Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

23

Brielle

Dad is cursing when I step out of the shower Monday morning. I hear his voice through the bathroom door, hear the hurt in his words, the anger, the hangover.

I wrap a towel around myself and slide down the wall, listening. Sheriff Cahill’s trying to calm him. “We don’t know. We just don’t know, Keith.”

Dad curses. Again. “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s been a day now, you should know something.”

“Well, we do know there were . . . explosives involved.”

“Explosives? Like firecrackers, that sort of thing?”

There’s a long pause, and I press closer to the door, imagine the sheriff taking off his hat, scratching his head. “Maybe,” he says. “I guess it coulda been firecrackers.”

He can’t believe that. I know what he saw, and it wasn’t a souped-up Roman candle.

But I wonder how his mind assimilated the Sabre, how much it shrouded what he saw in doubt. Virtue was more light than anything else that night. Still . . .

I put my ear to the door. I’d like to get dressed, but after my dramatic exit yesterday, I really don’t want to talk to these two again. They can’t talk long anyway. Dad’s got work, and the sheriff’s obviously got an investigation to conduct. But I hear nothing to suggest they’re leaving. I dry my hair, and still I hear only their low voices and their feet bumping across the linoleum floor.

And then I realize they’re waiting on me.

They want to talk.

What else could they possibly have to say?

I yank my pajamas on, one leg at a time, and then I climb into the shower and pop the window out with my elbow. A trick Kaylee taught me freshman year. Squeezing through is considerably more difficult than it was back then, but I pull myself through the tiny window and onto the row of trash cans Dad keeps on the side of the house. I knock the recyclables over and scratch my knee on the stucco, but I make it out.

I round the house and grab my own window, still cracked. I shove it all the way open and half climb, half tumble inside.

“Brielle?” Dad’s muffled voice carries through the door. “You ’bout done in there?”

I freeze, a weird bundle on the floor, and I listen.

“Brielle?” He’s knocking, but he’s still at the bathroom. I strip off my pajamas and rifle through my drawer for a pair of underwear. There’s a red sundress draped over my hamper. I pull it on over the underwear, grab my sandals, and cram the wretched halo onto my wrist before jumping out my window and running across the field that separates my house from Jake’s.

If running away from your problems is ever acceptable, it’s right now. It’s this moment.

The fact that I’ve become an imposter in my own house—that I’ll do anything to avoid talking to my dad—hits me. The halo sends waves of heat up my arm, but it’s not enough to end the battle tearing my insides apart. Still, I don’t really lose it until I’m at Jake’s, standing in his empty living room.

“Hello?” I yell. “Jake? Canaan?”

But no one answers.

Hating the darkness, I march through the house turning on every light. My fist slams into the switches down the hall and in the office. The walls rattle, and I release a laughing sob at the stupid sense of power it gives me. When I reach Canaan’s room, I pause. It’s empty. Marco’s bag is tipped haphazardly on the bed, but I don’t waste much time staring at the bed. It’s the chest at the end of it that seems to always have half my attention these days.

Really it’s the ring inside.

The hope of a happily-ever-after.

And I want to feel better right now.

But I want to be mad too.

I don’t want to hurt, but I want to nurse the anger a little longer.

I can feel the halo doing its thing, thawing me, calming me.

I’m half-tempted to yank it off. To give in to the frustration. Just for a while. Because this warring sensation in my gut sucks.

The wanting to be angry.

The needing to know what happened to my mom. The wanting to forget. The desire for it all to go away.

And the whole time the halo reminds me that there’s something else going on. What I see isn’t always what is. It’s certainly not all of it.

I tip my hand and shake the halo off my wrist. It reforms into the crown—the crown given to Canaan by God the Father. For refusing to join Lucifer’s rebellion. For staying when so many left.

The risk of sleep is nil, so I place it on my head.

Canaan’s room gives off rays of light here and there, the transition slow. And then the light swallows me. So bright, so real. And as much as I hate to admit it, the sadness wanes and my anger at Dad dims. But I still don’t want to see him, so I’m careful at what I look at, at how much focus I give the walls.

