Angel Eyes

by Shannon Dittemore

  I’ve never been introduced to a guy’s parents in a formal way. We all just sort of know each other here in Stratus. And Austen is an all-girls prep school—a place most parents ship their kids to without making much of an appearance. Jake, on the other hand, has apparently moved quite a lot and lived in some pretty exotic places. Surely he could give me some advice. But he doesn’t stop as we climb the stairs.

  He opens the door and pulls me through like he’s done it a thousand times before.

  The room has changed. The weathered cherry-wood table is still in the same place, as is the monstrosity of an entertainment center, but that’s about it. The boxes have been cleared, evidently unpacked. An oversized armchair, couch, and love seat are positioned around the table, pointed at the entertainment center. Nothing is new, but it all looks well cared for. Past the living room is the kitchen, open and bright, with a small table and four chairs. To the right of the kitchen is a hallway, which I can only speculate leads to the bedrooms.

  “Wow. Unpacked already?”

  “Yeah, Canaan can’t stand a mess. He worked all morning,” Jake says. “Speaking of Canaan.” He nods at the back door, visible through the kitchen. A man enters—the same man I saw on Main Street last week. He’s even taller than I remember, his arms laden with boxes. His silhouette takes up nearly every inch of the door frame, leaving the gray light of December’s first week to fill in the meager gaps.

  “Canaan,” Jake says, tugging me into the kitchen by my sleeve, “this is Brielle.”

  Canaan sets the stack of boxes down, spreading them evenly across the kitchen table to prevent it from tipping. As he draws closer, his large hand extended, another piece of the puzzle slides into place.

  Waves of heat roll off his arms and chest—hotter even than Jake’s skin. Hotter than the cuff latched on to my wrist. With the increase in temperature comes that remarkable peace, and for a fleeting moment my legs feel weak. His mitt of a hand, larger than Dad’s even, swallows mine whole, and I regain my strength. His silver hair matches his eyes precisely, offset by a vibrant tawny complexion. Without being feminine in the slightest, he is striking.

  Once, in Portland, I was introduced to a Nobel Prize winner. He was small and mousy, stank of sauerkraut, and had sweat stains in the armpits of his dress shirt. Still, something intangible made me very aware I was in the presence of genius. I felt lucky, special. Surely not many could claim they’d had the honor.

  I have that same feeling now, minus the gag reflex.

  “Brielle,” Canaan says. “So happy to meet you. Jake can’t stop talking about you. I hear you’re quite the dancer.”

  My face warms, and I elbow Jake in the ribs.

  “Thank you,” I say. “It’s great to meet you too.”

  Jake chuckles and pulls out a kitchen chair for me. I sit. He takes the chair next to mine as Canaan crosses to the sink to rinse his hands.

  “I hope you’re available for dinner,” Canaan says. “Lasagna and baked apples.”

  Homemade dinner with Jake? Beats string cheese and a cup of yogurt any day.

  “I’d like that. Thank you.”

  “Jake tells me you teach dance as well?”

  Payback.

  “Mm-hmm. Jake’s asked for lessons,” I say.

  Canaan dries his hands. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. As soon as he has a tutu, we’ll begin.”

  “Those are skirts, yes? Lace and, umm . . .”

  “Tulle. Jake said he’d like an orange one.”

  Canaan’s brow creases. “Well, his birthday’s in January. I think something can be arranged.”

  Jake drums his fingers on the table and snorts.

  “What?” I say, all innocence.

  “Just trying to picture Canaan shopping for a tutu.”

  Canaan laughs, loud and free.

  “Come on,” Jake says. “I’ll show you the rest of the house.” He punches Canaan in the shoulder as we pass, which only serves to embolden Canaan’s laughter.

  There is something so attractive about a man who is able to laugh shamelessly. Both Jake and Canaan have it turned into an art form.

  “This is the study,” Jake says, waving his hand into a room with two large desks at opposite ends. A large bookcase covers the far wall.

