I groan and squeal all at once, but Damien avoids the blow. He steps back, his black dress shoes crunching in the gravel. Dad tumbles past Kaylee and down the stairs. He lands on his hands and knees at Damien’s feet.
I rush to his side, but Dad’s on his feet again before I can intervene.
“I wouldn’t, Mr. Matthews.” Damien’s use of our last name is too intimate, too real.
I wrap my fingers—all ten of them—around Dad’s forearm, praying he’ll see reason. Praying he’ll tame his temper for a few brief moments. But he shrugs me off, more irrational than ever. He curses and shoves passed me, but I throw myself between him and Damien. I’m sure it looks like I’m protecting Damien—this demon-man who just assaulted my father—but really, the opposite is true.
Life would be unbearable if Damien took Dad from me.
“Please, Dad. For me. For Kaylee. Let’s just go inside. See what he wants. What he has to say.”
Dad glances at me, but it seems to be Kaylee’s sobs that move him to sanity. She’s shuddering now, trying to breathe, but her large, gulping breaths succeed only in sucking copious amounts of black fear into her mouth and down her throat.
She gags, and Dad grunts his begrudging assent.
Damien stands at the door now, smiling, gesturing us inside like we’re his dinner guests. The thought itself is disturbing and I don’t linger on it. Instead, I focus on the good example thing and stomp up the stairs, my bare feet making dull nothings on the steps.
I pull Kaylee up as I go, and Dad follows us inside, cursing. Always cursing. Damien shoves Dad as he passes, sending him into the island. His face is a furry tomato now, but before Dad can turn his ham-sized fist into a ball, before he can swing again at Damien, I grab his hand and twist my fingers into it.
“Dad,” I say, clearing my throat. I need to be clear. Dad must hear me. “This is Damien. He kidnaps children and sells them to pedophiles. Ali found out, and one of his men killed her. He was the mastermind behind the scenario at the warehouse this winter.”
The blood drains from Dad’s face—a tomato no more. “But you said—”
“Regardless of what you thought—”
“Of what I was told—”
“Regardless,” I say firmly, “this guy is—”
“Capable of anything,” Damien finishes, pulling a gun from his waistband. He points it at Dad’s head. “Now sit.”
It’s a gun. I know it is, but all I see is a dagger. Sharp and bloody. And I know this guy will not hesitate to deal out death today.
Dad steps forward—stupid, stupid—his forehead bumping the barrel.
“Daddy, please.” The words pour like tears from my lips.
“Yes, Daddy,” Damien growls. “Please.”
Dad doesn’t move, doesn’t back down, so I grab his hand and pull him away. I know he’s letting me pull him, and I’m grateful for this small concession.
Kaylee walks in front of us. Her sobs are silent now—it seems she’s gained some semblance of control. She curls onto the sofa, and I sit next to her, Dad on my other side.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Damien asks.
Dad’s grip on my hand becomes vise-like, and I have to struggle out of it.
“I should have known this had something to do with him,” Dad says, moving to stand again.
Damien stops Dad with the barrel of his gun. He presses it into Dad’s shoulder, his lips curling back to reveal two rows of impossibly white teeth. “Mr. Matthews, I am out of patience now, and since your own life seems to matter little to you, let me make this clear: I’ve killed your daughter once. I will not hesitate to do it again.”
Dad looks to me, his beard a prickly creature standing out from puffed, angry cheeks.
“He’s not lying, Dad.” I nod, trying to convey every bit of my own terror. He could use a little fear right now. After a second he sinks against the cushion, silent.
“Brielle,” Damien says. “I asked you a question. Where is Jake?”
I pray an angel falls through the roof, a thousand of them maybe. But after a moment, I know the answer to my prayer won’t be that simple. Kaylee’s hand is suddenly on my knee. She squeezes, but I answer before Damien notices her movement.
“He’s not here,” I say.
“I’m aware of that.” His head tips down, and his eyes constrict like a croc peering at me over still waters. “New eyes, see. Where has he gone?”