I like walls right now. I need them to keep unwanted sights from my eyes.

And yet it’s been months since I’ve looked inside the chest. Months since I’ve seen the ring that’s to be mine.

I turn my gaze on the chest and focus.

But nothing.

The sides don’t thin out, they don’t become transparent like every other surface when focused upon. I try harder, stepping closer to the chest.

Zip.

Zilch.

Strange.

I move toward the chest, slowly, very aware that this is not my room. But I’m trying to understand. The chest was given to Canaan by the Throne Room. Does that mean it’s impenetrable?

I kneel and place my hands on the lid, lifting and shoving at the same time. The smell of wet grass and spicy evergreens wafts from within, and for the first time in forever I look forward to the autumn. To cooler weather.

“Hey!” a voice calls from the living room. “Anybody here?”

It’s Marco.

Shoot.

I slide the lid shut and yank the halo from my head. I stare at it, willing it to move faster.

Come on!

As soon as it’s reformed, I jam it onto my wrist and head for the door.

“Yo, intruder?” Marco calls again. “You left the door open, and I’m a paranoid ex-con. I’d answer if I were you. You don’t want me going psycho on your—”

“Yeah, Marco,” I yell. “It’s just me. I’m here.”

“Brielle?” he says, his voice closer.

We meet in the hallway near the office door.

“It’s me,” I say. “And you’re not an ex-con.”

“Tell that to the talking heads.”

“Yeah, well, it seems truth depends on who’s holding all the facts these days.”

He looks at me through waves of black hair. “Jake told me about your mom, er, her grave. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” I step past Marco and into the kitchen.

“You really think your dad buried an empty casket?”

I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “He did. Told me he did, anyway. You want?” I say, offering Marco the bottle in my hand.

He takes it and sits at the kitchen table. “Why would he do that?”

I shrug. I don’t want to give Dad’s excuses credence by bantering them about.

“You not talking to him?”

I take a swig. “Jumped out the window instead.”

“Ah. Jail break.” Marco removes the lid from his water bottle and spins it on the table. It spins, spins, spins—longer than I would have thought possible, his long fingers nudging it as it slows. “Been there. Done that.”

“Any advice for a first-timer?”

He stops the lid with his palm.

“Nah. Well, just that sooner or later you have to face the music. But you know that. And your dad’s a good guy. Can’t hold his alcohol, but he’s a good guy. I’m sure there’s some kind of explanation.”

It’s different talking to Marco. He doesn’t try to fix me.

He twists the lid again and I watch it spin, thinking about the barbecue, about Marco’s first impression of my dad—that he’s a good guy. How could he possibly have arrived at that conclusion after the drunkard Dad turned out to be?

“You and Olivia went to school together?”

“Yeah, Benson Elementary. I haven’t seen her in years. She had it rough back then. Rougher than I did, at least, and that’s saying something.”

Despite my dislike for the woman, I’m curious. “Her parents split up?”

“Her dad died. But that was before I knew her. She and her mom moved into the neighborhood—sheesh, when was that—well, it was the summer before fifth grade, so . . .”

“A century ago?”

He laughs. “Something like that. But then her mom died, and that was worse. A lot worse.”

“How so?”

“It was a fire. We were there when it happened. Burned hot, burned fast.”

“You were there?”

“Yeah, gah, it was awful. A fire at the school, her mom was inside, parent/teacher conference or something. Just, you know, one of those freak things, I guess.”

“Freak thing? How did the fire start?”

“I couldn’t say, really. I was a kid. Eleven maybe. Ten. There was an investigation, though, I remember that. I remember the police combing the neighborhood, so I bet we could find details online.” He pulls a smart phone from his pocket and opens the browser.

“But what were you doing there?”

“Flirting.”

“With Olivia?”

He sets the phone down. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s weird to see her all over your dad, but back then, she was this gorgeous young thing in a neighborhood that was a little desperate for beautiful things.”

