Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (29 page)
“Yes, sir, I am, and I’ve been sent to help.”
Jake’s open to anything right now. Anything except standing here talking.
“Go ahead, Pearla,” he says. “Tell us.”
“Your charge is right, Canaan; you’re far too bright to enter unnoticed.”
“Do you believe the Palatine will abandon their posts to attack a single Shield?”
“It’s possible. The Palatine are vicious fighters, but they aren’t known for their ability to follow commands. But more to the point is that they’ve been given incentive to capture Jake or the girl themselves. The Prince has promised a reward.”
Jake’s heart flips.
“General Maka’s made it clear that the Sabres are their first priority, so while he won’t command the legion to pursue a single Shield, you may attract the attention of a few who are more interested in reward than fearful of General Maka’s wrath.”
“Fair assessment, little Cherub.”
“The Prince wants Jake. Wants Brielle. But he did not send
the Palatine for that task. They are here to ensure the Sabres do not succeed.”
“So your plan, Pearla?”
“I suggest you both enter, but in your human form, Canaan. That way your entrance will not be so conspicuous.”
“My celestial form won’t be hidden entirely from the eyes of the Fallen.”
“No,” she says, “but you’ll have a chance—a much better chance—that way. I’ll stay near, in the Celestial. I’ll warn you if there’s anything to fear.”
“Won’t they see you?” Jake asks.
“Not if I’m careful. I’m created for such purposes. Darkness was given to me as a gift, and the Fallen often mistake me for one of their own.”
“But your eyes . . . ,” Jake says.
“Will give me away if I’m not careful.”
“So . . .”
“So, I’ll be careful.”
So matter-of-fact. So light. So carefree. Her plan, her presence fill Jake with confidence.
“This will work,” he says, standing.
It’s a long second before Canaan joins him. “It could.”
“We have to try!”
“Okay,” Canaan says, his hand on Jake’s chest, his eyes on Pearla. “Let’s do it. Let’s try.”
I
dive to the ground, my palms scratching against the rough grass, my check pressed to a pinecone. And that’s when I hear the music. It crawls in through my ears, but it doesn’t settle there. It moves through my body, through the invisible spirit part of it. It’s a wave that moves over every part of me, pulling me into myself and out of myself.
I long to stand. I long to stretch my limbs and dance to this song, to worship with my arms and my legs, with my whole body. I’m on the verge of giving into this craving when the memory of a single dagger slicing through my chest floats to the surface of my mind. It hangs there, terrifying me, keeping me frozen. The idea of a thousand daggers is enough to keep me huddled on the grass a moment longer.
Maybe many moments longer.
I curl tighter into myself, listening to the music. To the sound of instruments I can’t name and voices so familiar they sound like fractured parts of myself. And then the fragrance reaches me. The smell of worship. I breathe it in. It’s joy and life,
and it’s not long before my desire to understand trumps the fear blossoming in my chest.
Why are they here?
I sit up. Dried grass has woven itself into my hair, itching my face and neck, but I can’t make myself care. Before me the world is in sharp focus, and I see it all with celestial eyes.
Damien faces my direction, hovering about thirty feet off the ground. He’s armed with his scimitar, but he is small compared to the angel opposite him. Virtue stands on the ground, between Damien and me. Silver light is thrown about, reflecting off his body and his wings, but he’s not nearly as bright as he was in the graveyard.
His wings continue to play, the dagger-like blades moving back and forth, a symphony on his back. I look at Damien, at the ridiculous scimitar shaking in his blackened hand, and I know: he’s no match for Virtue.
Damien must know this as well. He flies backward several paces, and Virtue turns toward me. Thousands of blades stand at attention, aimed now at Damien. Virtue’s white eyes rest on me, compelling me to speak.
“Your song,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
He steps toward me, dazzling in his splendor. My eyes water, but I brush the tears away, refusing to close my eyes on him.
“Not nearly so beautiful as yours.”
I choke. He’s obviously never heard me sing.
“Believe me, child. It’s the song of the Redeemed that terrifies darkness. It’s your song, not mine.”
The idea that I, all emotion and fear and confusion, could terrify my enemy—could terrify Darkness—seems senseless.
