I arched up and out.

I hovered briefly in mid-air at the apex of the arch, my arms spread wide, my hair drifting above my shoulders in a state of suspended animation.

From here, as I briefly hovered, I could see Lake Mathews sparkling under the nearly full moon. I could also see the barb wire fence, too. Only in southern California do they surround a lake with barb wire. Beyond, the cities of Corona and Riverside sparkled like so many jewels. Flawed jewels.

And then I was falling, head first, like an inverted cross. The bleak canyon walls sped past me, just feet away. Dried grass swept past me, too. Lizards scuttled for cover, no doubt confused as hell. Dry desert air blasted me, thundered over my ears.

I knew the protrusion of rock was coming up fast.

I closed my eyes, and the creature in the flame regarded me curiously, cocking its head to one side.

Faster, I sped. My outstretched arms fought the wind.

The creature in the flame, the creature in my mind, seemed somehow closer now. And now I was rushing toward it - or it was rushing toward me. I never knew which it was.

I gasped, contorted, expanded.

And now my arms, instead of fighting the air, caught the air, used the air, manipulated the air, and now I wasn't so much falling as angling away from the cliff, angling just over the rocky protrusion. In fact, my right foot - no, the claws of my right foot - just grazed the rock. Lizards, soaking up what little heat they could from the rock, scurried wildly, and I didn't blame them.

Here be monsters.

I continued angling down, speeding so fast that by all rights I should be out of control. Wings or no wings, I should have tumbled down into the ravine below, disappearing into a forest of beavertail cactus so thick that my ass hurt just looking at them.

But I didn't crash.

Instead, I was in total control of this massive, winged body, knowing innately how to fly, how to command, how to maneuver. I knew, for instance, that angling my wings minutely would slow me enough to soar just above the beavertail, as I did now, their spiky paddles just missing my flat underside.

Yes, completely flat. In this form, I was no longer female. I was, if anything, asexual. I existed for flight only. For great distances, and great strength, too.

Now, as the far side of the canyon wall appeared before me, I instinctively veered my outstretched arms - wings - and shot up the corrugated wall, following its contours easily, avoiding boulders and roots and anything that might snag my wings or disembowel me.

Up I went, flapping hard. And with each downward thrust, my body surged faster and faster, rocketing out of the canyon like a winged missile.

In the open air, I was immediately buffeted by a strong wind blowing through the hills, but my body easily adjusted for it, and I rose higher still. I leveled off and the thick hide that composed of my wings snapped taut like twin sails.

Twin black sails. With claws and teeth.

Below, I saw dozens of yellow eyes watching me silently. I wondered just how much these coyotes knew...and whether or not they were really coyotes.

The wind was cold and strong. I was about two hundred feet up, high enough to scan dozens of acres at once, as my eyes in this form were even better, even sharper.

I was looking for the ravine that I had seen in my vision. Only a brief flash of a vision, of course, but one that remained with me, seared into my memory. In particular, I was looking for what had been tossed into the ravine.

No doubt, whoever had tossed it had thought the package was as good as gone. After all, even a team of policemen and state troopers couldn't cover every inch of this vast wasteland.

I flew over hills and canyons, over Lake Mathews and its barbed wire fence. High above me came the faint sound of a jet engine, and in the near distance, a Cessna was flying south. I wondered idly if I showed up on their radar, but I doubted it. After all, if I didn't show up in mirrors, why would I show up on radars?

The wind tossed me a little, but I went with it, enjoying the experience. Everything about this form was enjoyable. The land spread before me in an eternity of undulating hills and dark ravines, marching onward to the mountain chains that crisscrossed southern California. Yes, even southern California has mountains chains.

I flapped my wings casually, without effort or thought, moving my body as confidently and innately as one would when reaching for a coffee mug. I circled some more, looking for a match to the snapshot image in my head. I continued like this for another half hour or so, soaring and flapping, turning and searching. And then I came upon a hill that looked promising.

Very promising.

I descended toward it, dipping my wing, feeling the rush of wind in my face...a rush that I would never truly get used to. Or, rather, never wanted to get used to. How does one ever get used to flying? I didn't know, and I didn't want to know. I wanted the experience to always remain fresh, always new.

The hill kept looking promising, and now there was the same stunted tree that I'd seen in my vision.

I swooped lower.

There, resting next to the tree trunk and nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, was a small package. No, not quite. A bulging plastic bag.

I dropped down, circling once, twice, then landed on a smooth rock near the tree, tucking in my wings. Feeling like a monster in a horror movie, I used my left talon to snag the bag, then leaped as I high as I could, stretched out my wings, caught the wind nicely, and lifted off the ground.

A few minutes later, back at my minivan and naked as the day I was born, I opened the bag and looked inside.

"Bingo," I said.

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