Angel Eyes

by Shannon Dittemore

  “Where?”

  He nods out his window, back toward the theatre we just left. A tall, silver-haired man stands in the town square. He leans against a bench, examining the theatre marquee. Strong jaw, same tawny complexion as Jake. At least I know where he gets his looks.

  “So you’re not going to tell me about the bad guy?”

  “I don’t want to keep Canaan waiting,” he says.

  “Canaan?”

  “My guardian.”

  I look past him again. “You’re not related?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Wow, I’d never guess. He could be your dad.”

  “He raised me. For all intents and purposes, he is my dad.”

  He’s quiet, his smile soft. There’s no mischief there. No pretense. Another round of wind beats at the car, and Jake waits it out. I’d rather he stayed. It’s comfortable. Talking like this. No games. No snark.

  “You’ll call me?”

  “Sure.”

  He pushes the door open and steps out. The wind slams it, and I wince. I look down at the phone in my hand. His name is still on the screen.

  Jake Shield.

  When I look up, he’s gone. His guardian’s gone. Swept away by the wind, I guess, like everything else today.

  He’s interesting, this Jake Shield.

  And he’s warm.

  I tuck the phone away and slide Slugger into reverse.

  I think I’d like to know what else he is.

  6

  Damien

  Damien leans against the warehouse. With human eyes he stares—at the burned-out church across the street, at the dark stretch of road before him, at the abandoned half-built skyscraper covering the site in shadow.

  This place was perfect.

  If it weren’t for that idiot Marco and his girlfriend, he wouldn’t have to relocate. But as it is, the warehouse is too conspicuous, too attached to what happened with the girl. Sooner or later the authorities will trace its ownership. And by the sound of it, later seems to be creeping up on him.

  The man next to him has a cell phone to his ear. In many ways the two resemble one another. Same dark hair, dark eyes, olive complexion. And though Horacio’s not nearly as tall as he is, they both wear cruelty as a second skin.

  Horacio Santilla.

  His voice is silk, flattering whoever’s on the other end of the line. Despite his irritation, Damien chuckles.

  The guy has a gift. Charisma. Likeability.

  It’s a gift so easily corrupted. A flaring temper, greed, lust. Any of these will serve. Eventually, what was once charisma is transformed into a slippery, manipulative flair.

  And Horacio’s been corrupt for years. Like the rest of his kind, Damien’s an opportunist, and when he stumbled upon Horacio, the youth was just begging to be manipulated. Charming, yes, but unpredictable and explosive. At seventeen, an argument with a sibling led him, ruthless and unrestrained, to light his father’s guesthouse on fire. Before it could be extinguished, half the property was destroyed and Horacio’s younger sister killed.

  That was a decade ago, and Damien had been just an observer. A silent, invisible observer. But when the time was right, he made himself available to Horacio. Fixing things. Ensuring the investigation went awry. Laying the blame elsewhere.

  Soon he had an ally. A human ally. The most valuable kind.

  Of course, Horacio knows nothing of Damien’s true nature. Just that he shares a penchant for cruelty and has the means to carry out his whims. And as long as Damien keeps him clothed and fed, housed and moneyed—as long as shiny things are dangled before his eyes, he doesn’t ask for details.

  A valuable partner indeed.

  Horacio ends the call, and Damien raises his dark brows.

  “The detective says they’re understaffed. The investigation’s moving slowly. Nothing to worry about for another week or so,” Horacio says.

  “We’ll be cutting it close. We’ve a buyer coming next Friday—Henry Madison. After that, we pack up shop and move. Who we got inside?”

  “Mostly young ones. If it’s Henry, we’ll need a few older girls.”

  Damien scowls at his man. “I’m aware of that. I meant who’s watching them?”

  “My mistake.” Horacio dips his head in apology. “Eddie. Eddie’s watching them. He and Juan are taking it in shifts.”

  “Fine,” Damien says. “Tell Eddie I’ll have another girl for him.”

  Horacio pulls out his phone, opening it to the calendar he keeps carefully updated. “When?”