  Quiet awe slips from my mouth as I stop in the doorway. “Read much?” I say, stepping into the room. I turn in a slow circle. Shelves line all four walls, giving way only for the desks. Book spines stare back at us from nearly every empty space.

  “This? This is nothing. We have boxes and boxes in the basement.”

  “Why?”

  “Canaan and I like to read.” He shrugs.

  I walk to the nearest bookcase and pull out the first book I see. “The Doorman and His Whiskers of Wonder?” I raise my eyebrows at Jake.

  His nose wrinkles, and he takes the book from my hands. “Yeah, some of them we really should throw away.” He dumps it into the wastepaper basket by the door. “There’s a reason you can get that book for ninety-nine cents on Amazon.”

  I follow him out the door and down the hall.

  “This is where Canaan sleeps,” he says, gesturing to a room on the right.

  Feeling incredibly nosy, I stick my head inside and glance around. His room is so simple. An open window casts more gray light onto a large bed. With its black wrought-iron frame twisting floor to ceiling and dressed in a feathery down comforter—white as snow—it is, by far, the largest bed I’ve ever seen. A glossy nightstand, lacquered white, sits to the left of the bed, with a black alarm clock and lamp adorning it. At the foot of the bed is a hefty black chest. A closet has been carved out of the far wall, and above the bed hangs a framed photo of a white dove, wings spread against a velvety black sky.

  “What a great shot!”

  “You and Grace aren’t the only dedicated photographers in Stratus,” Jake says, placing a hand on my back and leading me into the room. It’s a small, innocent gesture, but the heat sends a shiver up my spine, and goose bumps appear on my arms. It’s a response I’ve never had to heat, and I rub my arms to rid them of the spontaneous prickles. Jake doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Canaan took that?” I ask, stopping at the foot of the bed.

  The photograph is quite impressive. It’s like the dove paused midflight, and the lighting is immaculate. Every detail on the dove is visible, down to the individual feather barbs. Though the shot was obviously taken at night, there’s no awkward flash discoloration, which is hard to accomplish.

  “I took it,” Jake says. “In London. I had a lot of free time. We lived there during the summer, and Canaan was insanely busy with work. He liked this shot so much I blew it up and framed it for him. It seemed to fit.”

  “It defines the room, Jake. Really, it’s flawless.”

  “Thank you,” he says. He leans toward me, his hand moving toward my face. My stomach clenches as I breathe in the warmth of his skin, and I swear my chest purrs. He touches my cheek briefly, and when he pulls his hand away there’s an eyelash resting on his fingertip. “Come on. One more room.”

  I silently chasten the purring butterflies and follow him out. He leads me past a bathroom to the end of the hallway and opens a door on the left-hand side.

  “This is my room.”

  “I was hoping you had one,” I say, a little nervous.

  I’m all worked up after the eyelash, and not that I have any preconceived notions about Jake’s bedroom, but it takes me off guard.

  It’s scandalous.

  A disaster.

  A complete and utter mess.

  There are four or five boxes still packed. His bed isn’t made. Books, newspapers, and magazines are scattered everywhere. Jeans and T-shirts hang from the lamp, the doorknob, and the handles of the dresser. After giving him superhero status, this blatant display of his humanity makes me giggle.

  “Should I ask which of you is the neat freak?”

  “Canaan. Definitely Canaan.” He collapses onto the
bed, wincing as he lands on the corner of a very large book. “I have to beg him on hands and knees to leave my room alone. Especially on days like today when he’s unpacking and speed cleaning all at the same time.”

  “And making lasagna.”

  “The best lasagna ever,” Jake says, tossing things off his bed. “Normally I’m a much bigger help, but I had an errand to run. I barely beat you home.”

  There’s something about the way he says it . . .

  “Were you trying to beat me home?”

  Jake shoves a newspaper to the floor and pats the spot next to him.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “You’re welcome to the desk chair, if you’d prefer.”

  I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t prefer.

  I do my best to look unaffected as I climb up next to him. I cross my legs, careful to keep my muddy boots off the bed, and lean against the wall.

  “You comfortable?” he asks, his smile like a tiny crescent moon.

