Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  I shift, moving away from him, from words that wedge into my ribs. I’ve come to grips with the reality that I may never understand my mom’s death, but it still hurts when it’s put out there like that. That for whatever reason God chose not to heal my mom.

  “He thinks you trust your mom’s God because I do. He can’t see me without thinking of your mom. Without thinking of her death.”

  The car feels smaller. All this talk of death and hate, suffocating.

  “I think you’re overstating things a bit,” I say, finding a shaky version of my voice. “I’m his daughter—the only one he has. He’s jealous of my time and overprotective.”

  “No, it’s more than that.” Jake shakes his head. Fear is invisible to me without the halo in place, but I hear it in his words, see it in the heaviness of his shoulders. “Canaan’s overprotective. Your dad’s got a vendetta or . . .”

  He looks at me, really looks at me. I’m not sure what it is he’s seeing, but the hard shell of frustration that so quickly encased him begins to melt away. The rigidity leaves his arms and neck, and he hangs his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s not you.”

  “Of course it’s me. Dad’s a part of me, of who I am.” I run a finger from his ear down his jawline, wishing I could make this better for him. He closes his eyes at my touch, tiny bead-like tears pressing through his lashes. My heart breaks, and I press my lips to his. “I’m sorry this is so hard. I’m sure he’ll . . .”

  “Come around?” Jake finishes. “But what if he doesn’t?”

  Jake and I both know I could never walk away from Dad. I’m all he has. And I can’t even contemplate the other alternative.

  “He will,” I say. I try to be adamant, but my words quaver.

  Jake strokes my hand, his head bowed, wet lashes curling gently against his cheek. So warm, so close. But there’s something between us now. The beginnings of a wall, and I don’t know how to tear it down.

  “I don’t want you to have to choose between me and your dad, Elle. We have enough battles to fight.” There’s something strange in his tone. Something that sounds like surrender.

  But that can’t be right. Jake’s a fighter.

  “There’s room in my life for both of you, and if the Throne Room’s right, I won’t have to choose.”

  Jake goes pale, his hands clammy against mine. He pulls them away and wipes them on his pants. There are mere inches between us, but fear put them there. And I hate fear. It’s my hatred that fights back.

  “You have my engagement ring next door, hand-delivered to you by the Throne Room of God Himself.” My voice is all high and squeaky. But I need him to hear me. I need him to fight the fear. “Why are we even talking about this?”

  Jake licks his lips. “Because your dad—”

  “That’s not it. It can’t be. You knew my dad had issues with God. You’ve known for half a year, Jake.” My throat is tight, sucking on the emotion of the moment. “You never said it was a deal breaker.”

  Something shifts then. I feel it in my chest, in the fear dissolving around us. Jake leans across the seat, conviction in the russet flames that burn deep in his eyes. Their fire tugs at my skin, at my heart, pulling me closer, reducing the distance between us. He’s fighting it.

  “There is no deal breaker, Elle. One day I will ask you to marry me whether your dad likes it or not.”

  I lean my forehead against his, relieved. “Then why all the angst?”

  I breathe him in. He smells like he always does, like coffee laced with sugar. Like adventure. Like safety.

  Like the rest of my life.

  I inhale it all.

  And then an elephant lands on the roof of the car.

  5

  Brielle

  I think your dad’s going to eat my car.”

  Jake’s face has lost all of its color. He’s looking over my shoulder and out the passenger-side window.

  “It’s not your car he’s glaring at,” I say.

  The pounding stops, but Dad is just standing there, his face all irritation and bristling whiskers. He’s . . . off. Something’s wrong with him. Against the yellow house a shimmer of red catches my attention. Olivia Holt drops gracefully down our porch steps. Her long legs bare, the hint of khaki shorts peeking out beneath her silky red blouse.

  “If you’re done with my daughter,” Dad says, “could you move this piece of junk?”

