Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

39

Brielle

Damien’s here, isn’t he?” Kaylee is huddled behind me, her breath ragged. “He did that to your dad.”

I nod. Afraid to do more than that. My fingers find the quilt on the couch, and I tug it toward me. It’s still wet with the blood from Dad’s head, but I find a clean corner and press it to his shoulder. He remains still. Deathly still.

My hands tremble.

“What do you want?” I whisper to the demon hanging over me.

I hate that my voice sounds subservient, hate that he’s reduced me to that. I hate his voice in my head and the simple answer he gives me.

“I want you. I want Jake.”

His chest is slick with fear. I’ve never noticed how thick it is on him. Is everything he does motivated by it?

I look at my dad’s face, white and clammy, hear Kaylee’s stifled cries, and I wonder what Damien sees when he looks at me. I wonder if the fear is just as thick on my skin as it is on his.

I’m afraid, but my soul is safe.

“I don’t know where Jake is,” I say. “But take me. Leave my dad and Kaylee. Leave them alone and take me.”

For a second I think he considers the option. Am I worth that much? And is this how I die? Maybe that’s why the ring disappeared from the chest. Maybe I won’t be alive to wear it.

But then his wings snap, all irritation and resolve.

“It may come to that, but not yet.”

“Not ever.”

I spin toward the kitchen, and there he stands.

Canaan, in all his celestial glory. Jake is there too, his face anxious, fear like pinpricks along his arms and neck.

“Elle?” Kaylee’s voice reminds me that she can’t see any of this. That her emotions are surfing on every move of my head, on every twitch of my face.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “Canaan’s here. And Jake.”

She turns toward the kitchen, to the spot I stare at hungrily.

“I can’t . . . can’t see them.”

“I know, but I can.”

Jake presses against Canaan’s inner wings, his eyes as hot as ever, and I can’t help thinking of the first time I saw him. Of the chill that held me captive the day I caught him staring at me through Miss Macy’s window.

“Keith’s hurt, Canaan,” Jake says.

Canaan draws his sword. Behind me, Damien rises to his full height, the talons on his feet digging into the arms of Dad’s chair. He draws his own sword. And then something I really should have anticipated: he grabs the back of my shirt and lifts me into the chair before him. His massive arm circles my waist, and I feel the fear creep from his arms to my stomach. It burrows inside, turning my gut into a lake of frozen ice.

“Elle . . .” Kaylee’s sobbing now, shaking and staring at me. “Elle.”

From behind Canaan, a ball of frenetic black energy appears. Another demon? But no, her eyes shine bright and pure. It’s an angel! A very small, very dark angel. Silky wings propel her forward, and she lands on Damien’s chest. Her wings flap hard and fast, and I’m reminded of the time I came face-to-face with a confused bat while rock climbing.

She seems to have the same effect on Damien. He releases my waist, his hands flying high to fight the onslaught. The flat edge of his sword connects with her abdomen, and he swats her away. But it’s too late; I’ve tumbled to the floor now. I land on Dad’s shins and quickly push away, crawling as fast as humanly possible. I grab Kaylee’s hand and drag her with me behind Canaan’s legs, where we huddle beneath his outer wings.

Canaan’s mind speaks to Damien’s. “Your sight has been restored.”

“By the Prince himself.” Damien lifts his chin, puffs out his broad chest, but Canaan’s face shows only sorrow.

“The Prince’s hands no longer possess a healing that can last, old friend. I do hope you know that.”

Damien’s face contorts, and he lunges. And then I feel the hot wind of the Celestial blowing against my back. In one swift motion, Canaan pushes off from the ground and swats at Damien with his sword. Damien blocks the blow, but it takes the strength of both his hands to hold his blade steady. He shoves back, but Canaan seems to be the stronger of the two. Canaan realizes this too and opens his inner wings, releasing Jake. He tumbles to the ground next to me, sending Kaylee into a fit of startled shrieks.

But her voice is quickly drowned out by the sound tearing from Damien’s lips. Like a hawk going in for the kill, he cries out, his eyes on me. I want to hide, but I can’t look away. Canaan smacks him in the face with the hilt of his sword, and Damien’s cry turns brutal. His wings pull him backward, putting distance between the two of them. He lifts his scimitar high and then . . .

And then they disappear from sight.

My chest rises and falls, my eyes open and shut, again and again. But they’re gone. The Celestial is gone. I’m both relieved and terrified.

Jake moves away, toward Dad. He removes the quilt that hangs like a veil over Dad’s face. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause to consider the consequences, he just presses both hands to the wound. I crawl on my hands and knees until I’m next to him. Dad looks . . . well, he looks awful. His hair is matted to his head, a dirty mess of sweat and blood. I push a clumpy strand out of his eyes.

“Are they gone?” Kaylee asks.

