Angel Eyes

by Shannon Dittemore

  Jake doesn’t speak.

  “It just seems wrong, you know? For a righteous God to allow injustice. It just seems wrong.” I wish I felt differently, but at least I have put words to the ache I’ve been stifling all day. “I’m sorry, Jake,” I apologize, feeling miserable for being disappointed in the God he so willingly follows. “I just have a problem with blind faith.”

  Jake’s eyes snap to mine. Prismatic raindrops run down his cheeks and lips, but his smile is warm.

  “You know, second to me—and maybe the apostle John— you’ve seen more of the true world than just about anyone. God doesn’t call us to blind faith, Brielle. Don’t let anyone tell you that. He just asks us to believe Him, to believe that what He said about Himself is true. Even when it doesn’t make sense. Even when it’s hard. I would give anything to understand God and why He does what He does.” Jake pulls my face closer to his. “But we’re His creation, Brielle. Not the other way around. We can’t make God into what we think He should be. With everything you’ve now seen, is it so hard to believe that perhaps the tragedy of your mother’s death—of Ali’s murder—that maybe these things were allowed to happen as part of some larger plan?”

  The air seems too thin, and I can’t breathe in enough of it. The thought of their lives being thrown away to accommodate some divine arrangement stabs like a thousand knives. I pull away, trying to find more air.

  “Why should their deaths be necessary? With everything He could have done, all the angels He could have sent, why didn’t they have a Shield? Wasn’t my mom worth it? Wasn’t Ali? Are you saying God wanted them to die?”

  “Everyone dies,” Jake says, releasing me.

  “But He could have stopped it?”

  The silence buzzes. Waspish. Like me.

  “Yes. He could’ve stopped it.”

  The honesty of his words, the truth of it, tears at my heart, and I sob—the pain of loss worse than it’s been in days. “So He didn’t care, then? He just let them die!”

  “Brielle, listen to me. It’s possible God’s greater plan includes the deaths of your mother and Ali, but that doesn’t say anything about their worth to Him. You have to believe that.

  “It’s also possible their deaths were brought about by the very existence of evil. Look around you. We live in a world plagued by darkness. Every choice we make affects the balance of light here. You’ve seen how fear debilitates us. The only way bad things will stop happening to good people is for darkness to be completely eradicated, and that will only happen in God’s timing. But you can trust that God will somehow use their deaths, and your loss, to one day eliminate evil forever.”

  “God’s plan or not, Jake, I hate death.”

  “God does too.”

  Those three little words are unfathomable to me. I’m still reeling when Jake continues.

  “But let me ask you this: when Canaan cloaked you with his wings and you disappeared from the Terrestrial realm, did you just . . . stop existing?”

  “Of course not,” I say, surprised by the question.

  “It’s the same thing, Elle. Ali and your mother have been cloaked by death. You can’t see them, but they’re not gone. Not really. Our spirits will outlive our physical bodies, so it’s our spirits we have to take care of.”

  Jake grabs the collar of my sweatshirt, and I let him pull me to him, leaning my forehead against his. The halo’s kept me warm, warmer even than Jake.

  “Anybody ever told you how hot you are?” he asks.

  My lips twitch. “You really want me to answer that question.”

  He laughs.

  “Do you think I’ll see them again, Jake? In heaven?”

  “That’s between them and God,” he says, closing his eyes. Their white light is shut away, and still the Celestial shines. “And you and God. Belief is always a choice. And it’s a choice no one else can make for you.”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe, Jake. I just want to understand.”

  Jake breathes a small, gentle laugh. “It’s a journey, Elle. A process. There’s a proverb that says, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.’ ”

  “Lean not on your own understanding.” The words are melodic, fortune cookie-ish.

  “In the past few days your eyes have been opened to an entirely different realm—one you didn’t even know existed. God’s creation is so vast it’d be crazy to think we could ever understand it all.”

  I think of Dad. I can’t imagine explaining all this to him, but there’s a part of me that aches to. He’d never believe me without seeing it himself.

  “That’s so hard for me,” I say.

