Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (12 page)

Canaan opens his inner wings, releasing us onto the mountain. My bare feet catch rock and I stumble, the halo tumbling from my brow. Jake catches it and steadies me. Behind us, Canaan stands in his Terrestrial form wearing his swim trunks and nothing more.

“Watch,” he says, his eyes shining with excitement. “Watch.”

So we do.

There’s little that amazes like the top of a mountain. From here we can see the Sisters—Faith, Hope, and Charity—three volcanic peaks sitting to the north, the moon lighting the snow still glistening on top. There’s also Broken Top and a few other peaks whose names I can’t remember. Bowls of snow nestle into the mountain here and there. There are a handful of lakes that surround the mountain as well, but the night has cast many of them in darkness and I catch only glimmers of moonlight winking back at me from their surfaces.

Jake’s hand cups my elbow. He moves his fingers down my forearm, sliding them into mine.

“Look,” he says, his hazel eyes dancing like Canaan’s.

It takes a considerable amount of self-control to look away from those eyes, but when I do I nearly forget myself and take a step forward. Jake pulls me against him, preventing a fall.

“What
is
that?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “What is it, Canaan?”

“It’s the veil,” he says. “The Terrestrial veil.”

It
is
a veil. I see it now. It’s as though a sheer curtain hangs in front of the mountain, blowing in the wind.

So delicate. So fine.

And then it starts to glow. The gray-and-white mountain brightens, its snow shimmering. The stone is no longer a flat gray but has the look of precious stones stacked one on top of the other. Their shades vary from a deep chocolate to a glossy silver, light springing from their craggy facets.

I’d panic, but I’m fairly certain I know what I’m seeing.

“It’s the Celestial,” I say. “But how?”

“Come,” Canaan says, transferring, pulling us with him, the Celestial swallowing us once again.

“What are they?” I yell.

Standing, flying, hovering about the summit of the closest mountain—Charity—are several angels. I’m not close enough to make out their features, but they’re definitely angels. Something about the way they move, though, something about the color of their wings is unfamiliar. They’re different from Canaan. Different from Helene, but I can’t quite see how.

“They’re Sabres.”

“Sabres,” I say, savoring the sound of the word.

Our flight is not so much a flight but a glorified jump toward Charity. My stomach is sick with the roller-coaster-like phenomenon, but now that we’re closer, I look more carefully at the angels before us. They’re larger than any I’ve seen before, and brighter. I count them on approach—a dozen—and then I watch them, trying to understand their movements. Light curls around them, tendrils of incense rising into the sky.

“What are they doing?” Jake asks.

“They’re worshiping,” I say, awestruck.

Is there a rhyme or reason to where they’ve positioned themselves? Some of them kneel, some of them stand staggered across the rock, but the one thing they all seem to have in common is
their wings. They’re metallic. Not just in color, but in their very construction, it seems. I have an inexplicable need to reach out and touch them, to run my fingers over a single feather.

“They’re huge,” Jake says. “How tall are they, Canaan?”

“Eight, nine feet.” There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice.

Canaan leans forward and tucks his wings close, throwing us into a fall. I’d scream, but I think my stomach might tumble into the sky. A moment later he pulls us right side up, my lunch somersaulting back into place.

We’re close now, so close that I can see that touching a Sabre’s wing may be the fastest way to lose an arm. I set to examining the nearest one. He’s gigantic, like Jake said. And his eyes are pure white, trademark white. Like Canaan’s. Like Helene’s. He has the celestial gaze of one who’d lay down his life for another. His skin, too, is white, so white it looks almost silver. His muscled arms and chest make Canaan look trim. But as much as I can find things to admire about his physique, it’s his wings that so separate him from any other angel I’ve seen.

Their beauty is staggering, their design inexplicable. Where I expect to see rows and rows of snowy white feathers, one blade lies on top of another—thousands of them—sharp and glistening silver. I can’t help but compare each and every one of them to the dagger that pierced my chest this past December. To the instrument of death that bled me dry on a rooftop.

