The platform below us pricks like coral beneath my legs, but when I scrape my fingernails&reinow against it, tiny granules slip under my nails and stick to the pads of my fingers. I rub them against my palm.
“Salt,” Jake says, dabbing a finger to his tongue. I do the same. I notice then how stiff my upper lip is. I pull my hand away to see flecks of dried blood. I’ve split my lip a couple of times in the hours that have passed, but there’s no cut now. The scrape on my chin has also healed, leaving behind only a stained face and collar. Being pressed against Jake has many, many advantages.
“There’s so much of it,” Jake says, crushing the salt between his thumb and forefinger.
“A wasteland of salt,” Canaan had said. He wasn’t kidding. The salt has formed enormous flat lumps that jut from the ground like trodden mushrooms. They surround us, an army of petrified suction cups spread across the desert. I start to count them, but there are too many.
And while the desert tastes of salt, it smells of sulfur. Of brimstone. It’s a smell I will always associate with evil. I tug the collar of Jake’s blue sweatshirt over my mouth and nose, willing my stomach to remain intact. In the distance a dark mountain rises. To our right and left, beyond the yellow salt platforms, I see what look like pools of green acid. Some kind of hot spring, maybe.
“I can’t believe people live here.” Sweat coats my skin now, soaking into my clothes. It has to be at least 115 degrees under the sweltering sun. I release Jake’s waist for a moment and strip off the sweatshirt, grateful for the sleeveless shirt beneath. But now the salt in the air mixes with my sweat, sliding into the creases of my elbows and knees, twisting in the beads around my neck. It grates like sandpaper. “This is what I imagined hell would look like.”
“It’s terrible,” Jake says. Sweat drips down his face, turning his sandy hair dark and slicking it to his forehead.
I see fear. It’d be easy to miss—here, in this hostile environment, with so many things to stimulate my senses. But the black stain spreading like spilled ink from Jake’s chest reminds me just how much is at stake.
I reach out a hand and press it to his sternum. Jake gasps at my touch and the fear latches on, clamping my fingers. Before it can shake me, before it can make me tremble, I pray. Out loud. Which is hard for me, because I hate looking stupid. I’m not sure I get all the words in the right ss="tx" aid="I
15
Jake
When he’s snatched from Brielle’s side, Jake expects to be slammed against something hard and cold. The heavenly body of one of the Prince’s underlings. Damien, maybe. So when the heat of the desert gives way to the heat of the Celestial, Jake groans with exhausted relief. He’s been scooped up awkwardly and his injured arm only complicates matters, but even as he moves and adjusts he can feel the heat seeping into his shoulder, into his heart, soothing things he didn’t know were tender. He can feel his shoulder healing.
“Canaan?”
“I’m here.” The angel’s voice is strong and steady. The first sure thing that’s entered Jake’s mind in hours.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, his eyes closing. He doesn’t have the strength to fight the serenity that surrounds him. He’s wounded and exhausted, and the Celestial is beyond inviting. Still, he squirms, trying to find complete comfort.
Canaan’s inner wings loosen, putting a few feet between himself and Jake and creating a cradle of sorts. Jake slides to the center and rolls onto his back, facing his Shield as they soar through the sky.
“Hold on, son,” Canaan says, his voice stiff, his lips still. “Rest.”
Jake lets the fire of healing replace the pain. It nearly lulls him to sleep, the brightness and the&09ow entirely colors filling his thoughts, streaking everything with peace. He could revel in this kind of slumber for days, but in the back of his mind he understands there are things to fear. That this healing is only the beginning. And it’s only moments before a very real, very terrifying thought wakes him.
“Where’s Brielle?” he says, his eyes flying open. “Why didn’t you grab her?” He tries to sit up, but Canaan’s wings tighten around his arms, keeping him still.
“I tried,” Canaan says, his face painfully stoic, golden tears running down his face. They drip from his chin and land on Jake’s chest. In all their years together, Jake’s never seen him cry—not in his celestial form—and it tells Jake just how desperate a situation Brielle is in. “The Creator wouldn’t allow it.”