  “I know. But it starts with trusting that you don’t know everything. That God does. That His decisions are better than yours, even when they hurt. You do that for a while, and you realize that regardless of what He allows, God’s our best hope. Our only hope.”

  Hope.

  The word trills inside me. Like the lyrics of a song I knew once but had forgotten. And now it’s here, suddenly. Hope on my tongue and in my heart. I cling to it, afraid of forgetting all over again.

  Jake pulls the sopping beanie down tighter on my head, and the halo releases such a strong wave of heat my eyes quiver and almost close.

  “And having seen the world through Celestial eyes, what do you think about the Terrestrial, about the world you’ve always known?”

  I open my eyes wide and look around at the canvas of color, at the way things really are. I try to picture the world as I’d known it before, without the light and the rainbow hues shading everything, without the splotches of darkness.

  “I think it’s a facade—like a puppet show, you know? We can only see what’s going on above the curtain. But with the halo on, it’s like the curtains have been removed and there’s a whole world of activity behind them. It makes me wonder if the world I thought I knew would even be possible without the Celestial.” I pause, turning over image after fascinating image. “In the Terrestrial, we can’t see people’s emotions or motives. We just see actions and outcomes, right? In the Celestial, everything is right in front of you: Fear and hatred, love, sadness. Angels, demons. Everything’s right there to be seen.” My eyes tear through the roof into the office below, splashed with the shocking red of violence, two men dead on the floor. “You can’t hide the truth.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  We jump to our feet, and Jake pushes himself in front of me. Over the side of the building comes a large hand, followed by another. The speaker heaves himself onto the roof and pulls himself up to his full height. In his hand he holds a dagger of sorts, blood glistening on its blade. He’s disheveled, but I have no trouble identifying the man in front of us as Damien.

  With the halo still firmly in place, I catch glimpses of the demon’s true self as his form seems to morph in and out of focus before me. His wing is severely damaged and hangs awkwardly, feathers jutting out here and there. I wonder if he can still fly.

  “Nice to see you again, Brielle.” His black eyes roam uncomfortably over my body from head to toe and back again. With a glance at Jake, he sheathes his knife. “Hmm . . . I wonder.”

  His figure stabilizes in front of me, the human appearance gone, replaced by the totality of his fallen form.

  “Brielle?” Jake says, grabbing my hand.

  Damien’s cloaked himself and transferred to the Celestial, disappearing from Jake’s sight altogether.

  “He’s still there,” I whisper. “He hasn’t moved.”

  Damien glares at me, his eyes nearly closed. “So you can see me.”

  I look at Jake.

  “Don’t,” Jake whispers quietly, avoiding my gaze.

  Damien grins. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. He grabs my arm and yanks me away from Jake. Jake reaches out for me, but his attempt is useless. I tumble toward Damien, who catches me roughly and spins me so that I face Jake. He is shaking, but still, his flaming hazel eyes are averted. He star
es at the ground, at the sky, everywhere but at me.

  And I understand.

  Damien flashes his talons in front of my face, and before I realize what he’s doing, he drags a razor-sharp nail down my cheek. I am screaming, crying out in pain, writhing, trying desperately to get free. Jake can’t help himself, it seems, and he turns his face to mine. I know he sees blood, black as night, blossom on my face. I watch in horror as rays of light break through the lush green and deep brown of Jake’s eyes, and the pure white of love’s greatest expression stares back at me.

  Damien purrs and flings me into Jake’s arms. I watch as he takes off into the sky. He is broken, damaged, but he manages to hover clumsily above us.

  “I’m sorry,” I sob.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Jake says. “I’m so sorry.”

  He extends his hand toward the gash on my face. He offers healing, but at what cost?

  “Don’t,” I tell him, stepping back. “Leave it. It’s what he wants.”

  Overhead, Damien opens his mouth and releases a sound so intense I drop to my knees, crying out and covering my ears. It’s the sound of violence, the hum of hate, the very ring of evil. It is a growl, a roar, a cry of desperation. It is pain. It is death.

  “Brielle!” Jake cries. I don’t know why he can’t hear Damien’s Celestial cry, but I’m grateful.