  I can do nothing but stare gape-mouthed. Dad’s always been protective, always been uncomfortable around Jake, but this isn’t like him. Dad can be a roughneck, but he’s not rude. At least not usually. It’s hard to imagine him treating anyone this way, especially someone I care about. Especially Jake.

  “What?” Dad asks. “I’m just trying to back my truck out here.”

  “See. Hate,” Jake whispers.

  “Something’s wrong with him,” I say, my eyes falling on Olivia once again. I’m straining, trying to figure out how she messed Dad up so badly in two short hours. “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah. I’ll call you later,” Jake says, his face a mess of sad and awkward. I want to fix it, make him feel better, but I can’t do anything with Dad’s fist hovering over the car. “You better go. He’s not getting any happier.”

  No, he’s not.

  I step from the car with every intention of throwing a massive tantrum, but as Jake backs down the driveway, I catch sight of his face. His lips are moving furiously. He’s praying. For me. For Dad. Probably for himself a little too.

  So instead of rising to the occasion, I hook my finger through the halo on my wrist and say a silent prayer myself. I can’t think of anything nice to say to Dad, so like a good girl I won’t say anything at all. But when I try to step past him, I catch a whiff that stops me cold.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “We had a couple beers,” Dad says. “Why?”

  Olivia loops her arm through Dad’s. The sun streaks her hair; a world of bright color lies in those dark strands. It’s only then that I realize how young she is. She has the appearance of maturity, looks like she’s lived some, but she’s closer to my age than Dad’s. I turn my attention back to him.

  “Because it’s noon,” I say.

  I refuse to hide my disgust. He’s had drinking issues before, back when I was in junior high. It almost cost him the company, but he swore he’d taken care of that.

  “It’s noon on a Sunday, love.” Olivia breaks away from Dad and moves closer. “Your dad’s all right. Just enjoying his weekend.”

  I step away, sliding my hands into the wide pockets of my skirt. It’s a gesture her dark eyes don’t miss.

  “That’s a beautiful bracelet,” she says. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Why?”

  “Elle,” Dad says, his voice a warning.

  Olivia laughs, all teeth and throat. “Because it’s lovely. I think I’d like one.”

  “Her boyfriend gave it to her,” Dad says, his eyes hard. “Can you believe that?”

  Olivia taps her teeth with a crimson nail. “Boys don’t give their girlfriends trinkets like that, love.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Dad says.

  “Not unless they want something in return,” she finishes.

  I look to Dad, hoping he’ll jump in, defend my honor, but he just raises his eyebrows, a stupid drunken grin on his face.

  “I have to go,” I say. “I’m meeting Kay.”

  “Tell her I’ll call tomorrow, will you? So many ideas to chat about. Can’t wait to really dig my hands into Stratus, you know?”

  I don’t know, actually, but something about the gleam in her eye tells me I should. I should want to know exactly what she’s planning to do with Stratus. But right now I need to get away. From her. From Dad.

  I run up the driveway, my sandals sending gravel flying like shrapnel. It peppers my bare legs, but I don’t slow. I stomp up the porch stairs and fling open the kitchen door. When I’ve slammed it behind me, I sink to the floo
r and yank my sandals off. One at a time, I dig out the rocks that have wedged themselves between my toes.

  And I cry. I do. I’m a crier. I wish I wasn’t, but I am.

  And that’s when I hear it.

  The music.

  Every note pitch-perfect. The arrangement unearthly. So unearthly I tug the halo off my wrist and wait as it transforms into the crown. “Come on, come on.”

  Finally!

  I jump to my feet, the halo on my head. With a slow build of heat and color, the Celestial comes into view, and with heavenly eyes I see the worship. My house is full of it. Ice-blue tendrils curl through the blazing air around me, filling my kitchen. They press against the walls, lifting higher and higher, slipping through the ceiling and into the sky above. I spin, looking for the source of the song, but I can’t find it.