“What?” Like his laugh, Canaan’s tears are contagious, and Jake doesn’t attempt to stop the ones now running down his face. “Why?”
Another voice, shrill and noxious, slips into Jake’s mind. “The Prince has other plans for her.”
Over Canaan’s shoulder a demon flies into Jake’s line of sight. His scimitar is outstretched, aimed at Canaan’s neck. A warrior-like impulse overwhelms Jake, and he reaches for the sword of light Canaan always keeps sheathed at his hip. As if he could wield it, even lift it.
But it doesn’t matter. The scabbard is empty.
And for the first time since he’s been pulled into the Celestial, Jake notices Canaan’s hands. They hang loosely at his waist, shackled with chains made of the same icy stone the Fallen use to fashion their blades.
“We’re being escorted,” Canaan says. He adjusts his inner wings, turning Jake so that he faces outward. “Look.”
Jake presses his palms to the transparent wings, looking out over the desert. The world is a show of fire and color, vibrant earth tones dotted with patches of lime and apple red. His arm and shoulder are free of pain, but what he sees brings an entirely different kind of ache.
They’re surrounded on all sides by demonic warriors. Thick demons, clad in dragon armor, like the ones he saw mutilating Canaan. Suddenly things don’t make sense.
“We saw you attacked,” Jake says, “your feathers stripped.”
“You saw what the Prince wanted you to see,” Canaan says.
It seems Canaan’s not closed his mind to their demonic escort. They chuckle and hiss, leaving Jake feeling left out of a very awful, very black kind of joke.
“The Prince manipulates what is,” Canaan continues, “and turns it into what isn’t. I’m here, yes. I came like you knew I would, but I was outnumbered and beaten. I was shackled. Instead of showing you that, he showed you my destruction. My spiritual flaying. He always starts with what’s possible,$eate Jake. His lies are built with light.”
It’s a terrifying thought. Especially with Brielle suffering alone. She counts on her eyes, on what she sees—especially in the Celestial. With that kind of power to fuel his lies, the Prince could convince her of almost anything.
“But how would he—”
“Everything you see—everything—is based on how the light is filtered through your eyes. Temperature affects that. The chill of fear affects that. When a created being, like the Prince, learns to manipulate the light . . .”
“A mirage,” Jake says, sickened. “He made us see something that wasn’t there.”
“I finally understand why he likes the desert so much.”
“Circle back, Shield,” a demon hisses. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
The demons lift their weapons higher, and Jake finds himself facing the sharpened point of a crooked sword.
“It should be me down there. Damien took me.” And then a sobering pain tears through Jake. “Why would the Creator leave her to the Prince?”
“Close your mouth, human, and open your eyes. Maybe you’ll learn something.” But as the seconds pass, it’s not the demon who convinces Jake to turn his attention back to the ground, it’s Jake’s desperate need to know.
Canaan does as he’s told, his outer wings stretched wide, circling. The demons stay within a wingspan of him, haughty looks on their faces.
“Who are these demons, Canaan? The Palatine?”
The Fallen around him huff, but it’s Canaan who answers, and this time it seems he’s closed his mind to all but Jake. “
They’re the Prince’s Guard. Often they’re promoted from the Palatine, but the Guard act as his personal attendants. They’re his favorites, and they take great pride in that.”
Jake wonders if their pride has made them lazy, if their pride has made them weak. If that’s why it takes nearly a dozen of these gigantic, armored demons to secure one Shield. A Shield who’s been disarmed, carries a charge, and has his hands shackled.
It’s not long before Brielle comes into view. It doesn’t look like she’s moved. She remains kneeling on the platform of salt, fear seeping from her chest and leaking from her scalp. Fog rises from the muck, obscuring their view momentarily. But as Canaan circles, the fog shifts and he sees her. He’s never seen her so bound by fear. If he could take her place he would. But if the Creator willed this, what can he do?
He is forced into inaction, and the stone weight of that presses down, crushing his heart.
