Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (5 page)

The other questions revolve around the presence of Olivia Holt in my mother’s hospital room. The same Olivia Holt who blew into Stratus like a breath of fresh air, latched onto my dad long enough to encourage his drinking habit, and then left with Marco and the halo.

I know she’s working with Damien. It’s a piece of intel Helene’s been able to glean from the Commander and his Army of Light above.

I have to keep reminding myself that there’s an Army of Light above.

That their commander, Michael, has surrounded the Palatine. I wish I could see the fight from their side, from heaven’s side. I wish I could see what the angels of light look like in battle. It’s miserable to be here, on the earthly side. With the exception
of the Sabres, my intermittent celestial sight picks up mostly the demonic: the rear flank of the Palatine. The stragglers, the Vultures, the ones stupid enough to engage the Sabres on this side while an entire army readies their attack from above.

Even after hours of worship, the sight of these stragglers hovering so near reminds me just how much stands between Jake and me. Not just distance, but demons—actual demons—thousands of them. I’ve faced a demon before, several actually, but this? This is . . .

Impossible.

It’s impossible.

I’ll never see him again.

The thought carves out a place in my chest with a spade so sharp I barely feel the cut. And before I know it, the impossibility of it all is the only thing filling my mind.

Fear is shoveled in with the very spade that hacked me open, and I feel it now. I feel the fear chill my insides. My heart fights back, beating fast. I can see the fear now. It drips from my fingers like motor oil. I have to blink twelve, thirteen times before the sight is swallowed by the Terrestrial. I clench the pictures more tightly in my fist, forcing the tremors in my hands to slow.

It doesn’t matter how far Jake is from me. Doesn’t matter what fills the chasm that separates us. It only matters that he can’t be separated from the love of the One who has the power to save him. And as painful as it is to admit it, that’s not me.

I can’t save him.

But I can fight.

The Sabres worship on this front, fighting in their own way. Canaan and Helene too are doing what they can. And even Jake. Somewhere Jake is fighting, I know that.

It’s time for me to do my part.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I make my way up the front steps of the house Canaan and Jake share. Affectionately: the old Miller place. My feet are bare and dirty. Ignoring the smears of red dirt they leave on the stairs, I push through the always unlocked door and into the living room.

It’s not as hot in here as it usually is. It’s no wonder, with all that once warmed it taken from Stratus . . . just another thought I have to fight to replace. I push toward the bedroom and through the memories of the last evening I spent here with Jake.

It started off so well, so peaceful. A bucket of ice cream and two spoons. And then the two of us sorting through old bulletins, reading news reports, researching the spiritual history of Stratus. It was late when Marco returned for his stuff, when he left with Jake’s bag and the halo. I can’t believe he did it on purpose, won’t believe he took it at Olivia’s bidding.

And then a photo appeared in the chest. Just the back of some guy’s neck and the two words inked there.
Jessica
Rose
, it said. Jake’s mom. Stamped on the back of the photo were the words
Evil
Deeds
Tattoo
Parlor
and an address. Jake took that picture and headed into Portland, hoping to find out more information about the parents who had abandoned him.

But not before we fought.

Because he lied.

That’s not entirely accurate, I know. But it felt like a lie. He let me believe my engagement ring was still in the chest, let me think everything was okay, when months before the ring had disappeared only to be replaced by Damien’s dagger.

Jake should have told me.

But I should have understood why he didn’t.

I was awful.

I move quickly down the hall and into Canaan’s room, where the fear that ate at me that night is too much to push through. I back out of the room and lean into the wall. The angry words I threw at Jake scream at me from the silence, and I’m not ready to face them. I turn away from Canaan’s room and take six steps before turning into the room at the end of the hall.

Jake’s room.

As always, it’s a mess. The floor is covered with all the little details that make up Jake’s day-to-day life. T-shirts and jeans cover most of the floor, but there are books, too, and CDs. I’ve been trying to convince him to upgrade to an mp3 player, but he doesn’t see the need.

“What

What indeed.

With my toe I carve my way toward his dresser. By far it’s the cleanest two square feet in the room. There’s a picture there, on the corner. It was taken in early May, I think: Jake and me in our climbing gear getting ready to rappel off Crooked Leg Bridge. Jake propped the camera on the railing and set the timer. We must’ve posed a billion times to get the exact shot he wanted. Both of us leaning back in our harnesses, his lips on my cheek, my blue eyes staring at the camera. He’s digitally enhanced it so that all the colors are ultra-real. Everything’s too bright. But it’s exactly how that moment felt. I can almost see the Celestial in the work he’s done.

I run my index finger along the frame, and a tiny cloud of dust gathers beneath my nail. I turn away and promise myself that we’ll do that again. Jake and I. We’ll spend a day rappelling and taking stupid pictures of ourselves. Pretend we’re great outdoorsmen.

But pretending makes me tired, and I fall onto Jake’s bed, tummy first, careful to keep my dirty feet off the sheets. He has my permission to be a slob, but I can’t quite give myself the same courtesy.

I press my face to his pillow and breathe it in. Coffee. Sweet and robust. I slide both hands beneath the soft pillow and burrow deeper. My fingers connect with something hard, something square, but before I can flip my hand to grab it, I’ve knocked it to the floor.

I scrabble off the bed, hoping I’ll be able to identify the culprit amidst everything else on his floor. Careful not to put my knee in a cereal bowl he’s stored beneath an old camera bag, I press my face to the carpet and peer beneath the box spring.

Ironically, the floor under Jake’s bed is nearly as clean as the dresser. And there, wedged between the frame and the wall, is a thin, square box. I have to stretch to reach it, but I succeed.

The box is wrapped in brown paper with a piece of black twine holding a tag of sorts. I flip the tag over and read:
Brielle.

