He eyes me curiously but doesn’t challenge my claim, so I continue.
“Ali was an actress. Easily the most talented girl at Austen. They had her tabbed for Julliard or the NY Film Academy. See, I had a fabulous talent agent who saw something marketable in me, but Ali was the shining star of Austen. Everyone wanted her.”
I let my eyes focus on the wall behind him.
“She was picky, though, and wouldn’t take on more than one project at a time. And she absolutely refused to do commercials. Not because they were beneath her, but because they kept her too busy. She liked the stage—a captive audience, you know—but she wanted to finish school before committing full-time to anything. She was always so grounded when it came to her career. I envied her that. Her agency was always begging her to take on this project and that. You gotta strike while the iron is hot, they’d say, but she didn’t worry about it at all. The rest of us bought all the crap about youth and sex being the only thing in demand. Ali didn’t. She figured if they didn’t want her when she was ready, she’d just do something else.”
I smile, remembering the day Ali dropped her modern dance class. The sigh of relief heaved by the rest of the class was resounding.
“She was good at just about everything, but she wasn’t a dancer. She didn’t enjoy it. It was a gift really. When she left the dance class, I became the envy of the other girls. She didn’t mind giving up the spotlight. She was kind that way.”
“She meant a lot to you.”
“She inspired me. She made me want to excel at everything. She made me think I could.”
I stop. The wind has picked up, and we sit listening for a while.
“She made me fearless,” I finally say. “I miss that.”
Jake’s eyes rake my face now. When at last he focuses their brilliance on mine, he says, “Being fearless is overrated.”
“But being afraid of everything isn’t.”
I know what he wants to ask, and though it surprises me, I find I’m ready to tell him. He pauses, but apparently recognizes the unspoken permission I’ve given him.
“And why, Brielle? Why are you afraid of everything?”
He raises a hand and runs his thumb along my cheekbone, where it leaves a trail of heat burning pleasantly. The action is unexpected, and it seems to catch him off guard too. He pulls his hand away and puts it back on my foot.
Is he blushing?
After a minute I take a huge, rattling breath and continue.
“I had the opportunity to travel abroad last summer. We performed in Rome and Paris, London, and a dozen smaller cities in between. It was a dance tour, so of course Ali didn’t go. She’d taken a job on an indie film. The director was a guy named Marco James.”
I gnaw on my lip at the memory of Marco. Tall, thin, dreadfully handsome, with a head full of shaggy black hair constantly veiling a pair of exotic green eyes. He was everything a young, independent filmmaker should be. One night Ali and I played rock-paper-scissors for him. I won—paper beats rock every time—but I let her have him. We were just goofing around, and it was obvious he was into Ali.
“We’d met him at an art show, and Ali stayed in contact with him, mostly through e-mail and online stuff. Our school and audition schedules kept us pretty busy. He’d graduated from film school the year before and had this screenplay he’d completed. An art patron agreed to finance the film, and Marco gave the lead to Ali.”
Jake sits, hands still around my ankle, attentive and kind, patiently waiting for the rest—the tragic ending to this fairy tale.
“When I returned from Europe, she was just . . . so . . . different.”
“Different?”
“She was quieter,” I say, “and she had bruises on her arms that she tried to explain away. She told me they were from filming accidents. Tripping. Clumsiness. I wanted to believe her, but nothing made sense. Filming had wrapped weeks before, and dancing aside, she was the most coordinated person I knew. I’d never even seen her stumble.”
Another tear, hot and scorching, rips down my cheek. Rainwater pings off a metal tackle box in the corner, sounding like another heart sharing the shed with us.
“The detective was right,” I whisper, his words pressing into me, into my chest. “I didn’t want to see. In so many ways Ali and Marco were perfect for one another. Both so talented, so passionate about their craft.”
A memory surfaces, and though I despise the fresh round of tears it provokes, I’m helpless against them.
Marco was playing Hamlet with a small theatre company, and Ali and I had front-row seats. His performance was captivating, especially the famous “To be or not to be” speech. Polonius and Ophelia in the background, Hamlet talking himself in and out of a self-made grave, contemplating death as if it were a menu item.
I’d never really felt that speech before, never considered the words. But in Marco’s performance I appreciated the draw of death. I understood Hamlet’s internal battle: the sea of troubles he found himself drowning in, and the sleep of death that appealed to his misery but was sure to carry troubles of its own. I wonder how often Marco’s thought of those words in recent days.
Jake interrupts my trip down memory lane.
“You couldn’t have known, Brielle.”
Even now, he can see where this is going. Why hadn’t I?
“I should have known,” I correct him. “The bruises got worse as the summer ended, and once I even threatened to drag her into the police station, but it was an empty threat. There was a part of me that couldn’t believe he’d lay a hand on her, and she was such a fantastic liar.”
“She was good at everything,” Jake says, repeating my own words back to me.
“Yes, she was,” I grant. “The school year started and the bruising continued, but it slipped to the back of my mind. We were busy, and her time with Marco was limited,” I explain through heaving breaths. “Then one day three weeks ago, she went with Marco to show the finished film to the financier.”