If only he had Canaan’s ability to communicate telepI’m not sure .”owpD;athically. Surely Canaan has a plan for escape. There has to be something they can do. Something!
Movement catches Jake’s attention, and he turns his head. Emerging from the ground just feet from Brielle is Lucifer himself.
The Proud One.
The Great Dragon.
Satan.
Jake’s never seen the Prince before, but there’s no mistaking him. By all accounts, he’s the most beautiful, the most seductive, the most dangerous of all created beings. And this creature lives up to every one of those reports.
His wings move gracefully as he emerges from the ground. Up and down with elegance and poise. And then with a sky-splitting sound, he snaps them wide. Bright white and glowing, their tips stained black. Moments later Damien rises from the ground behind his lord and prince. His improved appearance is nothing to that of his superior’s, but as he flies in the Prince’s wake, there is something of victory in his posture.
“Damien gave your halo to the Prince,” Jake says. Based on what he sees below, he can only assume the Prince received the halo with all the enthusiasm Damien had hoped for. Jake’s fist is balled tight, a desire to drive it into Damien’s fanged mouth consuming him. But Canaan doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about his halo.
“How is Brielle’s celestial sight?” Canaan asks. “She doesn’t seem to notice their presence.”
“Still sporadic,” Jake says. “She saw my fear. Destroyed my fear. But I don’t know. We didn’t speak much.”
“The Prince will have a level of control over what she sees here.” Canaan drops lower, a prayer rumbling in his chest. “God’s will be done,” he says.
“Sometimes that’s not a comfort.”
“I know.”
Damien and the Prince fly low, circling the skies above Brielle. They seem to be conversing, their minds closed to the outside. After several rotations they turn toward Jake and Canaan.
Rumors of the Prince’s beauty haven’t done him justice. Jake would never have guessed he’d be so . . . glorious. His skin is alabaster, his hair midnight, his eyes two pale blue gemstones throwing back the light of the Celestial.
Strange that even the devil reflects God’s glory.
Their escort snaps to attention as the Prince’s wings pull him to a stop. Everything about him screams winter. The frosty chill that smacks Jake in the face as he approaches, the snow-white skin, the fear that twists down his arm like a rivulet of muddy rainwater.
“Let her go,” Jake says, doing his best to stifle every sign of fear. It’s not the Prince he fears anyway.
The Prince moves closer, too close for Canaan apparently. His wings tick, moving them back. The Prince closes the distance again, his topaz eyes traveling Jake’s body.
“Let her go,” Jake says again.
“I think we’ll let her make that decision herself,” the Prince says. “Unlike some, I would never take that choice from her.” His eyes leave Jake’s and meet Canaan’s. “Never.”
“Having choices to make doesn’t mean we’re free,” Canaan says.
“Semantics will always be the mountain you and I can’t scale, old friend. But a lack of options certainly can’t mean freedom. And speaking of lack,” he says, “you seem to have lost something.”
And then Canaan’s golden halo is there, hovering between them.
“It’s Brielle’s,” Canaan says. “It was given to me by the Creator. I made it a gift to Jake, and he in turn gave it to her.”
“And now it’s mine.”
“Damien stole it to earn your favor,” Canaan says. “That does not make it yours. It just proves you’re the thief you’ve always been.”
“Thief? Again, semantics. But I’ll play by your rules. What if she were to give it to me? Would that make it mine?”
Jake feels Canaan go rigid, but his Shield remains silent.
“Oh, come now,” the Prince says. “I’m not offended; I know I’m a thief. But if your logic is sound, then you must agree that if she were to give the halo to me, that would make it mine. Yes?”
“It doesn’t matter, because she’d never give it to you,” Jake says.
“Giving a golden ring to the fairest one of all,” he says, grandly gesturing to himself, “sounds like a fairy-tale ending to me. And I’ll tell you a little secret, boy”—he moves closer—“pretty girls like happy endings.”
“Canaan’s halo on your head is not a happy ending. Brielle. Wouldn’t.”