It’s strangely therapeutic to know I wasn’t the only one with a fractured childhood. “I didn’t realize you grew up poor. I thought your dad had money.”

“Sometimes. He had these ideas. Always with the ideas. Half the time we were rolling in cash, the other half we were scrounging the couch cushions for change to pay rent.” He slides his finger over his phone again. “Internet’s slow here.”

“It’s Stratus.”

“Right. Hey, can I ask you something?” he says. “I just . . . Hang on a sec.”

“Sure,” I say to his back. He’s already halfway down the hall. I think of Olivia, of a story that feels familiar, like a book I’ve read in the distant past. I can’t place the title and I can’t remember the players, but the plot rings true. I take another sip and Marco’s back in his chair, flipping through a leather journal.

Ali’s journal.

I can’t help but notice it’s taken quite a beating since he was here last, creased down the middle like it spends a lot of time in his back pocket.

“I’m glad you keep it with you.”

He keeps flipping. “I like to read it. It’s her, you know? I mean, I know it’s not, but she’s in here somewhere, in these pages. It’s stupid, because I always thought I knew her so well, but she was brilliant, you know? Like, really brilliant. Her words make me think.”

Memories tackle me, tickle me, summon a smile. “I always loved that about her.”

“Here,” he says, turning the journal toward me. “This quote, it’s not Shakespeare like everything else in here. Do you know it?”

A single sentence lines the top of the page: Men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.

I know it. This quote. I know where it’s from. But it’s the drawing below it that splits my world in half. It’s a pencil sketch of a woman’s hand.

Rings adorn her index and middle fingers, manicured nails gently curving toward her palm. Her forearm is exposed, three jagged lines marking the skin.

“Elle?” Marco asks, his hand suddenly on my wrist. “You okay?”

I search the page for something, anything to put this in perspective. But all I see is the girl in the marble hallway, Javan digging invisible claws into her arm. Somehow this girl made it to adulthood, otherwise how could Ali have seen her arm? How could she have drawn it? And now the child in the hospital makes sense—Ali’s journal putting it in perspective.

I haven’t been dreaming recent events. I’ve been dreaming about things in days gone by.

But why?

“Are you all right?” Marco asks, his hand on mine.

“I’m sorry. The apostle John wrote those words,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper. “They’re from the Bible.”

At the word Bible, the halo thrums against my arm. It’s not a soft, subtle thrumming. The thing is shifting. I let my arm fall to my lap, but the halo’s unraveling, moving slowly, reforming into the crown. It rubs against the underside of the table, the gold rim sliding against my arm.

This is a different kind of terror. Different from a sketch that mirrors my nightmares, different from my mom’s empty grave. What do I tell Marco if he sees the halo move? I’m neither qualified nor prepared for that conversation.

My brow breaks out in a sweat, and I swallow. I have nowhere to hide this thing. I’m wearing a sundress, for crying out loud.

“Brielle? Are you all right?” Marco leans forward, looking into my eyes. “You’re pale.”

I want to reassure him, but mostly I want him to back away. Far away from the halo warming my arm. I lean against the table and press it against my stomach, wrapping it in the material at my waist. Standing, I turn away from him.

“Brielle?”

My sandals sound like army boots banging away at the floor as I run down the hall and into Jake’s room. I try to slam the door behind me, but it bounces off of something with a dull thud.

I hear it vibrate open and turn back to close it.

But Marco’s there. Followed me down the hall, his face concerned.

Stupid chivalry.

“What’s wrong?” he says, grabbing my shoulder.

That’s all it takes. My dress shifts, and the halo slides down my arm, tumbling into the air. It’s about halfway between the cuff and the crown when Marco catches it. But even his grip can’t stop it from reforming, and he jerks his hand away. I’m not sure if it’s the heat or the foreign feeling of metal moving under his touch, but the halo falls, landing on a pile of neatly mated socks.

Marco crouches, peering at the halo like a boy staring at a wriggling earthworm.

What is he thinking?

I want him to say something.

No, I don’t, because it’s sure to be a question.

