Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (28 page)
“That’s kind of his job, Elle.”
“But what if it could be my job too? Obviously it would be different.”
“You don’t have wings.”
“True. But I could teach. I love teaching dance, and I could use the rest of my time to”—and then I speak the possibility that was planted in my gut last December—“maybe I could do something about people like Henry. Maybe I could make a difference, you know?”
Her hands pause in my hair. “You want to use your eyes to help.”
The thought makes me shudder. “I don’t know. Maybe.
Honestly, Kay, seeing is hard. When I’m with Canaan, it’s okay, or with Helene. When I’m tucked in their wings, I’m safe—or mostly safe. But, without that . . . I wish I could turn it off. Most of the time I wish I could turn it off.” It’s an embarrassing thing to say. Because seeing is a gift, I know it is. And you don’t return celestial sight like some decorative plate!isowpD; from T.J.Maxx.
“You mean use the Prince’s halo?”
I had told her about Danakil, about the Prince’s offer.
“No,” I say. “I wouldn’t.”
“But it’s tempting?” She flips my hair up from the bottom with one hand, rummaging through her bag with the other.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s tempting.”
She’s jabbing bobby pins at me now. Bobby pins are her favorite. I’m always impressed that I survive this part.
“There,” she says. “All done.”
I pat my head. Feels like a gazillion braids tied into a bun of sorts. Cool. Much cooler than the simple fishtail I did for her.
“What’s Jake going to do?” she asks.
I
spend the rest of the afternoon at the hospital. When I arrive, Becky’s there. She’s tucked in the corner of the room reading while Miss Macy snores softly. I squeeze her hand and walk to the viewing area where Mr. and Mrs. Sadler hold vigil.
It’s still black, still smeared with fear. Mr. Sadler’s doing his best to sleep on a cot that’s been rolled into the corner, but he’s fitful. Twisting and turning, shaking. And it’s no wonder; the fear is so thick here I can hardly move through it.
Mrs. Sadler tells me there’s been no change. The large chair swallows her, and I can see she’s been trying to knit, but her hands are mostly tangled in the yarn. I offer to bring her lunch; she refuses, and when I step into the hall I feel more miserable than I’ve felt in a long time.
It’s different from the fear of Danakil. Different from my hatred of the demonic.
This is a desperate kind of misery.
I make my way back to Miss Macy’s room. It’s brighter here, warmer. There are splotches of fear here and there, but most of
it’s gone. Becky and Miss Macy speak in soft, docile tones. I pull up a chair next to them and sit, let them hold my hand. We pray together, and I realize that though I might be gifted, though I might see the spiritual world in a way they may never see it, there is so much I can learn from them.
“We’re not giving up on the girls,” Miss Macy tells me. “We aren’t, are we, Becks?”
“Not at all,” she says. “We’ve learned from our mistakes&DKow entirely.”
“We’re going to keep fighting,” Miss Macy says. “And we’re not going to stop. I expect you to do the same, sweetness.”
When I leave the hospital, I don’t go home. Instead, I park Slugger in front of Miss Macy’s studio and let myself in. I don’t bother flipping the lights on. Sunlight is scarce beneath the awnings, but enough of it makes its way through the large front windows to light the studio.
It’s just me.
And I’m not here to perform.
But I’m out of words to pray, so I’ll let my body worship for a while. I’ll fight, just like I promised Miss Macy. Like I promised Canaan.
I text Jake and ask him to meet me here after work, and then I drop my phone into my dance bag and pull out a case of CDs I carry with me. The first is a compilation Jake made awhile back. It has a bunch of his favorite bands on it. I drop it into the CD player and make my way to the floor. The vocalist is female; I always forget her name, but her voice moves me.
I listen to the music, to the words. I let them fill me up before I move a step.
“You hold my every moment. You calm my raging seas.”
When I do move, I keep my mind on the words, not my feet. I let the song tell me what to dance. I think about the things I’ve learned about God over the past seven months, and I let the truth lead me into worship. An hour passes before I slide to the floor against the mirror. The room is full of color now—ribbons in a hundred different shades of yellow. I watch them curl around the room, up and through the ceiling. There is so much darkness to see, so much fear. It’s easy to forget the beauty. But it’s here. Always close.
I’m tired, but I have words now. So I pray them. It’s awkward and stilting, but there’s no one here to overhear. Even the old men who hold court at The Donut Factory across the street have called it a day. I pray until Jake walks through the doorway.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.
I grab a towel from the barre and wipe the tears from my face. “You here for a dance lesson?”
“I wish. You get Kaylee’s message?”
“No, I’ve been—”
“Marco’s headed to the city,” he says. “We need to go.”
When we get to Kaylee’s, she’s sitting on the front porch, wind chimes tinkling around her.
“Is he gone?” I ask, climbing out of Slugger.
A gust of wind hits me. Cold. Really cold. The Northwest is like this. The cold creeping up, elbowing its way into summer, but this feels different. Turbulent. The wind chimes on the porch go manic, and I crane my face to the sky. What is going on up there?
“Not yet,” she says. “He’s waiting on a cab.”
“It could be awhile then,” I say, but Jake’s already up the stairs and in the house.
I stop in front of Kaylee. “What happened?”
“Said he had a dream. That Liv was in danger. Insisted on going into the city.”
“But you don’t think he’s telling the truth?”
“What do I know?” she asks. “But it sounds an awful lot like he’s using Liv as an excuse to go after Henry.”