  And then it’s over.

  “It’s okay,” I say, standing. “I’m okay.”

  “What was that?” he asks, searching my face.

  Before I can answer, monstrous black wings flash overhead. I look up to see another demon, larger by far than Damien and uninjured, descending from the apex of the bridge. I shudder. This is the demon who survived Canaan’s sword. This is Maka.

  Damien’s damaged wing seems to have reached its maximum exertion, and he, too, drops to the roof, faster and with much less grace than his counterpart.

  “Jake,” I warn. “Another one. Behind you.”

  Without any visible communication, they both transfer to the Terrestrial, their massive forms side by side. Damien, with his olive skin and jet-black hair, stands arrogantly, his arms crossed, his handsome face smiling. The demon-man next to him is huge, black and muscled, his long hair hanging in braided curtains. Both stare at us greedily with dead black eyes, and after a moment the large one speaks.

  “You can see us, then,” Maka says, his voice deep and hollow. “It seems Damien was right about you. And you—” He turns his attention to Jake. “You leave your girlfriend there, bleeding. How selfish. In your hand lies an ability so rare, so precious. And yet you refrain. Why, I wonder?”

  Jake doesn’t answer.

  “How do you feel about that, sweetheart?” the ogre asks, turning to me.

  A flash of white against the orange sky draws my attention, and my eyes flick briefly away. Behind the two demons, approaching fast, is Canaan. He drops out of sight across the river, and I squeeze Jake’s hand. With the two demons standing before me in their human form, I am the only one able to see into the Celestial.

  Moments later Canaan resurfaces over the top of an evergreen, and I keep my face as stoic as possible, refusing, like Jake, to answer the question put to me. I try not to appear distracted but watch as Canaan changes course. He approaches from Jake’s right-hand side, his arms outstretched.

  We’re saved!

  Any second now we’ll be safely wrapped in the wings of our Shield. If my face betrays any sense of this, I’m unaware. But something—my demeanor, fate, bad luck—something causes Damien to transfer back to the Celestial just as Canaan crosses over the ledge of the roof.

  With a violent roar Damien steps in front of me and draws his sword. In a jabbing motion he thrusts it at Canaan. It makes contact with one of Canaan’s outstretched hands, and he pulls it back in response. He can’t reach me now, but he snatches Jake to himself, cloaking him. Maka transfers, drawing his weapon and rising into the air behind Canaan.

  And then the air around me seems to disappear, cosmically vacuumed away. I gasp, frantically searching for it. But something heavier fills my lungs. It drips from my nose and my mouth.

  I’m drowning.

  Air is in limited supply, but there is no shortage of blood. I watch the world of colors and light swirl around me and know I’m dying. I reach out, turning, struggling to find the source of pain. Finally my hands find the hilt of a dagger protruding from my chest. Damien’s Terrestrial form stands just feet away, his demonic face triumphant, his hand still extended from the blade toss.

  I look around frantically for Jake, for Canaan, but there’s no friendly face to be seen. I drop to the roof, spitting and gurgling, wishing again and again for just one more breath.

  38

  Canaan

  Nooooooo!!! Canaan, turn around!”

  Jake’s cry is one of anguish. Canaan lurches and pulls to a stop.

  “Go back, go back, go back!” Jake begs. He’s hysterical. “Please go back!”

  Canaan turns his eyes to the warehouse, and tragedy breaks through him. Brielle is engulfed in the flames of violence. She lies faceup, the life force bleeding out of her. It leaks down the ridges of the aluminum building with the dirty rainwater, soaking into the ground below.

  Maka and Damien stand, in their Celestial forms, next to the dying girl, sneering. Canaan hovers, conflicted, in the sky.

  “Canaan! Go back!”

  “Jake, if we go back, the odds are against us. I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave these wings. For your gift alone, they’ll dig their talons in.”

  “I won’t be easily corrupted.”

  “I know that. But they’ll use your compassion against you. Your feelings for Brielle. They do whatever it takes to taint the truth. To corrupt what God has created you to be.”

  “I don’t care,” he wails.