The Prince crosses his arms, amusement all over his face. Jake balls up his other fist. He’d love to break those perfect teeth.
“And why not? I see you’re angry with me, but I want nothing more than a simple answer. I can be very persuasive. Why wouldn’t your Brielle give me her halo?”
“You don’t have to answer him, Jake.” It’s Canaan. In his head.
Jake wants to answer him. To hurt the Prince with his words&t, for a. But he struggles. The Prince is so certain. So confident. “Because that would be, it would be . . .”
“Disloyal? Is that the word you’re looking for? Or maybe it’s unforgivable?” The Prince’s eyes narrow at the word. “If Brielle gave away the gift you gave her—to the Great Dragon, of all creatures—that would make her unforgivable, wouldn’t it?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Shall we make a little wager?” the Prince says.
“No.” It’s Canaan, his mind open for all to hear. “You don’t get to make deals with my charge.”
“I wondered when you’d pipe up.” The Prince raises his eyes to Canaan’s. He smiles then and lifts the halo from the sky. “It’s nice,” he says. “A magnificent crown. But I’m certain I could do better.”
The Prince raises his hand, and Damien moves to his side. “Take them home,” he says.
“But, Lord Prince,” Damien stutters, “you wanted both. I brought them both.”
“And you’ve been rewarded for doing so. But now that I’ve seen them, I think I’ll talk to the girl alone.”
“We’re not leaving without Brielle,” Jake says.
“Oh, but you are.” All hilarity has gone from his face now. For the first time the Prince looks evil. “She’ll be returned to you. I don’t keep many promises, but this is one you can count on.”
“Forget it,” Jake says.
“Why drag Jake out here if you’re going to turn us loose?” Canaan asks.
The Prince’s nostrils flare, but he’s silent.
“Ah.” There’s laughter in Canaan’s mind now. It’s subdued, but it’s there. “You’ve not been given permission to keep him.”
“I don’t need permission,” the Prince says, but the words are delivered through clenched teeth, and everyone present knows this is a lie only he believes. He turns to Damien.
“Take these with you.” The Prince gestures to demons circled about. “I’ll keep the rest of the Guard with me.” He turns then, flying toward the desert floor. Toward Brielle. Jake fights against Canaan’s hold, but it’s fast.
Damien barks a l
augh. “Even if you could break free, boy, what could you do but fall?”
Canaan intervenes. “Are you to be my jailer, Damien? Is that the reward you get for turning over my crown?”
16
Brielle
The minutes pass and I’m frozen here, on my knees. Sweat soaks through my shirt, the salty air sticking to my face. I think of the ocean, of Bellwether. I think of the rain. I’d give anything for a little fall of rain here in the desert. I’d give anything to see another sign of life. Another anyone.
I didn’t bother turning my head left and right; I didn’t whip around when Jake disappeared. I know what disappearing means. I know it means he’s either as safe as a Shield can make him or in mortal danger. I did try to will my angel eyes to return, to let me see through the terrestrial veil, but they wouldn’t cooperate, and now as the seconds tick by I’m forced to imagine the worst.I’m not sure now entirely
For whatever reason, I can’t see the fear now—it disappeared with Jake—but I’ve learned to sense it. I know what it feels like when it takes me, when it breaks down the walls I’ve built around my heart to protect it. I know how it chills and bites as it enters my bloodstream, and I know the very moment I’m in its clutches. I try to breathe, to count the salt formations before me, but four little letters interrupt every attempt at distraction.
G. O. N. E.
Canaan’s gone. And Jake. Again he’s been ripped from my side, and though I knew we’d be separated, I didn’t expect to be left here alone. I envisioned a scene with the devil himself, with demons and chains, with pain. But I didn’t expect to be abandoned. It surprises me that I’d prefer the company of Satan to the complete and utter aloneness before me. But the salt stretches far and wide. Along the horizon the heat plays with my mind, haunting shapes that stare deep into my soul, smears of unearthly color that mock me.
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