“I don’t terrify anyone.”
“Oh, but you do. Only humans can know the joy of being redeemed. Of being lost and then found. It is your song that reminds the Prince of Darkness that he’s already been defeated. That the day will come when even Abaddon won’t be able to protect him from the light he’s rejected.”
Virtue’s words are a salve in my mind and in my heart, and though I’ve no idea how a song can help me now, I’d stand and talk to him forever if I could. But above Virtue’s strong chin, his smile turns hard and thin. He glances over his shoulder at Damien and then back at me.
“I’ve not been given authority to destroy this one,” his mind says to mine, “and I have my own assignment to complete. But remember well what I have told you.”
I think about nodding or saying okay or something equally insufficient, but in the end I just stand there and watch. He squats, his enormous legs flexing and shoving him into the air. The sky looks almost neon against the imposing hoards above. Virtue’s wings beat against it, releasing music and lightning that tear across the expanse. Even the closest of the demons—still miles away—skitter for cover, their strange forms melding like waves into sinking sand.
Virtue flies off to the north, his silver light going with him. I stare at the demonic forces above and watch their lines re-form.
The song of an angel.
That’s all it took to frighten hundreds. To scatter them.
I see the enemy in a new way. As frightened children. Terrified of what we’ll see. And of what we’ll do with the knowledge it brings.
God’s children are stronger than we know.
I’ve lost track of Damien, but with each passing minute he
concerns me less. What concerns me most is not the army above or the demon using me as bait for Jake. What concerns me most is that of the three of us—Kaylee, Dad, and me—I’m the only one with a song.
A redeemed song.
I’m the only one who can fight against our enemies.
The thought starts me trembling again, and I turn away from the demonic ranks high above and storm up the stairs. The moment I cross the threshold, the Celestial implodes before me and I’m left with only our living room in shades of brown and blue.
Dad is conscious. He’s propped against his La-Z-Boy, Kaylee wrapping an Ace bandage around his head. I drop in front of him, shoving aside displaced cords and what looks like the corner of the television.
“Time to talk, Dad.”
He stops moaning and blinks back at me. Kaylee chews her lip, but her hands are steady, her eyes dry. I hate that I’ve put her in this situation, hate it. But the only thing I can do now is make sure she can fight.
But Dad first.
My gaze is unflinching, and to my great surprise he looks embarrassed.
“I should have told you before,” he says.
I rub my scraped hands against my thighs. There’s a world of things he’s left unsaid. Which one is he talking about?
“You should have told me what before?”
“I should have told you about the music.”
I go still. Kaylee too.
“What music, Dad?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes close and he leans his head back against the chair, his face pointed at the ceiling. Kaylee secures the bandage and steps away.
“You hear it, Elle. I know you do.”
It’s Virtue and maybe another like him. The music seeps through the walls. I imagine it curling around us, filling the room. But I thought I was the only one who could . . .
The idea strikes hard and fast, like a bird colliding with an unseen window.
“You can hear that?”
He grunts. “Wish I couldn’t.”
“Kay?”
She’s sitting on the couch, looking lost without her phone. “I don’t hear anything, Elle. Should I?”
I shake my head. “No, you’re good.” I turn my attention back to Dad. “When . . . when did you first . . . ?”
“The day your mother disappeared.”
The air whooshes from my lungs, but when I next inhale, I realize he’s just given me a puzzle piece. I open my eyes wider, not wanting to miss a single one.
“That was it, kid. Just the once. Thought I was going crazy, but it faded. It left not long after your mom.”
I’m still, so still, afraid to move. Dad has seven, eight, nine gray hairs in his beard.
“That was it. Just the one time until . . .”
And then I begin to understand.
“That Sunday, in the house,” I say.
Dad keeps his eyes shut, his head tilted back on the seat of the chair. “I’d been hearing it for a couple days by then, but yeah, I know you heard it too that day. And then at the lake—at
the blasted lake. It was all I could hear. And then Canaan started whistling that same miserable song. The one I heard in the house. The one I hear when I’m trying to sleep or work. The same one that disappeared with your mom. The same song that follows me everywhere.”