I shake my head.
I can’t tell him.
I won’t.
Damien points the gun at me. He yells, “Where is Jake?”
Dad throws his arm across my chest. I feel it tremble against my rib cage. “If you want the kid, find him yourself. She has no idea where to find him. She told you as much.”
Damien’s gun hand falls to the side, and he takes a knee before me. Dad’s arm tightens across my waist, and I pull my feet off the floor—anything to get away from Damien. But he doesn’t touch me. He just stares. And then I hear his voice in my head.
It’s cold. So very cold. My eyes glaze over at the assault, and the room crystallizes before me—everything chilled, everything locked in ice.
“There are things even white eyes can’t overlook,” he says. “Humans don’t stay where they’re not wanted. And your father’s made it clear Jake’s not wanted here. He’ll leave you. One day, he will.”
A hot, round tear spills over my lashes and races down my cheek. The crystals dissolve. The room is bright and alive again. Still I say nothing.
“Oh, she knows where to find him,” Damien says. “I’m certain of it.”
“She doesn’t, though,” Kaylee says. I want to clamp a hand over her mouth, keep her quiet. Keep her invisible to Damien, but his crocodile eyes settle on her. “Check the phone,” she says. “The one you took from me.”
His eyes are slits now, disbelief narrowing them.
“Dude, just check the phone!” Her voice is shrill, agitated. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of him. He hasn’t . . . hasn’t been answering.”
He pulls Kaylee’s phone from his pocket and throws it at her. “Show me.”
Her deft fingers scroll and click. “Here,” she says, shoving it at him. “I told you.”
Damien takes the phone and reads. His face is unreadable. Is he angry? Is he scared?
And then it vibrates. The phone in his hand. Kaylee’s phone.
We gasp as one.
“One new message,” Damien says.
He presses the face with his gigantic index finger.
And then he smiles. Those white teeth glare back at us. “It seems your boyfriend’s on his way, Brielle. These things are good to know.”
“You can’t . . . don’t . . .” The words are jumbled on my tongue.
“Oh, I can,” Damien says. “And I’ll enjoy it.”
Dad’s off the couch and on top of Damien before I can move—before the demon realizes what’s happening. Kaylee and I scream. We grab for Dad, his shoulders, his shirt, but Damien’s faster than both of us. And he’s stronger. He leans back, his hands buried in Dad’s chest, and throws all two hundred and fifty pounds of him over his head and into the television. I’m sure there’s a crash, some kind of loud collision, but the world goes silent and all I hear is that singing again.
My eyes are on Dad, on the mass of electronics and denim, but I don’t move. I can’t. Kaylee’s there now, at his side, and I’m grateful because I can’t move. I’m paralyzed by the Sabres’ song. So much louder. So much closer than I’ve ever heard it.
And it seems I’m not the only one. Damien stands to his feet, blocking my view of Dad. His head is cocked, his dead eyes boring into mine.
We stare at one another and we listen.
Eight . . . nine . . . ten seconds of heart-stirring melody. And then Damien’s eyes open wide—wider than I’ve ever seen them—and he vanishes.
“Brielle!” Kaylee’s voice breaks through the music and brings me back to the living room. “Brielle!”
>
She’s trying to heft the television off Dad, but she’s nowhere near strong enough. I slide to my knees at her side, and we lift the television off his chest and onto the floor. Dad lies faceup, unconscious, his forehead bleeding onto the blue carpet. I press my ear to his mouth—he’s breathing—and to his chest—heart’s beating. Other than the gash on his head, he seems okay.
I grab my favorite quilt off the ottoman and press the corner of it to his wound.
“Here,” I tell Kaylee. “Hold this.”
She does, her hands remarkably still after what we’ve just seen.
I stand and turn my eyes to the ceiling.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. “But if we get out of this, I’m so going to church with you on Sunday.”
I laugh, a bizarre vibration that seems to erupt from my throat, but in my frustration it dies quickly.