“For now.” I grab her hand and pull her toward me.

“Is he . . .” But Kaylee’s voice catches and she can’t even finish the thought.

“He’ll be okay,” Jake says. “He’s just lost some blood is all.”

I have complete confidence in Jake’s healing ability. What I don’t have is an assurance that Dad won’t murder Jake the minute he wakes.

“I told him, Jake. I told him about Canaan.”

Jake looks at me, his face inscrutable. “How did he take it?”

“I don’t really know. Damien’s talon interrupted things.”

“It’s better that he knows,” Kaylee says. “Way better. His head was super messed up about this whole thing. About your mom. Thinking Canaan had something to do with her disappearance. You had to tell him, Elle.”

Jake bumps Kaylee with his shoulder. “Looks like this one knows too.”

“No choice,” I say, smiling at her. “She was here when Damien showed up. And Helene.”

Helene! This is the first free moment I’ve had to consider her.

Kaylee seems to be thinking the same thing. “Do we know what happened to her?”

I shake my head.

“Don’t worry about Helene,” Jake says. “She’s immortal. If she’s hurt, she’ll heal.”

His hands are occupied, but I take his face in mine and I kiss him. Hard. It’s awkward, with his hands still on Dad’s shoulder, but he’s warm and he’s close, and I kiss him again.

“Oh, come on! Demons and make-out sessions? Unless you’re getting me one of these,” Kaylee says, gesturing to Jake, “save it for later.”

“Fair enough,” Jake says, blushing.

“Speak for yourself,” I say, and press my lips to his once more.

“Barf,” Kay says.

“Yeah, barf.” It’s Dad.

We jerk apart, but it’s too late. His eyes are open, his mouth set in a frown.

“Sorry, Dad. I just . . .”

But he’s moving his shoulder now. Jake’s hands fall away, and Dad rotates his arm. He winces, pressing his fingers to the spot Damien’s talon punctured.

“I’m not sure if it’s done, sir,” Jake says.

“Feels a heck of a lot better than it did before.” He looks at Jake. I know that look. It’s the same one he gets when he’s trying to decide if he’s going to eat his dinner steak rare, or bloody and mooing. “What did you do?”

Jake swallows. Audibly. “My hands can . . . God uses my hands to heal. Sometimes.”

And just like that, Dad lets out a sob. Loud and awkward. He sniffs and jams his fist into his eyes, one at a time.

“Thought you said Canaan was the angel.”

Jake is quick to speak. “I’m not an angel, sir.”

“No?” Dad barks. “Then what are you?”

I slide my hand into Jake’s. It’s wet with Dad’s blood, but it’s warm. I squeeze, hoping to convey something encouraging.

“I’m human, sir. Like you. I just have a gift.”

“And Hannah, my wife, is that what happened to her? Did she have a gift? Is that why they took her?”

With celestial eyes I see the waters of misery break over my dad. Murky and cold, they run from his scalp down his chest, puddling into the carpet around him. I didn’t know my lungs could stretch so tight. Didn’t know they could survive the weight of so much emotion. Of so much sadness.

“I wish I knew,” Jake says. “I wish I had answers for you.”

Dad blows out a puff of air, grumbling, cursing under his breath.

“Dad, I told you. Canaan and Jake don’t know anything about Mom.”

Dad rolls his shoulder again, his expression the fuming side of doubtful. I’m readying myself for an angry outburst, for a barrage of questions, when the room fills with music. Louder than I’ve ever heard it. It’s everywhere. It’s between us and under us. It dances around us. I see the tendrils of incense swirling about, see it wrap Kaylee and Dad tight, see them both gasp and blink and turn their heads left and right.

“Okay,” Kaylee says. “I hear that.”

“They both do,” Jake says, mesmerized. “They both hear it.”

And then from outside, Canaan calls.

“Jake! Brielle!” His voice is strained, desperate, and Jake pulls me to my feet.

Dad tries to stand, but he’s still weak.

“Don’t even think about it, Dad. You’re hurt.”

Dad’s face is purple with the strain of trying to stand, but he’s still stubborn. “You telling me what to do, baby?”

“Yes, I am.” I shove him down, taking no satisfaction in watching him wince. “Kay, stay with him, please. Keep him here.”

The last thing in the world I need is Dad getting attacked again.

She nods and Dad protests, but Jake’s pulling me with him, and I turn my focus away. We run hand in hand out the front door and into the field and then we’re standing next to Canaan, the three of us staring into the apple orchard behind the house.

“What is that?”

“Is that . . . ?”

“Do you . . . ?”

“How . . . ?”

Jake and I start to formulate questions, but our lips won’t finish them. The orchard is on fire, but it’s not burning. The trees, the mangled overgrown shrubs, the weeds protruding everywhere—it’s all a bright red. Not the frightening bloodred of violence, not that terrifying crimson shade, but dazzling, luminous.