  I run through the house, holding the halo tight to my head, looking for the rogue worshiper, looking for the maker of such beautiful music. I run through the archway and into the living room, down the hallway that takes me past the bathroom and the laundry room. I step into Dad’s room, but there’s nothing. Just the incense of worship tangling together as the music continues on, note after breathtaking note.

  A door slams.

  “Brielle?”

  It’s Dad.

  Shoot. I’m standing in the doorway of my own room, my hands still on the halo. I yank it from my head, wincing at the hair I’ve torn away. It starts transforming immediately, but it’s not moving nearly fast enough, so I toss it onto my bed and pull my door shut before ducking back into the kitchen.

  “Dad? What are you doing? Where’s Olivia?” I’m talking too fast, my body reeling from the abrupt transfer back to all things Terrestrial, but Dad doesn’t seem to notice.

  “She’s in the truck. You seen my wallet?”

  I pluck it from the counter and hand it to him.

  “Thanks, kiddo.”

  And then I watch as his face turns pale.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  His legs buckle and he stumbles, grabbing a barstool for support. I run to his side and duck under his arm, putting mine around his waist. “Are you going to be sick?”

  My dad is not a small man, so when he swoons on his feet my knees buckle at the added weight.

  “Let’s sit, Dad. I’m going to lower you to the floor, okay?”

  But then he straightens up. “No, I just . . . I thought I heard . . .”

  My heart stutters, and I strain my ears, listening for the music, but it’s gone.

  “You thought you heard what?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t hear anything.” He grabs a dish towel from the counter and swipes it across his face, barking a hollow laugh. “Maybe you’re right. Noon might be too early to start drinking.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sorry about before. With your boyfriend.” He smiles, but it’s plastic and the corners tremble. “I’m all right, baby. Don’t worry about me. I’ll just . . . I’ll have Olivia drive.”

  “Dad, I don’t think you should go. You need to lie down.”

  He leans into me and presses his lips to my temple. The alcohol on his breath turns my stomach, but I stand still, let him kiss me.

  “I’m fine.”

  He turns his back on me, every dish in the cupboards ringing with the slamming of the door.

  6

  Jake

  It’s late. Work was rough. Another crew member laid off and double the pictures to process. Jake doesn’t mind the extra work, but watching a friend and coworker plead with their boss not to let him go, to let him stay on—just a few hours a week—was heartrending. The guy’s meager wages are the only thing putting him through college.

  It’s been like this all summer—his boss, Phil, laying off one crew member at a time. “Tightening the belt,” he said. Understandable with the economy the way it is, but any hiccup in the schedule means Jake gets called in to cover a shift. The pay sucks, but he doesn’t mind the Photo Depot. He likes Phil, likes the quaint feel of downtown Stratus. Truth be told, he’s never really felt at home like he does here.

  But he’s got that feeling again, the one he gets whenever Canaan’s assignment requires a new zip code. It’s a nervous itch that tells him change is coming. And for the first time, he can actually imagine telling Canaan he’d rather not go. That he’d like to stay here, start a life in Stratus. With Brielle.

  Canaan would be fine with it—they’ve talked about this day. But for it to work Jake would have to find a place of his own and a job that paid substantially better than the Photo Depot. But instead of applying to colleges or looking for a better job, Jake spent the last semester of senior year waiting.

  And waiting.

  And tonight he’d like nothing better than to crawl under the pile of laundry on his bed and sleep, but the fear inside his gut compels him to do just one last thing before turning in. He climbs the steps to the old Miller place—the farmhouse he and Canaan share—and opens the door. Unlocked as always. Shadows swim on the walls and carpet, but the house is mostly dark. He drops his car keys on the kitchen table as he passes and swipes an apple from the bowl. Then he thinks better of it and puts it back. Checking the chest always turns his stomach. Even now he can feel a tight ball of anxiety growing behind his ribs. He’s fairly certain Canaan’s not home, but habit has him knocking on Canaan’s bedroom door. When there’s no answer, he pushes it open and steps inside.

