“All evidence to the contrary,” he says.
Filmy sunlight slips through the sheer window coverings and it’s easy to pretend the monster was a nightmare. Here in this warm, safe house. Here with Jake.
“Can we skip school today?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, looking far too elated for a guy who’s been gone all week.
“What time is it?”
He checks his phone. “Eight oh two. You want a doughnut?”
A pink cardboard box sits on the coffee table. He flips open the lid. Chocolate éclairs and cherry crullers. Dad’s favorite.
“You have an addiction, you know that?”
“Deputy Wimby dropped them by,” he says, eating half an éclair in one bite.
“Who’s Deputy Wimby?”
Jake stands, and I topple into the gap left by his body. I wonder if I can burrow into it and forget everything else. Just for a bit.
“That’s Deputy Wimby,” Jake says, pulling the curtain aside.
Parked on the street between Jake’s house and mine is a cop car. I stand and cross to Jake’s side. Pressing my fingers to the cold glass, I see a portly officer leaning against his driver’s side door, a cup of joe in one hand and a radio in the other. He catches sight of us at the window and waves, coffee splashing from his cup and onto his shoes. He tucks the radio under his arm as he stoops to wipe it off. The movement of his body jostles the radio and it slips free, falling to the gravel just in time for a steaming Jelly’s to-go cup to land on top of it.
“He’s here to protect you,” Jake says.
“That’s unfortunate.”
“He arrived while we were at the cemetery yesterday. Said he couldn’t get through to your dad’s cell.”
“Yeah, he’ll be hard to reach for the next few days.”
“Canaan let him know you’d be staying here while your father’s away. I hope that’s okay.”
“I don’t really have to, do I?”
“Angels can see through walls. If you need to go home, that’s fine.”
I rub my neck, pretending that statement doesn’t make me uncomfortable. “And Marco?” I say, looking to the empty couch, scrubbed clean by the smell of it.
“Moved him to my room. He’s okay. He’s sleeping. You want to talk to him?”
“No,” I say, turning to him. “Not yet.”
Jake’s eyes are disarming, his lips parted slightly as if he has something to say. I’ve never wanted to read someone’s mind so much in all my life.
“You said you’d tell me . . .”
“Everything,” Jake finishes.
“It seems we have time.”
He lets the curtain fall from his fingers. Wimby disappears, and we’re alone.
“There’s a lot to tell. Where should I start?”
I want to ask him about the monster. I want to know why Canaan needs two sets of wings. I want to know what we’re going to do about Marco and why Canaan hasn’t just turned the guy over to Deputy Wimby out there. But the thing holding my attention is Jake’s trembling hands.
“I want to know what you’re afraid of,” I say.
I don’t mean the words to sound so biting, but I can’t quite muster the energy to apologize.
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s just, my paranoia makes sense, right? Invisible monsters, escaped murderers, Deputy Wimby, for crying out loud. But you seem just as scared as I am, and I want to know why.”
Jake shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Brielle . . .”
“I’ve gutted myself, Jake. Told you all the little things that terrify me. In the spirit of fairness . . .”
“Fairness, huh?”
He stares at me a minute longer and then hooks his finger into the pocket of my sweatshirt and tugs. “Okay,” he says, his tone reluctant. “Come on.”
He leads me through the kitchen and down the hall. I assume we’re heading to his room, so I’m surprised when he turns into Canaan’s. He drops to the floor at the foot of the bed. Confused, I do the same.
“I told you before, Canaan’s a Shield. He’s an angel, right, but more precisely, he’s a Shield. His role here is specific to the charges he’s given. Make sense?”
“I guess so.”
Jake continues, his tone more resolute, his face staid. “For example, about twelve years ago Canaan was sent to an apartment building in Portland where he was to locate and recover a young boy who’d been abandoned: me. He says it’s the easiest assignment he’s ever been given. He entered our ratty apartment, and there I was, curled up on the end of the couch, syringes on the floor and cocaine on the kitchen table. He carried me from the building remaining entirely in this realm, but no one stopped him, no one questioned, and no one’s seen my parents in years.”
I fidget. “This realm?”
“Yes. The halo, Canaan’s wings—both let you see into the Celestial realm. This realm, the realm where angels breathe air and eat food—the realm you and I see daily—we call the Terrestrial. Anyway, Canaan took me home with him and raised me as best he could. He cared for me and taught me, and until last week he’d received no further assignment regarding me.”
“Okay, you say assignment like it’s homework or something.” My question frightens me a little, but it has to be asked. “Who makes these assignments?”
“The Father,” he says softly. So honest, so straightforward. “The Creator. El Shaddai. The Almighty. He has many names.”
I shift my gaze and pick at my fingernails. Dad would so be dragging me from the room about now. “So, God, then.”
Jake chews his lip. “Yes, God. The assignments come from his Throne Room.”
“His Throne Room?”
“Yes. The Shield are just one group of angels, one rank. Canaan carries a sword, he’s prepared to fight—to protect humanity. That job falls to the Shield.”
I want to ask who he’s prepared to fight, but the possible answers terrify me.