  “Soon,” he says. “Before Henry arrives this weekend.”

  His fingers move quickly over the keys. “I’ll tell him.” Horacio tucks the phone away and pulls a cigarette from his jacket, lights it, and hands it to Damien.

  Damien takes a puff, looking left and right along the road. “He’s late.”

  “Baby Joe’s always late.”

  “What’s he got?”

  “Redhead.”

  Rubber chews asphalt as a brown Cadillac moves up the road.

  Finally.

  Horacio disappears into the warehouse. A second later the door next to Damien rolls up, and Baby Joe pulls his car inside. Damien follows and the door is shut.

  He watches the transaction, leaning against the door. Damien hates this kid. Baby Joe. He never, ever stops talking.

  They lift the girl from the car. Her hands and feet are wrapped in duct tape, her head covered with a dark pillowcase. That, too, is taped shut.

  But something’s wrong.

  There’s no fear here. He can’t smell it. He can’t taste it.

  He strides toward the Cadillac. “You drug her?”

  Baby Joe answers, “Na. Knocked her with my piece. She’s awake now.”

  Then she should be afraid. She should be very afraid.

  Damien yanks at the tape on the pillowcase.

  “I got it, boss,” Horacio says, pulling a knife from his boot. He cuts through the tape and pulls the pillowcase away. “We don’t want to damage the merchandise.”

  The girl stares back at him. Brown eyes, auburn hair. Petite. Attractive. A good fit for Henry Madison. But there’s something wrong with her. She’s not afraid. He can see it in her eyes.

  “What’s your name?” he growls.

  She lifts her chin, defiant.

  “Helene.”

  “We can’t use her,” he says.

  “What do you mean you can’t use her?” Baby Joe says.

  “We need girls, boss, and she’s perfect.”

  “I’ve got another girl coming. We’re not using this one.” He pulls the sidearm from his belt and shoots her in the stomach.

  The shot throws her against the car, her eyes wide, blood spreading across her shirt.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Baby Joe backs away.

  “Boss . . .”

  Their indignation builds as Damien watches the girl, completely collected, disappear and reappear within the span of a second. As she rematerializes, she plants the controlled power of both her fists into his sternum. He flies backward several steps, landing in a crouch.

  Her shirt is unmarred. There’s no evidence she was just shot.

  “Like I said, we can’t use her.”

  Horacio just stares. His eyes wide, his lips curled. Baby Joe’s hysterical. He curses and backs away. Damien points his gun at the boy, anything to shut him up.

  But Helene moves fast, stepping in front of Baby Joe.

  Damien laughs. “You think he’s worth saving? You’re a fool. I’ve had my claws in him for years.”

  She doesn’t answer. But Damien knows. He’s encountered this ridiculous optimism before. A sadistic soul like Baby Joe’s still has potential, they think—can still be saved.

  She steps toward Damien with an air of authority. “You won’t touch him again.”

  Rage shakes him. His natural desires are taking over, and he’ll have to transfer soon. He needs the release of flight, but how strong is this little angel challenging h
im?

  “He’s been bought with a price,” she says. “It’s a gift I pray he lays hold of.”

  And then they’re gone, Baby Joe’s cries disappearing with the rest of him.

  Instinct pulls Damien into the Celestial. He can’t afford to be blind to this realm while there’s a Shield about. His black wings unfurl and push him back several paces, away from her last position. But she’s gone already.

  Her wings sound high above, and he turns his face to the sky.

  The height to which Helene has already risen is a challenge for Damien’s tarnished eyes. He can barely see her, and the odds of catching her are diminishing with each second. But he wants that boy. He wants Baby Joe. Not because the kid has value, but because the boy belonged to him. Belonged to darkness, and now light is staking a claim.

  Next to him, Horacio curses. Panicking as those around him vanish. Thick, gooey globs of fear bubble out of his nose and ears. They leak slowly from his eyes and mouth, running down his chest.

  Damien knows the Shield won’t let a man die, not if she can prevent it. Not even a man like Horacio. The optimism of the Shield is sickening, but it is certain and steadfast, making it, above all else, predictable.