  “You do care. And you’re my responsibility. I have a job to do.”

  “She’s your responsibility, Canaan. She’s my responsibility. Go back!”

  “Jake . . .”

  “It’s my choice, Canaan. Don’t take this from me.”

  Is he right? Is this good-bye?

  “What if it’s her time, Jake?”

  “That’s God’s decision, not yours,” he argues. “I have to try. Take me back.”

  Canaan hesitates. This is the child he’s watched grow year after year. He’s raised Jake the best way he knew, making the boy’s well-being his first priority, always. How can he deliver Jake to the lions?

  “We’re losing time, Canaan,” Jake says, watching the flames flickering erratically. “Please, take me back.”

  He’s right. This is his choice.

  Canaan slaps his wings hard, tunneling faster than ever through the orange sky glittering with Terrestrial rain, finally landing lightly on the roof. Canaan opens his wings, and Jake emerges. He crosses through the flames and collapses at Brielle’s side. Though Canaan is near, Jake loses his Celestial eyes when he leaves the safety of his Shield’s wings. Canaan knows his human eyes lie to him—compel Jake to believe he and Brielle are alone in the darkness.

  “Drop your sword,” Maka’s mind demands. He holds his scimitar over Jake’s head. It’s a threat. Symbolic, of course, but a threat nonetheless. “Now, or we won’t wait to see what the boy can do.”

  Canaan draws his sword and holds it up. Maka jerks his head to the ledge of the building, and Canaan tosses it over. Maka’s scimitar cannot damage Jake’s soul, which belongs firmly to the Creator. But human weapons are surprisingly efficient, as Damien’s dagger has so aptly shown.

  “Whether he heals her or not, you’ll take him. Do your best to corrupt him,” Canaan says. “What does the girl matter?”

  Maka glances at Damien.

  “We’ve all lost something tonight. If Damien is right—if the boy has the ability to heal—then perhaps it’s all been worth it. That would be good for Damien. He could use a new charge. A right hand. A human with gifts. We could help him . . . prepare Jake for that task
. But if Damien has deceived us . . .”

  “Why would I do that? What do I gain by angering you?”

  “Nothing but fire.”

  Damien blanches but does not respond.

  “Now go.”

  Canaan jumps softly and floats away, his eyes on Jake. Tears run down the boy’s face, but his jaw is set. Though he no longer sees the forces around him, he understands the consequences of this action. Jake can heal Brielle, but growing old with her is impossible now.

  Without his sword Canaan is no match against two armed demons, but if Jake is willing to give his life for Brielle’s, he’ll do his best to ensure she remains safe. Canaan is certain he can keep one of them from death, and as Jake said, it’s his choice.

  Jake’s hand presses against the knife wound to her chest, and Canaan watches the flames flash unevenly, slowing. He waits impatiently for them to steady, to throb rhythmically to the strong, healthy cadence of Brielle’s heart.

  But moments pass and the flames move ever slower, more erratic. Canaan’s eyes move to Damien, whose face is contorted in confusion, his good wing twitching involuntarily. Maka stands hunched, his weapon still drawn. The expression on his face shows his confidence has faltered.

  Jake’s head is bowed, his features hidden from them all. Two bright flashes of crimson light the orange sky morbidly, and the flames still. Jake’s body shakes, and his desolation fills the atmosphere. The waters of sadness, murky and gray, wash over him, obscuring Canaan’s view and causing him instead to focus on the two demons perched like gothic bookends on his left and right.

  Maka roars in anger and turns on his fallen brother. He draws his sword and swings it at Damien. Canaan wraps his wings tightly and falls into a dive. If Brielle’s time has come, he can at least save Jake.

  39

  Brielle

  Breathing is easier now, or maybe the need has left me. The sky, lively with its sorbet colors, has begun to change, to fade. I watch in wonder as the hues bleed away, leaving Jake’s face framed by a pure white sky. I stare up at him, at his sun-kissed face, at his white eyes shining down on me, and wish I could ease his pain. His body shakes, and he leans toward me, kissing my lips lightly and closing my eyes.