I let the tears flow now. They comfort me. Warm me.
“She never came home. They found her in an old warehouse where Marco often filmed. He was there too, they say. Sobbing, soaked in her blood. Even when the detective told me he’d confessed, I had a hard time believing it. He loved her. I know he loved her.”
Jake tightens his grip on my ankle but says nothing. Words can’t fix this.
“I should have known. I was the only one who could have known.”
He lets me cry, his face inches from mine, until I have no more tears. It takes awhile, but eventually the tears slow and my chest stills. The night grows quiet, until the only thing I hear is the other heart in the shed, pinging away.
“I can’t imagine losing my best friend,” Jake says. “She sounds like an incredible person.”
“She was.”
He moves back against the wall, still holding my foot between his hands.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For listening. I haven’t been able to talk about it. The words have been”—I rub my chest—“frozen, you know?”
“I do know,” Jake says. And he looks like he does. Like he really knows what it’s like. “I’m glad you chose me.”
“Me too.” I wipe the tears from my eyes and take a breath. I feel better. Purged.
“So, you live with your Dad?” Jake says, lightening the conversation. “What does he do?”
“He owns a logging company. Dad’s dad was a logger, his dad was a logger. Sort of a Matthews family tradition.”
“You planning on following in his footsteps?”
“Um. No. Definitely not. I don’t know what I’ll do. I always thought I’d be dancing. And then the modeling opportunities came along. But it’s just . . . it’s too hard to think about that now.”
“You might not always feel that way,” Jake says. “You might change your mind.”
“I might.” Tired of all the attention, I suddenly realize I still know nothing about hi
m. “What about your guardian? Canaan, you said? He’s, like, a foster parent?”
“Kinda. That’s probably a good way to describe him.”
He’s clamming up now? When I’ve just poured my guts out. Come on!
“Tell me about him.”
“Well, Ali and I have a lot in common,” he says slowly, watching my face. “Are you sure you want to hear this right now?”
I swallow. No lump.
“Yes. I do. If you don’t mind telling me, that is.”
He cocks his head and looks me in the eye, appraising my mental state, apparently.
“Well, my father was a drinker and my mother was a screamer. That’s about all I remember of them. I was little when things fell apart. My father had a tendency to swing at anything and everything that got in his way when he drank, and I frequently got in the way.”
A wave of nausea hits, and I stiffen.
“Are you okay?” Jake asks.
“Are you?”
“I am. I really am. I don’t remember the details at all. Everything’s very fuzzy. We were living in Portland and I was young, just six, when Canaan found me home alone. I had a broken wrist and a shattered collarbone. Maggots in the sink, cockroaches crawling on the floor, and absolutely nothing edible left in the apartment. Who knows how long I’d been alone? The first thing I remember with any clarity is Canaan carrying me out of the building. I’ve been with him ever since.”
“So, Canaan’s a social worker?” I ask, doing my best to focus on the story’s happy ending.
Jake’s eyes drop to his hands, still wrapped snuggly around my foot. He doesn’t say anything for a long time—almost too long. I nearly ask again, but his chin tilts up, and he speaks in carefully measured words.
“Canaan works for a private party whose goal is to bring hope to those who have none.”
His face is screwed up tight with the effort of putting the sentence together, and his blazing eyes dare me to contradict him.
“Oh. That’s a lofty goal,” I say as I digest this new change in his demeanor.
“I just know every memory I have before Canaan is saturated with alcohol and sadness. My parents weren’t good people. They did horrible things to each other and to the people around them. I don’t hate them,” he says.
I can’t help thinking it sounds more like a reminder to himself than anything.
“But they dug their own graves.”
“So, they’re dead?” Ugh. So many people buried around us.
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking off the acidic look on his face. “They never tried to find me, but if I had to guess, I’d say their lifestyle was certainly leading them in that direction.”
There’s angst in the hang of his shoulders, but he speaks of it all with such detachment, such distance. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to talk about Ali without the pain.
“I’m so sorry, Jake.”
He nods. He’s heard pointless apologies as well.
“You’re very lucky to have your father. Losing your mom must have been hard, but at least you have your dad.”
“Dad has always been there for me, you know? Losing my mother was horrible for him, I’m sure, but I don’t remember her at all. I mean, even less than you remember your parents. I have no recollection of my mother ever existing. I see pictures of her and hear stories, but nothing brings back even the slightest flicker of a memory. I think it hurts my dad that I can’t remember, but I was even younger than you. I was three when she died.”
“Does it bother you that you can’t remember her?”
“All the time,” I say. “But I sort of don’t know what I’m missing, and Dad’s always been so great.” I think about all the psychological advice I’ve been given and regurgitate a sentence I’ve chewed on often. “Maybe forgetting was the only way I could move on.”
“Maybe,” Jake agrees. It’s quiet again. The heart pinging away in the corner. “Do you ever wish you could forget about her? Ali, I mean.”
It’s a harsh, expected question. I have to look at his face to know he isn’t asking to hurt me. He seems genuinely, painfully curious.