“I don’t think he knows where to find Henry,” I say.
“Like I said, what do I know? But he doesn’t look normal, Elle.”
“How does he look?”
“See for yourself.”
I start up the stairs, but Marco flies past me. He’s got a backpack on his shoulders, Ali’s journal in his back pocket, and a Bible in his hand.
“I’m going,” he says. “I have to. Damien’s there. At her place.”
“And you saw this in a dream?” Jake asks, stepping out the door.
“Yes, I told you.”
I’m not sure what to do, what to believe. I’ve never dreamed of the future before, just the past, but who am I to say it isn’t possible?
“What exactly did you see?” I ask.
He pinches his eyes shut. “Fire. There was a fire.”
“Like at the school?” Jake asks.
“No,” Marco says, frustrated. “Smaller. But Henry was there, in a wheelchair. Damien stood over him with a scabby-looking knife. And Liv was there, you guys! She was screaming.”
He gave us the whole dream, but I heard only three words: scabby-looking knife.
“Kay, did you tell Marco about the dagger in Canaan’s" class="tx" a
L
iv leaves the door open and walks back to the seating area. The air moves when she steps in front of Marco. She smells of fall. Of cinnamon apples and spice. He lets her pass, Brielle’s keys flipping on his finger.
“You going to put it on?” he asks.
“Is it going to make me change my mind about the files?” She drops back to the hearth. “Is that why she gave it to me?”
“She doesn’t have an ulterior motive, Liv.”
“Everyone has an ulterior motive.”
Marco slides the letters aside and sits next to her. “I don’t. If you want me to help you destroy the files, I will. Just like that.”
“There are only eighteen files, Marco, and I have a fire. I don’t need help.”
“Then why haven’t you done it?”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking around. “Where did the wine go?”
“You always know. Why are they in your safe when you could have burned them next to those hard drives?”
“Because I’m not sold on destroying them, okay? I just . . . Ah! I hate having that little know-it-all dictate to me.”
Marco stands and retrieves the bottle from the mantle. “You have a warped view of Brielle, you know that?”
“Do I? You don’t think she’s pulling strings? Trying to get everyone to do things her way?”
“Sure she is,” Marco says, handing her the bottle. “But aren’t we all? Aren’t you?”
“Always.” Her eyes drift to the bookcase by the door. To the halo sitting there, shining, beckoning.
Marco watches her. “Liv, when was the last time you felt hope?”
The creamy skin of her brow gathers, and she blinks her focus away. “When was the last time the Seahawks had a shot at the Super Bowl? 2006?”
“You don’t even watch football.” next to Canaan’s.29p A
“I do when we have a decent team,” she says.
“Liv.”
“Look, Marco. I’ve survived. Survived Javan and Henry. Survived Damien. That has to count for something. And what’s up with you, anyway? You were jonesing to kill Henry, what, two days ago? What kind of hope is there in that?”
He turns, stares at the old man.
“I don’t know what’s happened to me, Liv. Honestly, I have no idea, but it’s better. Whatever’s happening in my head isn’t as miserable . . . I haven’t felt hope since Ali. And even then, it was just hope for
us
, hope for our future and our little family. But that halo . . .”
She stands, moves away.
“Listen to me, Liv,” he says, standing. Following her. “I have
hope now. Beyond just me. I have hope for you and for your future. For Jake and Brielle. For all those children you want to help in Beacon City. I even—gah, Liv, I even have hope for Henry.”
“Don’t you dare,” she says, spinning, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Don’t you dare. He doesn’t deserve hope.”
He grabs her wrist, refusing to let her walk away from the conversation. Needing her to understand.
“And I do? The warehouse Ali died in, I sold it to Damien. I knew he was up to something, but I didn’t care. I was selfish and I got my girlfriend killed, my unborn child murdered. I don’t deserve hope.”
“Marco . . .”
“Hoping good things for you is easy,” he says. “For Jake and Brielle it’s cake. But I’ve seen what Henry could have been. In my dreams I’ve seen what he could have done in this life if it weren’t for the disease, for all his diseases. And for the first time in months I know that darkness isn’t all there is.”
She tugs her arm free. “It’s all I’ve ever seen.”
He stands eye-to-eye with his childhood friend. “Then put it on.”
Her eyes flit to the halo once more, and Marco thinks,
Maybe, maybe
. But a cool breeze appears out of nowhere, and her hair lifts. The room goes cold and the air whistles as something slices through it. And then in the corner of the room, Henry sputters. Marco turns toward him. Wine dribbles from his lips, down his chin.
But wait, it’s not wine, it’s blood.
“He’s been stabbed.” Marco hurdles the coffee table and stumbles over the corner of the rug in his attempt to get to the old man.
“That’s impossible,!.”owpD;” Liv says, her voice trembling. “It’s just us.”
And then it isn’t.
Damien stands between Henry and Marco. He has some sort of army knife in his hands, Henry’s blood dripping from the blade to the floor. Marco tries to back away, stumbling over the rug he just upturned.
“Why?” Marco asks. “He’s all but gone.”
Damien wipes the blade on his pants and slides it into the sheath strapped to his thigh.
“Oh, I’m just finishing him off. I cut his soul down days ago, while you were in Stratus securing me the halo.” His eyes are on Liv now. “Without Javan, he was showing signs of remorse, and I promised my old friend I wouldn’t let his pet project switch sides. I gave you a few days, though, doll. Thought you’d like to watch him waste away.” He grins. “You’re welcome.”