By the light of the moon

the grumble and swish of
passing traffic, neither more nor less sweet-smelling than the
traffic fumes were odorous.
    Still turning to the encircling sound of wings, she saw tiers of
candles in the desert south of her position, perhaps twenty feet
beyond the guardrail. At least a double score of votive candles,
racked in small ruby glasses, jeweled the darkness.
    If this was dreamlight, it played on reality with a remarkable
respect for the laws of physics. The metal rack stood at the foot
of a smooth dune, among scattered clumps of struggling sage,
casting a precise and accurate shadow made possible by the bright
votives that it supported. Prowling chimeras of reflected fire
shook their lions' manes and wriggled their serpents' tails across
the sand, while the silvery-green leaves of the vegetation lapped
at the wine-red light, glistening as though they were tongues
savoring a crimson zinfandel. The illumination didn't imprint
irrationally on the landscape, as the supernatural radiance of a
vision might have been splashed in gaudy disregard for reason, but
integrated logically with every element of the scene.
    Also to the south but a few yards east of the candles and even
closer to the guardrail, a single pew stood in want of a church,
and if it faced a sanctuary and a high altar, both remained
invisible. One end of this long wooden bench was buried in the
slope of a dune; a woman in a dark dress anchored the other
end.
    This very vista, without pew and candles, had in distant times
known the thunder of wild horses; and now Jilly's heart galloped
with a sound that seemed to be as loud as hooves pounding across a
desert plain. Her flop sweat had become an even icier perspiration
than any she had known in failure on a stage, and instead of a mere
dread of humiliation, she had been seized by the fear that she
might be losing her mind.
    The woman in the blue or black dress, perched upon the pew, wore
her raven hair to the small of her back. In respect of God, a white
lace mantilla draped her head, and incidentally hung forward along
the side of her face, concealing her features. Lost in her prayers,
she seemed to be oblivious of Jilly and to be unaware that her
house of worship had disappeared around her.
    Always the air was battered by wings, even louder than before,
and ever closer, so that Jilly could clearly identify the
particular feathery flutter of pinions and thus be certain that she
heard birds rather than the leathery flight of bats. So close they
swooped, with an air-cutting thrum and the eerie whisklike
sound of wing vanes spreading, folding, spreading like the ribs of
a Japanese fan, and yet she couldn't see them.
    She turned, turned, she turned in search of birds, until before
her once more stood the open door of the SUV, beyond which Dylan
and Shep were still elevated on the seat of the false confessional,
as radiant as apparitions. Dylan remained unaware of Jilly's
encounter with the uncanny, as disconnected from her as his younger
brother was perhaps forever lost to him, and she could not call his
attention to the candles or to the worshiping woman because fear
had stolen her voice, had nearly robbed her of breath, as well. The
squall of wings became a storm, more tempestuous by the second, a
spiraling rataplan that rapped all the way through her and drummed
upon her bones. These sounds, hard as ratcheting gears, turned her,
turned her, as did the whirlwind stirred by the ghostly wings, a
turbulence that tossed her hair and buffeted her face, until she
rotated again to the sight of the votive candles and to the
penitent on the pew.
    Flash , a pale something flared before her face, followed
at once by a brighter flash, by a feathery flicker as luminous as a
lambent flame. In but a blink, a frenzied scintillation of doves or
pigeons became visible, beating all around her. This fury of wings
implied a wickedness of beaks, and Jilly feared for her eyes.
Before she could raise her hands to protect herself, a hard crack lashed the night, as loud as a god's whip, terrifying
the flock into a greater tempest. A wave of wings splashed her
face, and she cried out, but soundlessly because no cork had ever
stoppered a bottle as effectively as terror plugged her throat.
Dashed by this spray of wings, she blinked, expecting to be
blinded, but all the birds were instead banished by the blink, gone
as abruptly as they had appeared, not merely invisible as before,
but gone with all their sound, with all their fury.
    Gone,