  “Perfectly. Go ahead.”

  His finger brushes my wrist as he hooks it through the cuff and pulls it off. “I thought you’d like an explanation maybe. About this, and maybe a few other things.”

  I sit up straighter. I would definitely like an explanation. Or two.

  “Like how you fixed my ankle, and why you’re so hot?”

  My hands fly to my mouth.

  Really? Did I just do it again?

  “Yes, those things should be explained.” His lips betray a hint of amusement, but the grin resting there is subtle. “You know,” he says, “I’ve been told before that I have warm hands, but my ‘hotness’ has never been remarked upon.”

  “Did you just use air quotes?” I ask.

  “Sorry. I have government with your friend Kaylee. I’m kind of ‘addicted.’ ”

  “Oh. My. Goodness.”

  “Anyway . . .” He places the cuff on the bed between us and takes a deep breath. “This is supernatural, Elle. This is how I healed your ankle.”

  My mouth is dry, probably because it’s hanging open. I lick my lips and swallow slowly.

  “And how does that work exactly?”

  “I can’t tell you the mechanics of it. And not because I don’t want to. I don’t understand everything about it myself.”

  “But you understand some things?”

  “Yes, some things. It has a few physically obvious attributes. For example, it can take more than one form.” Even as we watch, the cuff begins to thin and expand, reforming itself into the large ring. “And then there’s the warmth . . .”

  “Heat,” I correct, as my pant leg grows feverish. Even inches away, the ring affects me.

  “Okay, heat,” he says. “More than anything, it seems to make things right. To restore them to their created purpose.”

  Created purpose? For some reason that phrase makes me uneasy.

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means we may each respond to it differently, making it even harder to understand. Although some things seem fairly consistent. When Canaan first gave it to me—”

  “Canaan?”

  “It’s his,” Jake says. “I found it one morning while rummaging through his room for a baseball mitt. I was eight and had been with Canaan for nearly two years. As screwed up as my parents were, I still missed them.”

  “Of course. You were a kid.”

  “Right. So to me, this became security,” he explains, running his knuckles over the ring. “Its heat brought an unshakable sense of faith in Canaan and an awareness of complete sanctuary. In all his years, Canaan’s never taken another child into his care. Just me. For a long time I wore this thing everywhere. Some kids have teddy bears, some kids have security blankets. I had this. It was my safe haven, and when I was parted from it, anxiety consumed me.”

  “And now?”

  Who gives up that kind of peace for someone they’ve known a week?

  “I haven’t worn it in years,” he says. “It became difficult to hide as I got older. It’s not all that easy for a guy to get away with wearing something like this.”

  I run my finger around the edge of it, feeling open, vulnerable, and being okay with it. I like talking to him like this. It’s quiet. Comfortable. It feels safe.

  “I almost didn’t put it on,” I tell him. “But I was so cold. And being close to it was like . . . being close to you. It was like having your hands wrapped around my ankle again. Only, hotter maybe.”

  He leans his head against the wall.

  “Hotter than me?” He’s teasing, his eyes burning back at me. I would never, ever tell him this, but right now I can’t imagine anything hotter than he is.

  Canaan sticks his head in. “Hey, there.”

  Blood rushes to my face. We’re not doing anything wrong. But I’m on a bed, with a boy. A first for me.

  “You guys all right back here? High school seniors are not supposed to be this quiet.”

  “We’re good,” Jake says, running a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Canaan.”

  “All right, then. Dinner in about an hour.” His eyes linger on the ring, and then his head disappears. He leaves the door wide open.

  He’s such a dad.

  “Sorry,” Jake says.

  “Are you kidding? He’s great. My dad would have already shown you his rifle collection. Up close.”

  Jake’s eyes widen. “Good to know.”

  I turn my eyes back to the ring. There’s still so much I don’t understand. “If you don’t wear it anymore, what about my ankle? How did you, you know, do that?”

  “It’s become such a fundamental part of my makeup that the source of its power is extended to me even when I’m not wearing it.”