Jake’s taken pains to write neatly, something he’s not known for. I run a finger over my name and wonder if this is the surprise he never got around to giving me. With Mom’s empty grave being unearthed and the Sabres showing up in Stratus, with Dad stumbling into an old addiction and my world imploding, I’d forgotten. The box is too thin to be the missing jewelry box from the chest, but I’m intrigued nonetheless.

I twist my finger in the twine and pull. It snaps in half, and I dig at the tape with my fingernails. Eventually it comes free, and I unfold the gift within.

Another photograph.

At first glance I think it’s of Jake and me, but it’s not.

And this picture wasn’t taken with a camera’s timer; this one was taken by a bicyclist that Ali and I nearly plowed over on the waterfront. After we apologized profusely, we begged the poor guy” Jake says. “inow to take our picture.

In it, we’re dripping wet, Ali’s on my back, her cheek pressed to mine, a tangle of bridges crossing the Willamette River in the background. With her hair slicked back and her lips curled into a crooked grin, it’s no wonder I first took her for Jake. Tanned skin and hypnotic eyes, the two of them have a charisma that transcends the lens. It’s that camera-ready stage presence so many have to hone.

I run my hand over her face and sort of laugh-cry at the memory. We’d spent the day walking around Portland, snapping shots, wasting film. And when the day was done, we celebrated with a little romp through the Waterfront Fountain. We regretted it thirty minutes later when the sun set and the night turned cold. But it was a fun half hour, and the picture is gorgeous.

“Thank you, random bicycle man,” I whisper.

The picture is from a roll of film I asked Jake to destroy. The very first day I met him, actually. I pry the brown paper away from the edges of the frame, and an envelope jostles loose.

I lift it from my leg and open it. Inside is an index card and a rumpled film strip.

The very same film strip I thought I’d never see again.

I leave it in the envelope and withdraw the card. Jake’s hand-writing’s not nearly as neat here, and it takes me a couple tries to get each sentence decoded. Once I have it, I read again just to relish the sound his silent voice makes in my head.

I was going to destroy this film strip, Elle, I really was. But
curiosity got the better of me, and I had to have a look first. Once I saw the film, I couldn’t do it. Your life is full of great shots. I hope you know that. Forgive me for breaking my promise.

I slide the index card back in the envelope and withdraw the film. I lift it to the light and run my finger down the silky strip. It bumps here and there over the crinkles, but the strip’s not too bad. Most of the pictures can be salvaged, I’m sure.

I whisper a quiet thank-you to Jake. I’d give anything to throw my arms around his neck and thank him in person, but that’ll have to wait. I tuck the strip of film back into the envelope and look once again into Ali’s face.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Al. You should have been the one with this gift, with my eyes. You would have known what to do with them. You would have been brave. But I’m not brave. Canaan thinks I am, but I’m not. I’m scared all the time. Of what I’ll see. Of what I won’t see. Of not understanding what any of it means. And I’m scared of losing everyone before I figure it out.”

I have to put the picture down on my knees because I’m crying again. I dry my face with the corner of my shirt, then rewrap the picture in the brown paper. The twine is split now, so I just slide the rectangular package under Jake’s pillow without it. I press my face to the mattress and pray that he’ll make it back here. To his messy room and the surprise he’s kept under his pillow relief in that.

When I’m done I stand, grabbing what I can of the courage Ali’s image left lingering in the air, and I make my way out of Jake’s room, back down the hall toward Canaan’s. As pristine as Jake’s is disastrous, white-and-black decor contrast everywhere.
With stalling steps and a tremulous prayer shaking my lips, I make my way to the chest at the foot of his bed.

If it weren’t for the desperate need I have to find Jake, I don’t know that I’d open this chest again. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven the Throne Room for taking my ring, the ring Jake planned to propose with. But it doesn’t matter now. None of that matters. Finding Jake is the only thing that’s important, and the Thrones can help with that.

6

Marco

L
iv starts the car in silence. A fancy thing. Red, like her lips, like the heels she’s wearing. Marco tries not to notice these things about her, but everything about this woman reminds him of what life was like before all the pain. Before Ali. Sometimes that’s a sweet escape.

She walked in the door five minutes ago, and true to the chairman-of-the-board persona she’s adopted, demanded his presence in her car. Her tone irritated him, but after waiting for hours, he elbowed past his pride and complied.

They speed through the West Hills, her car hugging the turns, earning her a shout from a stroller-wielding soccer mom. When they pass the entrance to the Rose Gardens, and the reservoir below it, Marco’s stomach tightens. It’s not excitement. Killing a man is nothing to be excited about, but there’s so much adrenaline blasting through his veins, he’s light-headed at the thought.

Everything about this neighborhood is familiar, and memories stretch their spindly arms out to him as Liv navigates each turn. Marco turns his head away from her and closes his eyes,
hoping for some small reprieve, but the fire burns brightest beneath

Liv’s going the wrong way. She cranks the wheel hard, gunning it up the ramp and merging onto the highway.

“Whoa, whoa!” Marco cries, one hand bracing against the door, the other against the dash. “Why are we getting on the highway? Henry lives here. In Portland. That’s what you said.”

“That’s what I said.”

“So why are we leaving the city?”

She drags blood-red fingernails through her hair but doesn’t answer.

Marco slams his palms on the dash. “Liv!”

“Change of plans.”

“What? Why?”

“You could use some sun,” she says. “You’re getting pasty.”

His hands twist in the seat belt. “You promised me Henry.”

Her brows lift. “You get Beacon City instead.”

“Beacon City? Are you kidding me?”

She grabs her phone from the console and scrolls through it with one hand. With the other she steers the car away from the embankment.