  Damien is nearly on top of Horacio when he transfers back to the Terrestrial. His sudden reappearance causes the man to trip and fall. Damien pulls his gun from its holster and without ceremony shoots Horacio in the gut.

  He sputters something and gropes at his stomach in an effort to catch the life-force as it leaks out of him. It’s a futile attempt, and Damien turns away, transferring back to the Celestial. Without question, Helene has heard the gunshot and will return. The demon leaps into the sky, flaps his wings just once, and lands on the roof of the crumbling church across the way. If the Shield acts as expected and lands at Horacio’s side, he’ll be out of her immediate reach here.

  His ears pick up the thrust of her wings before she comes into view, at last wrapping her outer wings tight to her frame and tunneling like a sniper’s bullet to the earth. Tucked against her core, enveloped in her sinewy, transparent inner wings, is the frightened Baby Joe. His knobby arms and legs are balled up—a ridiculous spectacle.

  The force of flight notwithstanding, Helene lands softly, hugging Baby Joe to herself. She glares up at the demon, enraged, as though he hasn’t played fair, as though he’s cheated. Damien savors the compliment, waiting for the perfect moment to act. He watches as she kneels next to Horacio, reaching her hands out to his wound.

  Suddenly, too suddenly, she stands and shoots into the sky. Away from him. Away from the dying man on the ground. Flustered and bewildered by her abandonment of Horacio, Damien takes flight, quickly gaining on her forsaken position at the man’s side. Only the whites of Horacio’s eyes are visible as they roll back and forth in his head. His face is moist and gray beneath the sludge of fear.

  Death is close. Damien can taste it.

  He can conceive no reason for the angel’s desertion of a human facing certain death. As much as it angers Damien to do it, he needs Horacio. He’ll have to heal this dying man.

  Damien reaches out, placing his hand on Horacio’s abdomen.

  A current of electricity shoots up his arm. The pain is raw, excruciating. He tears his arm away in horror—horror at the pain coursing through his body, and then more devastatingly, horror at his mistake.

  He’d forgotten. Neglected the obvious.

  Although Celestial beings can deliver both life and death, their finality does not rest with the angelic. Like a violent dog on a short leash, he howls.

  From high above, the sound of frenetic wings draws his attention. Helene hovers hundreds of feet up, her face pointed toward the heavens. Damien cannot make out her expression, but he has no trouble hearing the words her soul cries.

  “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done!”

  The demon curses and spits. As much as He allows their rampant intrusion, life and death rest solely in the hands of the Creator. If Horacio’s end has been determined, death will not be permitted to give him up. Damien pulls out his scimitar and drives it through the man’s heart, sending his tortured soul into darkness. Years and years of work on this man, training him, corrupting his gifts. All wasted.

  With Horacio’s soul added to his cosmic scorecard, his lips curl and he snaps both sets of wings, taunting the angel still hovering above the warehouse. She cries out again.

  “Holy! Holy! Holy is the Lord of hosts! The whole earth is full of His glory!”

  The sound of her voice is a grainy, acidic salt in the wound of his mistake, and Damien cringes.

  Her anthem continues to echo across the heavens, and he remembers a time when his mouth, too, sang the Creator’s praises. It was like an impulse, a compulsion, like there was nothing more imperative than declaring the holiness of the Almighty. An overwhelming sense of gratitude and awe continually flood the angels of light—an awareness impossible for them to ignore in the Celestial. Whether intended or not, opening their mouths in that realm sends nothing but praises into the atmosphere.

  If it weren’t for the innate ability of Celestial beings to share thoughts at will, the angels of light would be unable to communicate anything but God’s holiness in their angelic form.

  Damien tries to remember what it’s like to be grateful to Him, to feel indebted to the Creator. Instead, as Helene’s cries fade, hatred stirs in his spirit—hatred for what he is, disgust for the limitations of his kind, and resentment that one decision long ago numbered his days.