  Source of its power?

  “When Canaan asked me to accompany him on Sunday, I knew the only way I’d feel comfortable leaving Stratus was if you felt as safe and secure as this had always made me. I didn’t realize, however, that you responded to me in the exact same way.”

  I avert my eyes, looking for courage in the corner of the room, but there’s none to be found. Books, clothes, discarded CD cases, but no courage. I give up and turn back to him.

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “No?”

  “Well, no. I mean . . .”

  His face is so innocent, so curious.

  “This thing is pretty and all, but I doubt Mr. Burns would let it vote on critique Tuesdays.”

  “Ah. And that changes things?”

  I’m quiet now, embarrassed. But I continue.

  “I could give this back to you right now with very little pain. I may not be able to sleep, and I’d have to wear gloves from time to time. I’d probably fall to pieces daily, but I’m confident now I’d eventually resemble something of my former self. For the past few weeks I’ve managed. Poorly, but I’ve managed.” I blink away the tears. “But I can’t imagine . . . A lot of people have disappeared on me, you know? Ali. My mom. I just . . . I’d hate to get all—and then have you . . .”

  “I’m not leaving, Brielle,” he says, resting a hand on my knee. My eyes close as a surge of heat shoots down my leg.

  “But you could,” I say, pulling my knee from his grip.

  “Of course I could. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “But you could,” I say with finality.

  We’re quiet for a minute—twenty-three of Jake’s blinks, to be accurate—and then I remember something he said that doesn’t make any sense.

  “You said something before.”

  “I said a lot of things.”

  “Something about the source of its power?”

  His cheek lifts slightly, and a small smile emerges. He lifts the ring from the bed and holds it at eye level. “What does this look like to you?”

  “A ring. Not big enough for circus animals to jump through, of course,” I say, trying to break the tension. “But way too big to wear on your finger.”

  He bites his lower lip and narrows his eyes. “Where would you wear it?”

>   My phone rings.

  I curse under my breath at the interruption and fish my cell phone from my back pocket. I intend to silence it, but when I see the number my tummy does this sick little flip thing and I know I have to answer it.

  “Jake, I’m so sorry. Do you mind? It’s Ali’s mom.”

  “Not at all. Answer. Please.”

  “Serena?” I say. “Everything okay?”

  “No,” she says. “No, it’s not. Marco’s out, Brielle. And I think he’s headed to Stratus.”

  16

  Canaan

  It’s back: The darkness. The fear.

  Canaan doesn’t hesitate. With a demon nearby, he can’t afford to. He transfers to the Celestial and turns his eyes to the room at the end of the hall.

  Jake sits on his bed, facing the girl. She’s on the phone, her back stiff, the black tar of fear soaking through her shirt and pouring thickly onto the floor. A fog rises like steam from the muck and settles heavily around them. From under her blond hair, the clingy substance oozes, running the length of her body. Her hands shake, desperate to be rid of it.

  She isn’t alone in her distress. It’s leaking from Jake as well— his pants saturated. Fear is pooled on the floor of his room, but is not content with only two victims. Like a heat-seeking missile, it runs into the hall looking for someone, anyone to attach itself to.

  If human beings could only see the manifestation of such a weapon, they would understand how it paralyzes, literally holding them captive with the glue of it.

  Like every being of light, Canaan hates fear. It has little effect on him, but humans can’t make such a claim. Only Celestial eyes can see it for what it is. Black and thick. Like tar, but icy and alive. It clings and oozes. It weighs down its victims until they are either frozen in a trench of indecision or worse—they make the first possible move, no matter how unwise, simply to rid themselves of it.

  It’s the deadliest weapon the Fallen possess. They can inflict it, to be sure, but the tragedy of fear is that since the Fall, humans have held it inside their very being and can unleash it, even unwittingly, on themselves and on others.

  The girl’s body is shaking more violently now. Canaan rises into the sky and examines the little town again. Patches of darkness spread here and there—fear and doubt, sadness and corruption, but no sign of Damien. Nothing to indicate an attack is imminent.