“Where did he go?” Kaylee asks, her head whipping around.
“I don’t know.”
Try as I may, I can’t see through the ceiling.
Why can’t I control this angel eyes thing?
I scan the house, looking high and low, but there’s no sign of the Celestial in here. Even the sludge of fear on Kaylee’s face has disappeared from sight.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, diving over Dad and out the front door.
I stumble into the clearing between Jake’s house and mine. The sun kisses my neck and face, thawing my skin. The smells of hot pine and mowed grass tickle my nostrils as I turn my eyes here and there praying for celestial sight, for something to indicate where Damien went and what he’s up to.
And that’s when a thousand daggers come tumbling toward me.
36
Jake
I’m going after her,” Jake says.
He and Canaan are about a half mile from the cemetery, just outside the border of Stratus, surrounded by redwoods and pines. Canaan’s taken on his human form beneath the dense covering of trees. The branches are full with summer life, pressing against their backs, pushing them closer to one another as they speak.
“You’ll be walking into a trap, Jake. Damien wants you both. He’ll keep her there as bait. He knows you won’t leave her.”
Jake speaks through clenched teeth. “He’s right.”
“And what then? He takes you both to Danakil? To the Prince?”
“We’ll be together,” Jake says, his voice catching. “That’s what matters.”
“No,” Canaan counters, “that’s not what matters. Your souls matter. Proximity makes you easier to use against one another. Makes your will pliable, your heart emotional, your flesh weak.”
“Then what? What do we do?”
“You do nothing. You wait. I’ll go. I’ll get Brielle out of Stratus.”
Jake shakes his head. “You’re a much bigger, much brighter target than I am. I can get in and out . . .”
“You might be able to get in, Jake, but with Damien there, you’re not getting out.”
Jake’s jaw snaps shut.
“I can help.” A tiny girl appears next to them on the forest floor. Black skin, black hair knotted at her neck, bright brown eyes. She looks no more than eight years old. A dark orange cloth is tied at one shoulder and hangs to her knees. Her feet are bare.
“Pearla, yes?” Canaan says, kneeling before her. “The Commander’s Cherub?”
“Yes, sir, I am, and I’ve been sent to help.”
Jake’s open to anything right now. Anything except standing here talking.
“Go ahead, Pearla,” he says. “Tell us.”
“Your charge is right, Canaan; you’re far too bright to enter unnoticed.”
“Do you believe the Palatine will abandon their posts to attack a single Shield?”
“It’s possible. The Palatine are vicious fighters, but they aren’t known for their ability to follow commands. But more to the point is that they’ve been given incentive to capture Jake or the girl themselves. The Prince has promised a reward.”
Jake’s heart flips.
“General Maka’s made it clear that the Sabres are their first priority, so while he won’t command the legion to pursue a single Shield, you may attract the attention of a few who are more interested in reward than fearful of General Maka’s wrath.”
“Fair assessment, little Cherub.”
“The Prince wants Jake. Wants Brielle. But he did not send the Palatine for that task. They are here to ensure the Sabres do not succeed.”
“So your plan, Pearla?”
“I suggest you both enter, but in your human form, Canaan. That way your entrance will not be so conspicuous.”
“My celestial form won’t be hidden entirely from the eyes of the Fallen.”
“No,” she says, “but you’ll have a chance—a much better chance—that way. I’ll stay near, in the Celestial. I’ll warn you if there’s anything to fear.”
“Won’t they see you?” Jake asks.
“Not if I’m careful. I’m created for such purposes. Darkness was given to me as a gift, and the Fallen often mistake me for one of their own.”
“But your eyes . . . ,” Jake says.
“Will give me away if I’m not careful.”
“So . . .”
“So, I’ll be careful.”
So matter-of-fact. So light. So carefree. Her plan, her presence fill Jake with confidence.
“This will work,” he says, standing.
It’s a long second before Canaan joins him. “It could.”
“We have to try!”