A question I don’t know how to answer.

“Please tell me this is a homing device,” he says. “That it’ll take us back to the Enterprise if we click our heels together and say sweet things about home?”

I sink to the floor, kneading my face with the heels of both palms as the halo finishes its transformation.

“You know, I—I haven’t tried that.”

His eyes are reflected in the burnished surface. They look bulbous, amplifying this ridiculous geek-out. “Where did you get it?”

I don’t know what he’ll do if I tell him, but I know this: I won’t lie to Marco like my dad lied to me. Not even to make this conversation easier.

“Jake gave it to me,” I say.

“Can I touch it?”

I nod. He’s not looking at me, but I do it anyway. “It won’t hurt you.”

He presses his face closer and his fingers prod at it, like he plans to dissect it next. After a minute he slides his index finger around the rim. “It’s so hot. It’s like . . . like your hands,” he says quietly, his emerald eyes finding mine. “The night we found the children.”

He’s talking about something that happened at the warehouse. I reached down to help Marco up, and after wearing the halo for several days, my hands had taken on its heat. At the time he looked . . . well, like he looks now. Confused and in awe all at once.

It’s a feeling I understand.

“It does that,” I say.

He finally plucks up the courage and lifts the halo in his hands. I nearly have a heart attack, but I let him.

“What is it?”

And there it is. The question I really don’t want to answer.

“It’s a halo.”

I jump at the voice, but it’s Jake, standing in the doorway. Suddenly the world weighs half as much.

“Halo? Like the game?” Marco’s eyes haven’t moved from the crown in his hands.

“It’s nothing like the game,” Jake says.

And then he does it. There isn’t time to do anything but gasp before Marco has the thing on his head. It’s that fast. My throat makes a strange sound, and Jake looks as stupefied as I do. But he holds his hands up, his eyes telling me to wait.

Waiting is hard.

“It’s so hot,” Marco says. His shoulders sag and his eyes flutter and I don’t know what to do, what the halo will do. Jake must sense my discomfort, my need to act, because he signals again that I should wait.

Marco’s cheeks flush red, and his eyes, though closed, move back and forth behind his lids. He takes one . . . two . . . three . . . four peaceful breaths and then his breathing accelerates, faster and faster. He groans and cries out, jerking upright and sending the halo tumbling to his lap.

His upper lip breaks out in beads of sweat and his face takes on a slick, white pallor.

“Marco?” I say, crawling closer. “Are you all right?”

His Adam’s apple moves up and then down as his trembling hands push the halo off his leg, flinging it from him. It tumbles to a rest under Jake’s bed, but Marco’s standing already, holding every bit of my attention.

“Marco?” I ask again.

He shakes his head and turns away, toward the door. Toward Jake.

“Sit down, Marco. We’ll explain.”

His head turns left and right, and his hands continue to shake. I remember a time, in this very room, when mine did the same. I realize only half a breath before it happens that Marco is going to run, just like I did.

And then he does.

His shoulder connects with Jake’s as he pushes past him and down the hall. I stand and lurch toward the door, Jake already pursuing him. Before I make it halfway down the hall, I hear the front door open and close.

Marco’s gone.

As I round the corner into the kitchen, Jake flings open the door, his momentum propelling him onto the porch. I’m right behind, but when I fall into step next to him, his arm wraps my waist and I stop.

“Let him go,” Jake says.

“What if he saw the Celestial, Jake? He won’t understand that without help.”

“Not now. If I know Marco, he needs to try to figure this out on his own. When he reaches the end of his understanding, he’ll be back.”

“Jake . . .”

“Waiting is a part of the process, Elle. His mind can’t be forced.”

Canaan’s said those very words to me. On that same night. The night of the warehouse. The night Marco touched my hands and realized something was different. What did he tell himself about that? Did he reason it away?

What will he tell himself about the halo?

And how long will it take him to realize he needs help understanding?

I lean into Jake and watch as Marco disappears. He’s headed toward town. Toward Main Street.

There’s not much there, but I hope he finds what he’s looking for.