“No,” I answer, and I know I mean it. “She made me a better person. She’s a part of me. Maybe that part died too, but I don’t ever want to forget it existed.”
He smiles. “That’s very wise of you.”
Jake breaks eye contact, and we emerge from the intimate little bubble of emotion we’ve landed in. The army of raindrops has retreated, and the wind’s symphonic efforts have ceased.
“Come on, let’s get you home. It’s getting late.”
“Thank goodness,” I say. “Will you help me walk?”
“If you need me, but I think you’ll be fine now.”
I look down to see him rolling my ankle—first one way, then the other.
I gasp.
It’s not broken.
Not anymore.
8
Canaan
Canaan stands in the darkness beneath a weather-ravaged oak. Wet and windblown, but vigilant. The rain has slowed, and the terror he sensed has all but melted away.
And though the fear seems to be diminishing, there’s something malevolent nearby. Something close.
He extends his wings the full width of their span—wings that are not visible in this realm—and with a snap his Terrestrial ears cannot hear, he wraps them around his body. Had anyone been watching, Canaan would have disappeared before their very eyes. But the closest humans are huddled away in a shed just beyond the tree line.
He closes his eyes and allows himself to be pulled from the Terrestrial realm—an impulse he fights every minute he functions as the human, Canaan Shield.
Instantly the moon’s counterfeit rays are replaced by the ever-true, constant light that is his strength. He breathes it deep. Here, shadows do not exist. Light is his sustenance, and it is bountiful. Only the sludge of evil has any effect. It’s a realm where every one of his senses is heightened, for this is his home. This is where he was created to live.
Whereas his Terrestrial eyes are limited and can see only the prosaic, his Celestial eyes see anything and everything for miles. Neither wall nor mountain can obstruct his view. And whereas his Terrestrial ears hear only the sounds of this globe, his Celestial ears hear the sounds of both the earth and the heavens, human and spirit alike. Only in this form is he truly equipped to protect his charge.
Instinct causes him to draw his sword. Its pure, white light is hot as punishing hellfire and radiant as the river flowing from the throne of the Creator. The darkness he felt in his Terrestrial state crouches atop the shed. A demon.
One he knows well.
An ache forms in his chest.
This is Damien. A former friend. An angel who served alongside him. Whose mouth once sang the praises of the Creator. His abandonment was felt personally, not just by the Father, but by the other angels, by Canaan. Damien and the others left so much for so little. It’s a choice Canaan won’t ever understand.
He’s not seen Damien since Dothan, and Dothan ended badly for the demon. If Canaan had to guess, he’d say Damien spent several hundred, maybe a thousand years suffering for his failure there. For his defeat.
The Prince of Darkness forgives slowly, and he never, ever forgets.
Canaan watches as Damien salivates, the scene within the shed capturing the demon’s full attention. Like the rest of the Fallen, he’s learned to keep his muscular legs—once no different from a Shield’s—close to his body, under the protection of his wings and away from the light, almost always drawn into this crouched position. His hands, once used for noble purposes, have been twisted by ill use and maltreatment of the gifts instilled in them. They curl now, around the corner of the shed, black talons piercing the wood. His skin and hair, once alight with the glory of the Celestial, have long since charred, and his wings, once snowy white, now hang like lifeless sails, their feathers singed black by the very light they have rejected.
His strength, however,
is not to be underestimated.
And yet he’s not noticed Canaan. Not noticed the drawn sword, the Shield ready to defend his charge. Whatever’s going on in that shed has him transfixed, and he presses his face into the roof, his wings twitching.
Canaan focuses on the walls of the shed and they thin before him, fading from view. He sees rubble and loose boards. Rusted rakes and fishing rods. And there amongst it all is Jake.
He sits on the muddy floor, his hands wrapped around the girl’s ankle. Her mouth gapes and her hands tremble. Fear breaks out in black beads along her forehead, running in thin, sticky streams down her face.
“How?” she says. “How did you do that?”
Canaan’s eyes flash to Damien, whose fascination he’s beginning to understand.
Jake must have healed the girl.
Damien must have seen.
Razor-sharp talons slip through the roof of the shed, reaching, reaching for his prey.
All four of Canaan’s wings push against the air, and suddenly he’s hurtling through the sky toward Damien.
9
Damien
Damien’s ears pick up the sound of frenzied wings, and he turns, drawing his scimitar and shoving away from the shed all in one motion. His movement is sloppy, and the Shield’s sword connects with his elbow. He opens his mouth and releases a cry of fury, but there’s no time for self-pity. The Shield flies low, body extended, looping around for another pass.
Damien flies backward, squinting into the light. He encounters members of the Shield frequently—all of them strong, fast, capable. But even his dying eyes recognize this one.
He slows his wings and sets down, watching as Canaan draws closer and closer. He blinks and blinks, fighting the light, fighting his desperate need for darkness.
He can hardly believe what he sees.
His wings push him into the sky, and he raises his scimitar. The freezing weapon hisses against the heat of the Celestial, fogging the air with frigid smoke.
He waits for Canaan’s attack, but the Shield doesn’t advance past the shed. He hovers, his wings spread wide, his sword in his outstretched hand.
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