Jake continues, “But he hasn’t always been a Shield. He spent over a thousand years as a Throne.”
I demanded he tell me all this, but the endless string of details is overwhelming. Maybe I was right before. Maybe it’s all just too much.
But would not knowing make it all go away?
“A Throne?”
“Yes. I know you envision an ornate chair, but it’s also a Celestial rank,” Jake explains. “Thrones are angelic beings assigned to the Throne Room of the Father. They’re responsible for dispensing His instructions to angels positioned throughout the earth. He requires all Celestial beings to spend time in His presence before entrusting the task of guardianship to any one of them.”
Jake’s gaze slides away from my eyes and rests near my collarbone.
“That’s how much He loves humankind. He’ll only give the very best the rank of Shield because with it comes the responsibility of keeping watch over His children. Of course, the Father’s omniscience allows Him to complete any task Himself, but like a good father, He includes His creation, uses His creation to accomplish His will.” Jake pauses, and his eyes drift back to mine. “Questions?”
My face must have betrayed my discomfort. “The halo?”
“The halo.” Jake takes a deep breath. “What do you know about the fall of Lucifer?”
I shift. “He was an angel, right? And then he got thrown out of heaven.”
“Right. He rebelled. He thought he could be like God, and he convinced a third of the angels he was right. And when Lucifer fell, those angels followed.”
“Demons.” And I know, without having to ask, what that thing in the graveyard was. I know who Canaan is prepared to fight.
Jake nods. “The Fallen, yes. But the angels who remained— those who refused Lucifer and his lies—were rewarded. To honor their loyalty, the Creator gave them crowns. Halos.”
“Wow. And Canaan can just . . . give it away? His crown?”
“The Father gives without regret.”
>
I’m antsy. I want to look away, but his magnetic eyes are locked on mine. I don’t know what to do with this information— information I knew was coming. It means Dad is wrong about God being a fairy tale, and it means he’s right about God being cruel. It means God really exists, and it means He allowed my mother to die. He allowed Ali to die.
“So what’s the deal with the chest, then? This is it, right? The one you asked Canaan about earlier.” I run my hand across the top of it. It seems to be fashioned from some sort of marble or granite. Onyx, maybe? But it’s not natural. Not entirely. Its stone surface has the same liquid look to it as the halo, the blackness eddying like shifting steam.
“It is.” He places his hand next to mine, our fingers inches apart. “This is how the Throne Room communicates with Canaan.”
I clear my throat. “The chest?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Occasionally items are placed inside by the Throne Room—things to indicate our next move: deeds to land, rental agreements, adoption papers, keys, employment offers, pictures. There’s a reason angels are required to spend time in the Throne Room before assuming the rank of Shield. Their time there helps them understand and interpret. More time in His presence means more insight into His ways. Less time, less insight.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Okay. What exactly?”
“Why you are terrifed . . .”
“I’m getting there,” he says. “You’ll know all my deep dark secrets soon.”
“I don’t need all of them.”
“In the spirit of fairness, right? Anyway, I told you we lived in Chicago. Canaan managed an inner-city orphanage there. It had been months since he’d received any new direction, and then an employment application appeared in the chest. Understanding his instructions, he arranged an interview. By the time it was over he knew that the woman, a Mary Borst, was fully qualified to take control of the orphanage. He’d found his replacement. That evening, a page from the classified section of the Stratus Herald appeared in the chest. Most of the page had been smudged, but one ad was legible—a For Rent ad with this address listed. Within the week he had hired Mrs. Borst to run the orphanage and we’d signed the Millers’ rental agreement.”
He’s talking faster now, and keeping up is difficult. Still, he looks at me like I’m supposed to respond.
“Wow. That’s . . . just . . . I . . . that’s amazing.”
I watch as he slides the lid off the chest and props it against the bed. A woodsy, earthy smell is released. Jake reaches inside and pulls out a silver jewelry box. There’s something engraved on the top, but I’m captivated by his hand.
Which is trembling.
Again.
“The Saturday before we arrived in Stratus,” he says, “this appeared in the chest.”
He releases a pearl clasp, and there, shining back at me, is a diamond wedding ring.
I’m bewildered. “It’s beautiful, Jake. Whose is it?”
“It’s yours,” he says. “I think.”
There’s a hint of the wildness I’d seen in the graveyard burning in his eyes, but it’s controlled.
He’s serious.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Read the engraving.”
I take the platinum ring from his blistering hand and hold it up to the light. The perfectly round diamond sparkles as I tilt the ring and read the eight tiny words etched into the band.
From hands that heal to eyes that see.
I squint at it, confused. Conflicted.
“Say something,” Jake says. A glance at him and I realize I’m not the only one conflicted.
“It’s just . . . I’m not seeing it, Jake. I mean, Hands that heal, I get that. But eyes that see? Really, that could be anyone.”
Jake is shaking his head. “The halo, Elle. It doesn’t let me see into the Celestial. It never has. The only way I can see into that realm is from the safety of an angel’s wings.”
“But . . .”
