Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

9

Pearla

The Cherub can’t help it. Questions ravage her mind, but her soul longs to sing. So she does. Pearla’s childlike voice is soft, effortless. The frenzy of her wings masks the sound, but she knows He hears and that’s all that matters.

She flies low, the sea churning beneath her. Blues of every shade sparkle in the light of the Celestial, illuminated by the Creator of all things. His glory bursts from within the waves and without, reflecting, bouncing off the water and bending across the sky in an enchanting show of color. Her dark skin grabs onto the light, pulling it with her in a dazzling shimmer across the Atlantic.

In the distance she sees land. Sandy shores and tall leaning trees. Palms waving in the wind. She presses high into the sky and flies on. The coastal villages give way to expansive plains of undulating yellow grasses spotted by the occasional acacia. Migrating creatures, great and small, move in chunky swathes, crossing the Serengeti. Abruptly, the glory of the savannah vanishes, swallowed by a thick, emerald rainforest. Thunder shakes the sky, and a twisting river of deepest bronze cuts through it all, disappearing beneath the lush canopy of the Congo.

And then she stops, her tiny wings skittering like a hummingbird’s, keeping her in place. Before her, emerging from the horizon, is the Army of Light. Not all of it, of course, but the host who travel always with Michael, their commander.

Michael rides out front, his steed a blaze of red and gold. The Commander lifts his javelin, and in turn the flag bearers leading the troops raise their banners high. Three thousand angelic horses halt, their riders’ obedience instantaneous.

A legion of angelic Warriors stare at the Cherub. From this distance there’s not much to distinguish her from the black enemy of darkness.

Pearla moves forward cautiously, her eyes wide open on approach. She carries no weapon—her speed and her size are all the protection she needs. But it’s the white light of her eyes that will identify her as an ally. She knows the moment the Commander sees them. Knows the very second her features can be discerned. She knows it because Michael too becomes clearer in her sight. The creases around his eyes and mouth melt into the luminescence of his skin. His shoulders, armored in thick battle gear, relax and his spear comes down. He kicks lightly with his heels, pushing the faithful creature forward. The steed snorts and gallops ahead, his hooves lost in the atmosphere that birthed him.

Humans rarely think of the spiritual realm as a physical thing, with streets and buildings and beings who can touch and be touched. But the Celestial is every bit as physical as the Terrestrial—if anything, its physicality is even more demanding than the realm they see.

The skyscrapers and bridges of earth, her mountains and lakes—they do not cease to exist in the heavenly realm. It’s true anything without a soul can be passed through, but to angelic fingers it can all be grasped, held on to, and thrown. The angelic mind works quickly, the decision to pass through a wall or to lean against it second nature. It’s subconscious, instinctual, like a chameleon changing colors. But even here, in the realm for which they were created, there are things they can’t do.

The Cavalry, for instance, is gifted with a single set of wings. Rarely abandoning the deep trenches of battle, they have no need to cloak themselves or others. The sinewy inner wings held by the ranks of the Shield and the Herald are not necessary. Instead, they are armed with a pair of large arching wings that tower several feet above their heads. Strong, powerful wings to carry strong, powerful angels. But even formidable wings tire. So the Creator gifted his army with a race of noble steeds. They are an extension of the Warriors themselves—a band of horses born of light, emerging from it when needed and diving beneath the surface, like creatures of the deep, when their presence becomes unnecessary. Never has a warhorse known the minds and needs of its riders like these. Never far from their rider. Ever as near as the Warrior’s next breath of celestial air.

Certain Michael has identified her, Pearla speeds her wings, meeting him halfway. He stows his javelin in the scabbard at his back and swings off his mount. His wings snap wide, catching a gust of light and wind. He moves them softly, keeping him in place. Slivers of wheat-colored hair jut from beneath his helmet, mingling with a downy beard cut close to his chin.

“You are fast, little one.”

“Not nearly as fast as I’d hoped. I thought to join you for the coronation.”

“All went as planned. The malevolent Dominion of Uganda has been uprooted, replaced by one of our own. We’ve left a small contingent behind, and the Shield are receiving orders now.”

Testimonies like this are why she exists. Why she flies to and fro. Success on such an expansive level fills her with adoration.