Tears slip down my face now. No warning. Just tears.
And understanding.
“I should have told you, Elle. But how could I, without telling you about your mom? That she disappeared. That I . . .”
“That you buried an empty casket.”
He clears his throat, his face splotchy again. “And now I can’t stop hearing it. It’s everywhere. The noise. The music. I can’t
not
hear it. And I know that whoever took your mother—whoever it was—I know they’ve returned. They’re the ones responsible for desecrating her grave.”
My head aches and my eyes burn. Dad might not be wrong. It’s the first thing he’s said in weeks that makes any sense. And yet . . .
“You know Canaan had nothing to do with it, right?”
Dad looks past me.
“Tell me you know that. Tell me you understand that Jake and Canaan were just as surprised by Mom’s empty grave as I was.”
Dad remains stubbornly silent.
“Dad!”
Kaylee climbs off the couch and wraps her arms around me.
“He was whistling the same song, Gabrielle.” He says
whistling
like it’s a nasty word.
I look to my friend, to the helpful expression on her face. She’s not accusing. She’s giving me an opportunity. I see it in the
lift of her brows, in the encouragement behind her weak smile.
Tell him,
her face says.
Tell him what you told me.
The air is sticky and uncomfortable—it reeks of the alcohol on Dad’s breath and the dirt caking my clothes—but I take a deep swig of it and press a hand to Dad’s knee.
“I bet all the angels know that song.”
Dad’s eyes narrow and his mouth drops open. “Wh—”
But he doesn’t get to ask his question. Blood explodes on his shoulder, a bright red firework against his white undershirt.
He yells out, lashing, but that just makes the blood run faster. It drips down his arm and Kaylee screams out.
“Dad!” I cry. “Dad!”
But Dad’s head lolls and he drops back, unconscious.
And then Damien’s there, crouching in Dad’s chair, his wings too big for our living room, his body wholly unwelcome in Dad’s favorite seat. He withdraws the talon he’s driven into Dad’s shoulder and leans into my face.
“There’s a reason we’re invisible, girl. You can’t think we’d let you destroy that.”
T
hey reach Main Street unscathed. Jake’s about three strides behind Canaan, and they move fast. Only someone who’s really seen Canaan run would know he’s working hard to keep his pace reasonable. Pearla, for her part, has stayed invisible to their human eyes. Jake’s not seen her since they left the covering of the trees, but he knows she’s there. Believes it with all his heart.
They catch several wary glances as they hurl themselves down Main. Jake ducks his head and presses on, veering into the road to avoid the ever-present table of old men enjoying their donuts and coffee.
“Donut, Jake?” Bob yells.
“Not today, gents.”
Canaan turns down a side street, his pace quickening as they enter the thin alley backing the stores on Main. Jake pumps his legs harder as they pass the rear of Jelly’s. He hops a stack of flattened cardboard boxes and clips his knee on a discarded street sign. And that’s when Canaan skids to a stop. The rubber tears free of the toe on Jake’s right Chuck as he slides through
the dry dust on the alley floor, but he manages to stop just short of Canaan’s left shoulder, coughing with exertion.
Pearla stands before him in her human form, her dark face ashen. He catches only one word. “Transfer.”
Jake doesn’t have time to steel himself before he’s wrapped in Canaan’s wings and lifted into the sky. He sees Jelly’s, its neon lights strangely magnified in the Celestial. The enormous grape jelly jar is there, a smear of violet against a backdrop of orange marmalade. Canaan continues toward the diner, toward the very end of Main Street. From there it’s just a short flight up the highway to Brielle’s.
Below Jake the Photo Depot, The Donut Factory, Miss Macy’s, the community center—they all glow bright, a variety of occupants within shading the skies with various hues. To his right, beyond the community center, the small church is nestled in a rainbow of color.
He loves the sight of Stratus lit up with God’s glory, but the anxiety eating away at his gut leaves little room for adoration. Especially when a blotch of darkness skates across his line of sight.
His heart redoubles its efforts, but a second glance shows him a familiar face.
Pearla.
Her wings are fast. Faster even than Helene’s.