The music continues to swell, piping louder and louder. Violins and pianos. And voices, so many voices. Flutes and the deep swell of a bass. And I see the music. See it with celestial eyes, just as I saw it in the house. Curling ribbons of worship in color after color, wrapping the orchard and then rising above it higher and higher until it disappears into the army of death above.

The blood racing through my veins turns hot with desire. I want to touch it, to be part of whatever is making the orchard flame. I want to be inside those trees, inside that life.

I release Jake’s hand and I run, flying through the grass, dropping down onto the orchard floor. I shove aside branches, needing to find the source. My hair catches on a limb, but I press forward, ignoring the pain tearing at my scalp. The fragrance of worship surrounds me: flowers and fruit, salty sunlight and the smell of Gram’s front yard. It’s all so familiar, so achingly familiar.

And then Jake is next to me. I smell the coffee on his skin, the sugar of his touch as it brushes my shoulder.

Sweat pours down my arms, down my back. “This isn’t the Celestial, is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, looking around. “I don’t know what it is.”

I look at his face, at his eyes. He’s on overload trying to take it all in, as confused as I am.

“The Terrestrial veil is thinning,” Canaan says. “Here, in Stratus, as it did on the mountaintops above. They’re doing it slowly, carefully.”

Jake and I turn at his approach. He steps off the grass and onto the orchard floor. As he walks toward us, flickers of his celestial self come into view. A thread of light wrapping his waist and then disappearing. A white wing there and then gone. His eyes, silver then white, then silver again. One half of his face yellow with a celestial glow, and then fading again to the olive of his human form.

“What does that mean?” Jake asks.

“It means that if the Sabres continue to do their job, if they’re not stopped by the army above, eventually the veil will tear.”

“Is that good or bad?” I ask, the thought both wonderful and terrible in my mind.

And then for the briefest of seconds I see Canaan in his full celestial regalia: alabaster wings, cords of light that wrap his legs and waist, his feet and chest bare, his silver hair floating on waves of celestial heat. The red orchard surrounding us is glorious, but it’s nothing to his beauty.

He smiles. “Wasn’t it Hamlet who said, ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so’?”

I turn my eyes back to the trees—back to the red, mottled trees—and I try to understand what Canaan’s just said. He helps me.

“For the man drowning, rain is only another helping of tragedy, Elle, but to the man on fire, that same rain is the last hope he has.”

Proverbial truth. An orchard on fire. Fragrance and music. Light and life. My senses are on overload. What will happen if this veil actually tears? What will happen to those who don’t understand? To those who do?

My heart hammers my ribs, the thud-thud of it quivering outward from my chest, filling my arms, my legs, my neck and face. And then I realize it isn’t my heart. It’s the sound of drums.

“Do you hear that?” I ask Jake.

He shakes his head, and I turn my eyes to Canaan. His head is cocked, the intensity of his gaze tells me I’m not alone in what I hear.

“What is it, Canaan?”

He listens for a moment more and then stands taller.

“The drums of war,” he says. “The Palatine attack.”

I turn my eyes to the sky but I can’t see past the trees. Can’t see past the beauty, and that terrifies me. I’m claustrophobic, panicky. What does this attack mean for my dad? For Kaylee? How will they fight? They don’t have a song.

Canaan strides toward us, and Jake’s hand finds mine. Canaan steps behind us, but he does not cloak us, he does not take us into the safety of his wings. He remains in his human form, a hand on both our shoulders, and together we listen.

The drums are closer now, and I hear strange, violent voices. Like animals. Like angry, raging animals, they approach. I step closer to Jake, squeeze his hand tighter.

And then Jake is quoting Scripture. “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him I will trust.’”

I know this one. It’s a psalm, written by King David. I join in, and Canaan does as well.

“He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked.”

And then a silver light invades the orchard and we’re surrounded.

I scream out, but Canaan’s grip on my shoulder tightens, and I understand we’re in the presence of friends. Of allies. Of the angelic. Their backs are to us. Their forms are so bright I have to squint to see, but I make out wings of blade on every single one of them. We stand within a circle of gigantic winged men, their swords drawn, the metal-like feathers of their wings vibrating one against the other, encasing us in song.

I resist the urge to count. I don’t need to. Helene told me. There are twelve of them. Twelve Sabres, and not a single one of them is cloaked.

“Some things were never meant to be secret,” Helene told me.

Virtue turns toward us, his silver form vibrant against the red limbs that surround us.

“It’s time to remember,” he says to me.

“Remember what?”

“Why the grave is empty.”

He steps closer, his white eyes mesmerizing. I watch them closely for some sign of what I’m to do, of what I’m to say. And then I’m falling into them, into his eyes. Into the purity of love’s greatest expression.

And I remember.