“Holy, holy,” Pearla begins. Her commander finishes with her: “Holy is the Lord of hosts.”

“Indeed,” he says. Michael’s steed bumps his nose against Pearla’s small shoulder.

“Hello, Loyal.” She reaches out a small hand and scratches his nose.

“He’s missed you. But tell me, Cherub, how fares Abaddon?”

“There’s movement, Commander.”

“The Palatine?”

“Yes. They make for the skies over Stratus, Oregon.”

The wrinkles return to Michael’s brow. “Of the American Northwest?”

“Yes.”

“Reports have their general suffering the pit for his loss here. Whose command are they under now?”

“General Maka.”

Michael’s face and neck flash red and then fade quickly. “The assembly wasn’t just a diversion, then. If the dragon’s sent Maka, he sees Stratus as a threat. Did he allude—”

“Yes, sir,” she interrupts. “One of the Fallen has made contact with a boy who heals.”

This news doesn’t surprise the Commander as much as Pearla assumed it would.

“He’s not the first.”

“He’s not,” she agrees. “But according to the fallen one—Damien by name—the boy’s hands share the same grace as ours. Healing is given with a touch. With speed. With fire.”

Michael smiles. Not only with his lips, but with his eyes and his arms. With the joy spreading his chest, hefting his breastplate. “In the Americas, then,” he says. “It’s about time.”

“Then you’ve seen this before?”

Michael’s hand runs the length of his steed’s back. “Many can heal, little one. The how and why is up to the King. What happened to the demon, this Damien?”

“The boy’s Shield engaged him, and he was cast down.”

Michael stretches his arms and legs, shaking them out, preparing to ride again.

“There’s more, Commander.”

“Go on.”

“Damien claims the boy’s companion—a girl named Brielle—saw through the veil.”

Michael’s mind laughs. Loud and strong. He leaps into the air, dropping onto Loyal’s back. “This is interesting.”

“One more thing.”

“Your trip was fruitful, it seems. Tell me, Pearla, what else do you know?”

“The Prince has received word from an impish spy that the Sabres have been released—that they’ve been spotted in the skies above Stratus.”

The Commander goes still—something he’s not known for.

“If they are allowed to worship, if the veil is torn . . . ?” Pearla inquires, twisting her fingers into Loyal’s mane.

“The Father has made provision for their worship, Pearla. And He’s torn the veil before. A handful of times. The very day our Lord was crucified, the Sabres destroyed not only the temple curtain but the Terrestrial veil over Jerusalem.”

Pearla’s hands knot into tiny fists. She’d known about the curtain, but not the veil.

“Why?”

The Commander lifts high his spear, and the legion of light behind him engages, marching toward them. As they close in, Michael leans toward her, his white eyes sharp against the glowing red of Loyal’s mane. “Only He who created the veil can demand it be torn asunder, Cherub. There is only One, and His mind is His own.”

“What happened? In Jerusalem?”

“Tombs opened, dead men walked again, healings, miracles.”

Pearla knew such things occurred just after the death of Christ, but she’d not connected them to the work of the Sabres.

Michael continues, “But it wasn’t to last long. As men stitched away at the temple’s curtain, repairing it, the Fallen unleashed their own forces, resealing the Terrestrial veil.”

Pearla contains her surprise. “The Creator tore the veil and allowed the Prince’s minions to repair the damage?”

“We all have a role to play, little one. Even darkness. The Father wasn’t done with humanity that day, and He allowed darkness to think they’d won. But not before giving them a glimpse of His power—of His earthshaking, life-giving power.”

Michael spreads his wings wide, opens his mouth, and releases a song of war. The sound rushes through Pearla’s small body, and she clutches the steed’s mane more tightly. Beyond the Commander, three thousand Warriors raise their voices.

“My forces cannot travel nearly as fast as you, and we’re sure to encounter opposition as we approach the Americas. So, go. I’d like to know more about our fallen brother and his plans for the gifted ones. We’ll rendezvous in the skies over Stratus.”

Micheal’s word is law to Pearla, and she waits for no further instruction. Turning back the way she came, she flies west, the Commander and his forces falling farther and farther behind.