouring in. They don't seem to care that their odds aren't very good. Or maybe they think they get whisked up to heaven."