  It’s no wonder the voices of the Fallen can do nothing but rage like beasts in the Celestial. When their mouths open, it’s their vile hatred that is thrown into the atmosphere: guttural cries and howls, snarling hisses and roaring growls. These are the only sounds their Celestial lips can make.

  He transfers to the Terrestrial and pulls out his phone, finds the contact, and dials.

  “Our position’s been compromised. We need to move the merchandise. Today.”

  The idiot on the other end of the line rattles off question after question. Logistics Horacio would have been happy to work out.

  Damien looks down at the man’s empty body, and he curses.

  He needs a new right hand.

  Someone to corrupt.

  And he needs him now.

  7

  Brielle

  Saturday morning arrives, and I haven’t slept at all. The storm last night was brutal. Rolled in by the frigid winds of the past few days, rain and ice fell, pummeling the roof and keeping me wide awake.

  Dad’s up just after dawn. He has to work today. It’s like this in the fall. He has to get in as much work as he can before the weather makes it impossible. I’m showered and eating a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles when his crew arrives. They joke and mill around the driveway while he packs his lunch.

  “You call Kaylee or something, Elle. I don’t want you moping around all day by yourself.”

  “I’ll do something,” I tell him. “Dishes or laundry. Movie marathon, maybe.”

  “Fine, but get that vegetarian over here to do it with you, all right? Bribe her with some carrots or lettuce or something.”

  I scoop another spoonful of chocolate-y yumminess into my spoon. “She’s not a rabbit, Dad.”

  “Might as well be.”

  “I thought you liked Kay?”

  “Oh, I do. I love that kid. She’s good for you. But no meat? Come on. How she lives with Delia and her lamb fetish is beyond me.”

  He slams the lid of his lunch box—an ice chest, really—and cups my chin. “I mean it, kiddo. Alone time is off the table today. Promise me.”

  I want to remind him that I did perfectly well in the city without him, but that’s not entirely true, is it?

  “I gotcha, Dad. I promise.”

  “I’ll be back late. Call if you need me.”

  My mouth is full, but I ask anyway. “You get cell phone coverage up there?”

  “Not really.”

  “So, you’re useless,
then.”

  “Pretty much.”

  I kiss his cheek. “Love you, Dad. Be safe.”

  “Love you too, kid. See you tonight.”

  He loads into his truck with his ice chest and tool belt. Four or five other guys and their trucks back out and follow him onto the highway. A roughneck car club.

  My Cocoa Pebbles are gone, so I rinse my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. I mean it when I tell Dad I’ll stay busy. The idea of spending an entire Saturday with nothing but my memories for company tastes bitter, and I decide firmly against it.

  I think about calling Kaylee—it’d make Dad happy—but can’t imagine passing the day while she mitigates my failures. No, I’d rather be alone with my guilt than listen to an ignorant someone tell me it wasn’t my fault. There’s got to be something I can do to get the blood pumping. Something that doesn’t require me to wear tights and a leotard. Something active.

  But this is Stratus.

  Honestly.

  What is there to do?

  I scrounge the quilt from the living room and step out onto the porch. The sun has disappeared behind a layer of gray clouds, but the wind has mellowed and rain hardly seems imminent. My camera is in the backseat, and the storm is sure to have left some fabulous wreckage all over Stratus. I think about the old horse stables at the back of our property. Did they survive the wind and rain?

  We don’t own horses, never have. But Dad hadn’t cared enough to tear down the stables when he bought the place years ago. In fact, he rarely ventures that far onto our property anymore. He just likes having distance between himself and the neighbors. He says if he wants to run around naked on his own property, he should have the freedom to do it. So with the money Grams left him, he bought a chunk of land southeast of town in case the inclination ever strikes.

  Of course, this is a man who wears two pairs of socks and Timberland boots at all times. He isn’t running naked anywhere. He just wants the option.

  I grab my camera bag from the car and head out. It’s a good five miles to the stables. There’s a magnificent creek about halfway there, and when I was a kid, Dad hung a swing from one of the large oak branches dangling over it. I wonder nostalgically if it’s still there.