“Okay,” Canaan says, his hand on Jake’s chest, his eyes on Pearla. “Let’s do it. Let’s try.”
37
Brielle
I dive to the ground, my palms scratching against the rough grass, my check pressed to a pinecone. And that’s when I hear the music. It crawls in through my ears, but it doesn’t settle there. It moves through my body, through the invisible spirit part of it. It’s a wave that moves over every part of me, pulling me into myself and out of myself.
I long to stand. I long to stretch my limbs and dance to this song, to worship with my arms and my legs, with my whole body. I’m on the verge of giving into this craving when the memory of a single dagger slicing through my chest floats to the surface of my mind. It hangs there, terrifying me, keeping me frozen. The idea of a thousand daggers is enough to keep me huddled on the grass a moment longer.
Maybe many moments longer.
I curl tighter into myself, listening to the music. To the sound of instruments I can’t name and voices so familiar they sound like fractured parts of myself. And then the fragrance reaches me. The smell of worship. I breathe it in. It’s joy and life, and it’s not long before my desire to understand trumps the fear blossoming in my chest.
Why are they here?
I sit up. Dried grass has woven itself into my hair, itching my face and neck, but I can’t make myself care. Before me the world is in sharp focus, and I see it all with celestial eyes.
Damien faces my direction, hovering about thirty feet off the ground. He’s armed with his scimitar, but he is small compared to the angel opposite him. Virtue stands on the ground, between Damien and me. Silver light is thrown about, reflecting off his body and his wings, but he’s not nearly as bright as he was in the graveyard.
His wings continue to play, the dagger-like blades moving back and forth, a symphony on his back. I look at Damien, at the ridiculous scimitar shaking in his blackened hand, and I know: he’s no match for Virtue.
Damien must know this as well. He flies backward several paces, and Virtue turns toward me. Thousands of blades stand at attention, aimed now at Damien. Virtue’s white eyes rest on me, compelling me to speak.
“Your song,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
He steps toward me, dazzling in his splendor. My eyes water, but I brush the tears away, refusing to close my eyes on him.
“Not nearly so beautiful as yours.”
I chok
e. He’s obviously never heard me sing.
“Believe me, child. It’s the song of the Redeemed that terrifies darkness. It’s your song, not mine.”
The idea that I, all emotion and fear and confusion, could terrify my enemy—could terrify Darkness—seems senseless.
“I don’t terrify anyone.”
“Oh, but you do. Only humans can know the joy of being redeemed. Of being lost and then found. It is your song that reminds the Prince of Darkness that he’s already been defeated. That the day will come when even Abaddon won’t be able to protect him from the light he’s rejected.”
Virtue’s words are a salve in my mind and in my heart, and though I’ve no idea how a song can help me now, I’d stand and talk to him forever if I could. But above Virtue’s strong chin, his smile turns hard and thin. He glances over his shoulder at Damien and then back at me.
“I’ve not been given authority to destroy this one,” his mind says to mine, “and I have my own assignment to complete. But remember well what I have told you.”
I think about nodding or saying okay or something equally insufficient, but in the end I just stand there and watch. He squats, his enormous legs flexing and shoving him into the air. The sky looks almost neon against the imposing hoards above. Virtue’s wings beat against it, releasing music and lightning that tear across the expanse. Even the closest of the demons—still miles away—skitter for cover, their strange forms melding like waves into sinking sand.
Virtue flies off to the north, his silver light going with him. I stare at the demonic forces above and watch their lines re-form.
The song of an angel.
That’s all it took to frighten hundreds. To scatter them.
I see the enemy in a new way. As frightened children. Terrified of what we’ll see. And of what we’ll do with the knowledge it brings.
God’s children are stronger than we know.
I’ve lost track of Damien, but with each passing minute he concerns me less. What concerns me most is not the army above or the demon using me as bait for Jake. What concerns me most is that of the three of us—Kaylee, Dad, and me—I’m the only one with a song.
Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) Page 22