Yet these blades are pristine, polished, organic even. The Sabre adjusts them and they ripple, a trilling tune making its way to my ears. His kinsmen do the same, and the skies fill with music. Loud, warlike, with a tremor of delicate strings woven
through it. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard. My throat tightens with emotion, and I gasp again and again.

Canaan’s voice sounds in my mind: “These are the twelve who originally reported to Lucifer himself.”

I remember now that Lucifer was created to be the Chief Worshiper, and yet I find it hard to believe that the Prince of Darkness could be as beautiful as these.

“Leaders of song,” Canaan continues. “Their wings are instrumental wonders, their vocal prowess unmatched. At the Prince’s command, these twelve were responsible for leading all of the heavens into worship of the Creator.”

Canaan sets us down near their crude circle, but he doesn’t release us from his embrace. There’s a Sabre kneeling ten yards to our left, his hands cupped before him. Another stands just in front of us. His wings tower high above his head and scrape the rock at his feet, hundreds and hundreds of daggers making up his wingspan. They rub one against the other, trembling, sending music far and wide.

He doesn’t acknowledge us in any way. None of them do. They’re lost in worship.

Their song fills the air, and with my feet so close to the earth, it’s all I can do not to fight against Canaan’s hold, so deep is my desire to dance.

I think of Moses on the mountaintop, a story I read in my mother’s Bible. I remember the burning bush and the voice speaking out of it, telling Moses to take off his shoes. Telling him he was on holy ground. It makes sense to me now.

The Sabres open their mouths and lift up a song, and tears pour down my face at the sound. I sniff, trying to keep another round at bay, and that’s when the fragrance catches my nose.

It’s the smell of worship.

Sweet like honey and smoky like a campfire. Deep and thick like the ocean’s waters and fresh like their spray all in one inhalation.

I turn to Jake. Tears dampen his face, and his eyes are riveted on the sky above us. I tilt my head to see. Tendrils of smoke waft into the sky, bright colorful incense. It curls from the chests of the Sabres as they sing and lingers above us.

Canaan’s voice seeps softly into my mind. “It’s time to go,” he says.

I want to plead with him for just a minute more, but his outer wings are already moving, pushing us away from the Sabres and back toward Mount Bachelor.

Jake says, “That was . . . it was . . .” But he can’t seem to finish the thought. I understand entirely.

“Keep your eyes on the sky,” Canaan says.

The gentle tenor of his voice stills me, calms my hurried heart. In the distance the Sabres continue to worship, their wings sending mirror-like reflections bouncing across the sky. Tendrils of incense twist from their mouths, from their wings, climbing higher and higher, tangling with the scent of worship pouring from the others.

One final ice-blue tendril curls toward those of his kin. Up and around it loops, twisting like a ribbon around the bundle, lifting the sweet smell of their worship ever skyward.

The sky sparks. I grab Jake’s hand as it hisses, spitting light and color in every direction. The Sabres’ song grows louder, more insistent. Their wings continue to play, whirling faster and faster, eventually lifting each one into the sky.

“Canaan?” I yell, his wings whipping hot air against us. “What’s happening?”

“Watch,” he says, his mind as calm as ever. “Just watch.”

Our hands clenched, our breathing fast, Jake and I watch as the wings of the Sabres tear through the Terrestrial veil.

15
Brielle

H
elene meets us in the skies, the lake a golden mirror below us. Her auburn hair flies about, red leaves blown on a warm celestial breeze.

“You saw them, then?” Canaan’s mind asks.

“I did,” she answers. “Did you know they were here?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing from the Throne Room. You?”

“Nothing. I’d very much like to see Virtue. Is he among them?”

“He is.”

Her white gaze travels beyond Canaan’s wings. I’ve never seen her so eager. “Will you join me?”

“I shouldn’t. It isn’t safe for Jake and Brielle.”

