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Rocky Mountains. The pancake house was humming with people — laid-back-looking moms and dads wearing jeans and happy smiles, and little kids bouncing on their seats as they scribbled on their Mr. Pancake coloring place mats.
    He had been to Aspen several times, even before the Invasion. Angels seemed to like it here. Who knew why — maybe it was the fresh mountain air. Alex propped his chin on his hand as he stared out at the snow-covered peaks in the distance. In a strange way, Aspen reminded him of Albuquerque, though Albuquerque was all desert and slanting light; golden stone instead of soaring mountains. It was something about the air — the way you felt so clean and reborn just by smelling it.
    His first solo kill had been in Albuquerque.
    Alex’s coffee cup slowed on its way to his lips as he remembered. He put it down again without drinking.
    He’d been twelve years old. Out on a hunt with Cully and Jake. Martin, his father, had already started getting sort of weird by then — he spent his time stalking around the camp muttering to himself, working his jaw as if he had marbles in his mouth, and when he wasn’t shouting at everyone, he was obsessively cleaning the guns at all hours of the day and night. Though there’d been a time when Alex could hardly imagine anything better than being allowed to go out on a hunt with his father, now he’d felt relieved when he hadn’t come along. And then he’d felt guilty for his relief. His father was a great man — everyone knew that. At least, everyone who counted.
    Even so, the mood was jubilant that day as their Jeep roared out of camp, sending up clouds of dust ten feet high. Cully, who was from Alabama, had let out a ringing rebel yell, and Jake had punched Alex in the arm, saying, “Hey, little bro, think you can take me? Think you can take me?” Suddenly Alex knew that they both felt the same way he did, and the guilt left him in a happy rush.
    “Yeah, I can take you,” he’d said, and lunged at Jake, getting him in a half nelson. Gratifyingly — his brother was two years older — it had taken Jake a few seconds to break free, and then he’d launched himself across the seat at Alex with a shout. The two of them fell into the back on top of the mountain of camping gear, scuffling and laughing.
    Back then, before the CIA had taken over with their angel spotters and coldly efficient texts, a hunt might take weeks. As well as their camping supplies, there were a couple of crates of canned food in the Jeep and boxes of cartridges. Their guns lay tucked out of sight for now: dependable deer rifles that weren’t very flashy but did the job. Cully even had his crossbow with him. He claimed it gave a cleaner shot, but Alex thought he was just showing off. It was a pain, anyway; they always had to go and find his bolt after a kill.
    “If either of you little dipshits breaks that stove, I’ll kill you,” Cully called back in his southern drawl. He spun the wheel, and the Jeep skidded around a curve in a shower of sand and pebbles, sending Alex and Jake banging against its side like rag dolls. Alex knew that once they got into civilization, Cully would drive like a model citizen, but out here it was the end of the world, with only dirt and yucca plants and lizards for company. You could do whatever the hell you liked.
    “Up yours.” Jake glanced at Alex with a grin. Taller and stockier than Alex, he had the same dark hair, the same blue-gray eyes. You could tell they were brothers just by looking at them.
    They both looked like their mom.
    The thought had brought a hard edge to the day. Alex remembered a woman who loved to sing, who used to kick off her shoes and dance along with the radio while she was cooking. When he was little, he used to tug on her jeans to get her attention, and sometimes she’d stop what she was doing and lean down to catch his hands. “Dance with me, lover boy,” she’d say with a laugh, spinning him around.
    Alex knew that Mom was