“Canaan’s halo gave me healing hands. It’s given you eyes to see. My guess is you won’t always need the halo either. One day you’ll see the Celestial without it.”
My heart hammers against my windpipe, and my throat makes strange squeaky noises. It’s just ridiculous. A chest. A ring. And a halo.
It’s a fairy tale, right? Dress-up and make-believe.
“So this means . . .”
“It means you have a choice,” Jake says quietly. “It means one day when I offer you this ring, you can decide if you want to accept it or not.” He is adamant, intense—emphasizing each word like it belongs in its own universe. “It just means one day I’ll want to marry you. That’s it, Brielle. That’s all it means.”
“But that’s . . . that’s stupid. You’ve barely known me a week. What if you change your mind?” I’m beginning to understand the fear he struggles to bury. “Don’t you have a choice? If, and I mean if you and I . . . and if you ask that . . . question, I want . . . any girl would want . . . you to do it because you want to, not because some box thought you should!”
I’m escalating quickly, but I can’t seem to find the off switch. Jake places his hands on my shoulders, sending a firestorm surging through my body. I relax, and my breathing returns to normal.
With a shaky hand I give the ring back. He takes it and tucks it into a small velvet pillow, and then he closes the jewelry box. There, engraved on the lid, in elegant gothic script, are my initials: GM.
He sets the box on the bottom of the chest and slides the top in place. I like it better that way. Closed. The future hidden. Unknown.
My hands are cold again. I want to bury them in Jake’s, but I’m afraid of the message that’ll send. So I lock them together and shove them between my knees.
“I don’t have to believe you,” I say.
“No,” he says. “No, you don’t.”
“Will it change anything? If I choose not to believe?”
Jake’s hands are taut against his jeans, white with the strain of whatever he’s thinking.
“I don’t know.”
We stare at the chest for a long time—its blackness curving gracefully this way and that, snaking onto itself over and over again.
“What were you doing out in the storm?” I ask.
He looks at me, confused.
“The night you healed my ankle. You had a flashlight. What were you looking for?”
“Ah.” He stands and walks to Canaan’s side table, pulling out one of the drawers. “I was looking for you.”
He removes a stack of papers and hands the top one to me. It’s a page torn from the Stratus Herald. I look at the date on the top. The paper is nearly a year old.
“What is this?”
“It took me awhile too,” he admits. “See the article at the bottom?”
Jake crouches and indicates a square of text taking up the bottom quarter of the page. A title sprawls above the article in big bold letters: BRIAR CREEK DAM CONSTRUCTION POSTPONED. The article is short, and I read it quickly. It indicates that the dam will not be built, due to conflicting environmental reports, and that further development is postponed indefinitely. There are a few quotes from local citizens on either side of the issue. Of note is an angry farmer claiming that each year the flooding creek causes a considerable amount of damage to his crops, and therefore to his family’s livelihood. I finish reading and look up at Jake.
“Okay,” I say, ready for the rest of the explanation.
“This page appeared in the chest along with the For Rent ad,” he explains, handing me the page from the classified section—a page we’ve already discussed. Above the Millers’ address it reads:
For Rent
Three-bedroom farmhouse
Right off the highway
Horse property / Briar Creek view
“So you learned your new home had a creek running through its property, and that same creek flooded every year.”
“Yes, and that led us to the Internet,” he says
, “where we checked the forecast here in Stratus. The first storm of the season was expected to hit that week, the week after our arrival.”
“And that made you think what, exactly?”
“It made me think I should watch the creek! I didn’t know what to expect, really, but that first day, in calculus, I realized that the creek ran through your property as well. I realized we were neighbors.”
“How?”
“Your, um, mailbox has your last name written on it.”
“Oh, sheesh. My ‘mailbox.’ ”
“Anyway, after noticing your . . . fragile state, and knowing the creek has a tendency to flood . . .”
“So the night I broke my ankle, you were what? Waiting for me?”
The thought is overwhelming. He was looking out for me because of some random newspaper article? Because of some crazy supernatural chest?
He shrugs. “I didn’t really know what I was waiting for, but yeah, last week I spent my nights walking up and down the creek between your property and ours.”
I don’t know what to say. He’s done so much on my behalf. And he’d done much of it before we ever met. My heart’s a lost cause, so I press my hands into the carpet, hoping to steady them.
“You’re not going to kneel down when you propose, are you?”
He laughs. “Not a fan?”
“It’s overdone, is all.”
I let my eyes wander. They find the white dove on the wall— the one surrounded by all that darkness.
“What happens, Jake, if I choose not to believe any of this?”
“I don’t know. But after what you’ve seen, is that possible?”
In spite of all my misgivings, and a shaky hand to my chest, I can’t stop my heart from thrumming.
“You said it yourself, Jake. Anything’s possible.”
24
Brielle
You need a maid, kid.” Marco sticks his head into Canaan’s room and slides down the door frame. “Nearly killed myself trying to get outta bed.”
The mood in the room changes. Jake’s words have left me unsettled and confused, but Marco unleashes a whole new brand of frustration.
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