“Yes, and they’re needed back at the picnic area. I should have told you. The others are ready to go.”

“It’s not far, Canaan,” I say. I can tell they’d like to see their brothers.

“Yeah, we can see the campground now,” Jake says. “Drop us here. We’ll walk.”

“Well, don’t actually drop us,” I say.

Canaan laughs. “Never.”

Jake’s right. The walk is short, and we’ve very little time to discuss the Sabres or their song. But it consumes me. Their precisely crafted wings, violent in their beauty. Their worship—their stunning, sweet-smelling, harmonious worship—fills my mind. The air around me feels generic without it. Manufactured, unrefined. I’m struggling to explain my impressions to Jake when we emerge from the trees and the Terrestrial becomes far more real than I’m ready to deal with.

Olivia’s guiding Dad to his truck. The food’s been packed away; Delia and Kaylee are nowhere in sight. Our festive picnic area looks forlorn, and my face falls. Seeing the Sabres was an experience I’d never trade, but I suddenly feel bad for abandoning the party.

There’s not much time to dwell on that, though.

Dad’s further gone than I realized. He stumbles, nearly taking Olivia down with him. Marco catches her and they laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. Marco grabs Dad’s other arm, and together they coax his foot up and onto the running board. The sight of their two slight figures hefting my father into his pickup drains the life and light that had blossomed in my chest. My feet are heavy, frozen to the dirt.

But Jake jumps in, taking Olivia’s spot and hoisting Dad up and in. With a hand to his chest, Jake holds Dad against the seat while Marco stretches the seat belt across Dad’s lap.

Olivia stands with her hands on her hips, her long, dark hair hanging loose.

I hate her.

She did this. Dad was fine until he met her.

I step to her side. “You should have cut him off.”

“Me?” She doesn’t look nearly as offended as she should. “I hardly know him. But you—where
were
you?”

I want to slap her. I’d like to say I’m above that, but I’m not. She broke my dad.

I hold out my hand. “Keys.”

“I can take him.”

“No. You can’t.” I feel her gaze on me, sharp, like a knife. But I’ve been stabbed before, and I can handle the threat in her eyes.

“And just how am I getting home?”

“Jake,” I ask, walking toward the truck, “will you drive my car, take Marco and Olivia?”

He looks over his shoulder, his expression tender. “Whatever you need.”

And he means it. He’ll do anything to make this easier for me. There was a time, not long ago, when Dad was that person—the one who made it all better.

Olivia isn’t done talking. “What if I don’t want to ride with—”

“Then walk.” There’s a shrill edge to my words, and Dad rouses. His eyes swim in his head, but he’s aware enough to notice Jake’s hand on his chest. He swats at it.

“Dad!”

He leans past Marco and throws up. Jake sees it coming and tugs me out of the way, his arms the only thing tethering me to sanity.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

“Hey,” Jake whispers, holding me tight. “It’s not a problem.”

Tears roll down my face as I look at the wreck Dad has become. When he’s done emptying his stomach, I dig a beach
towel out of my bag and mop his face, the others looking silently on. I’m ashamed. Of my dad. Of the little amber bottles that have turned him into an idiot. Of the fact that he’s turned me—his nineteen-year-old daughter—into his babysitter.

Jake walks me to the driver’s side and opens the door for me. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, lifting me into the cab and closing me in. Dad’s snoring surrounds me, loud and obnoxious. My hands shake, but I turn the key in the ignition and leave the lake behind. Dad wakes only once on the drive home. His head rolls toward me; his face is impossible to discern in the darkness, but his hand finds my knee.

“You missed the fireworks,” he says.

I rest my hand on top of his, forcing the anger from my voice. “Sorry about that.”

But he’s snoring again.

It’s better that way, actually. I’ve nothing to say. Nothing kind, anyway. And we did miss the fireworks, Jake and I. A stitch of sadness pierces my heart. It’s been two years since I’ve seen fireworks with Dad. Two years since I’ve seen fireworks, period.