  The white bed and black side table, the wrought iron bed frame that twists to the ceiling, the photo of the dove. It’s all there, but Jake sees only the onyx chest at the foot of the bed. He moves toward it, anxious. Hoping.

  Canaan’s blinds are open and starlight slips through, painting the room in shades of gray. Beneath the hazy light the chest ebbs, its darkness alive. Jake opens the chest every day, every morning before leaving the house, but tonight he could use a little good news. After the disastrous run-in with Brielle’s dad and a heartsick night at work, he needs something of hope to cling to.

  Jake drops to his knees, running a tired hand down his face. In one swift motion, he leans forward and lifts the lid. And the fear burrows deeper.

  Damien’s dagger is still there.

  Brielle’s ring is still missing.

  He cracks his neck and mutters a desperate, rambling kind of prayer.

  He’s so tired of waiting.

  He stares at the seven-inch blade, crusted with Brielle’s blood, wishing he could change what he sees.

  But he can’t.

  He can only wait. And pray.

  And hope the Throne Room won’t take away the one person in the world he actually needs. But waiting and praying, hoping even, were much easier to do seven months ago. As the months passed, fear set in. He’s ashamed of it. Of the fear. Because it’s not a fear of demons or death. It’s not a fear of disease or pain.

  He fears the Throne Room.

  He fears the path his heavenly Father has placed before him.

  It’s a fear that he shouldn’t feed. But he does. Every day he opens the chest, looking for the ring, for the hope that there will be a tomorrow for him and Brielle.

  But all he finds is death—her death—and the fear digs a little deeper, costs him a little more.

  It’s a fear that Brielle can see. And it mortifies him that his cowardice is displayed so openly before her. He lifts the lid back in place and stands.

  “Anything?” It’s Canaan, returned from wherever the Throne Room had him today. He’s been leaving Jake behind more often, allowing him to put down roots in Stratus. Jake understands and he’s grateful. One day their time together may cease entirely, and it’s only right that Jake prepare for that day. But with the silence of the Throne Room and Canaan’s frequent absences, it’s lonelier in this house than it used to be.

  “Just the dagger,” Jake says.

  He feels his jaw tighten at the word, wishes he could maintain the calm self-control Canaan has mastered. Even now, his Shield
’s face is devoid of strain or stress, his brow free of lines. Jake misses the comfort of before, the calm of not worrying about the future. But would he trade that peace for Brielle?

  No, he wouldn’t.

  He couldn’t.

  “The rumors still have Damien suffering the pit,” Canaan says. “He and Javan both.”

  Jake turns. It’s been awhile since he’s heard anything about the fallen ones who targeted him last year. “And the others? Maka and the Twins?”

  Canaan loosens the tie at his neck and leans against the door frame. In a suit and tie, he could be any one of a million other corporate employees home from a hard day at the office.

  “I wish I knew. They’re higher in the Prince’s esteem. Information is harder to come by.”

  The air conditioner shuts off, and a new level of quiet falls around them.

  “The Throne Room is cryptic, Jake. Rarely do things signify exactly what they seem to.”

  “A diamond engagement ring isn’t at all cryptic.”

  Canaan steps toward him, his silver eyes holding nothing but concern for Jake. “The ring helped us understand Brielle’s role and your future affections for her. It allowed us to act in faith, knowing that one day you two would be one. It served a purpose.”

  “And its absence. What purpose does that serve?”

  Canaan puts a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe nothing.”

  Jake steps past him into the hall. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to argue.

  “Jake,” Canaan calls after him. “Keep an eye on Olivia Holt.”

  Jake turns back. “Yeah?”

  “I asked around today, at the foundation, at her offices downtown. The reactions ranged from bewitched awe to terrified silence. She has a reputation for getting what she wants.”

  Jake thinks back to this afternoon, to the look on Brielle’s face when Olivia materialized on her porch. And he remembers something she told him on the way to church, something he wasn’t sure how to process.

  “Brielle said the halo responded strangely to Olivia. That it flashed hot all of a sudden. Is that—is that normal?”