Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  “I’m not sure if it’s done, sir,” Jake says.

  “Feels a heck of a lot better than it did before.” He looks at Jake. I know that look. It’s the same one he gets when he’s trying to decide if he’s going to eat his dinner steak rare, or bloody and mooing. “What did you do?”

  Jake swallows. Audibly. “My hands can . . . God uses my hands to heal. Sometimes.”

  And just like that, Dad lets out a sob. Loud and awkward. He sniffs and jams his fist into his eyes, one at a time.

  “Thought you said Canaan was the angel.”

  Jake is quick to speak. “I’m not an angel, sir.”

  “No?” Dad barks. “Then what are you?”

  I slide my hand into Jake’s. It’s wet with Dad’s blood, but it’s warm. I squeeze, hoping to convey something encouraging.

  “I’m human, sir. Like you. I just have a gift.”

  “And Hannah, my wife, is that what happened to her? Did she have a gift? Is that why they took her?”

  With celestial eyes I see the waters of misery break over my dad. Murky and cold, they run from his scalp down his chest, puddling into the carpet around him. I didn’t know my lungs could stretch so tight. Didn’t know they could survive the weight of so much emotion. Of so much sadness.

  “I wish I knew,” Jake says. “I wish I had answers for you.”

  Dad blows out a puff of air, grumbling, cursing under his breath.

  “Dad, I told you. Canaan and Jake don’t know anything about Mom.”

  Dad rolls his shoulder again, his expression the fuming side of doubtful. I’m readying myself for an angry outburst, for a barrage of questions, when the room fills with music. Louder than I’ve ever heard it. It’s everywhere. It’s between us and under us. It dances around us. I see the tendrils of incense swirling about, see it wrap Kaylee and Dad tight, see them both gasp and blink and turn their heads left and right.

  “Okay,” Kaylee says. “I hear that.”

  “They both do,” Jake says, mesmerized. “They both hear it.”

  And then from outside, Canaan calls.

  “Jake! Brielle!” His voice is strained, desperate, and Jake pulls me to my feet.

  Dad tries to stand, but he’s still weak.

  “Don’t even think about it, Dad. You’re hurt.”

  Dad’s face is purple with the strain of trying to stand, but he’s still stubborn. “You telling me what to do, baby?”

  “Yes, I am.” I shove him down, taking no satisfaction in watching him wince. “Kay, stay with him, please. Keep him here.”

  The last thing in the world I need is Dad getting attacked again.

  She nods and Dad protests, but Jake’s pulling me with him, and I turn my focus away. We run hand in hand out the front door and into the field and then we’re standing next to Canaan, the three of us staring into the apple orchard behind the house.

  “What is that?”

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Do you . . . ?”

  “How . . . ?”

  Jake and I start to formulate questions, but our lips won’t finish them. The orchard is on fire, but it’s not burning. The trees, the mangled overgrown shrubs, the weeds protruding everywhere—it’s all a bright red. Not the frightening bloodred of violence, not that terrifying crimson shade, but dazzling, luminous.

  The music continues to swell, piping louder and louder. Violins and pianos. And voices, so many voices. Flutes and the deep swell of a bass. And I see the music. See it with celestial eyes, just as I saw it in the house. Curling ribbons of worship in color after color, wrapping the orchard and then rising above it higher and higher until it disappears into the army of death above.

  The blood racing through my veins turns hot with desire. I want to touch it, to be part of whatever is making the orchard flame. I want to be inside those trees, inside that life.

  I release Jake’s hand and I run, flying through the grass, dropping down onto the orchard floor. I shove aside branches, needing to find the source. My hair catches on a limb, but I press forward, ignoring the pain tearing at my scalp. The fragrance of worship surrounds me: flowers and fruit, salty sunlight and the smell of Gram’s front yard. It’s all so familiar, so achingly familiar.

  And then Jake is next to me. I smell the coffee on his skin, the sugar of his touch as it brushes my shoulder.

  Sweat pours down my arms, down my back. “This isn’t the Celestial, is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, looking around. “I don’t know what it is.”

  I look at his face, at his eyes. He’s on overload trying to take it all in, as confused as I am.

  “The Terrestrial veil is thinning,” Canaan says. “Here, in Stratus, as it did on the mountaintops above. They’re doing it slowly, carefully.”

  Jake and I turn at his approach. He steps off the grass and onto the orchard floor. As he walks toward us, flickers of his celestial self come into view. A thread of light wrapping his waist and then disappearing. A white wing there and then gone. His eyes, silver then white, then silver again. One half of his face yellow with a celestial glow, and then fading again to the olive of his human form.

  “What does that mean?” Jake asks.

  “It means that if the Sabres continue to do their job, if they’re not stopped by the army above, eventually the veil will tear.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I ask, the thought both wonderful and terrible in my mind.

  And then for the briefest of seconds I see Canaan in his full celestial regalia: alabaster wings, cords of light that wrap his legs and waist, his feet and chest bare, his silver hair floating on waves of celestial heat. The red orchard surrounding us is glorious, but it’s nothing to his beauty.

  He smiles. “Wasn’t it Hamlet who said, ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so’?”

  I turn my eyes back to the trees—back to the red, mottled trees—and I try to understand what Canaan’s just said. He helps me.

  “For the man drowning, rain is only another helping of tragedy, Elle, but to the man on fire, that same rain is the last hope he has.”

  Proverbial truth. An orchard on fire. Fragrance and music. Light and life. My senses are on overload. What will happen if this veil actually tears? What will happen to those who don’t understand? To those who do?

  My heart hammers my ribs, the thud-thud of it quivering outward from my chest, filling my arms, my legs, my neck and face. And then I realize it isn’t my heart. It’s the sound of drums.

  “Do you hear that?” I ask Jake.

  He shakes his head, and I turn my eyes to Canaan. His head is cocked, the intensity of his gaze tells me I’m not alone in what I hear.

  “What is it, Canaan?”

  He listens for a moment more and then stands taller.

  “The drums of war,” he says. “The Palatine attack.”

  I turn my eyes to the sky but I can’t see past the trees. Can’t see past the beauty, and that terrifies me. I’m claustrophobic, panicky. What does this attack mean for my dad? For Kaylee? How will they fight? They don’t have a song.

  Canaan strides toward us, and Jake’s hand finds mine. Canaan steps behind us, but he does not cloak us, he does not take us into the safety of his wings. He remains in his human form, a hand on both our shoulders, and together we listen.

  The drums are closer now, and I hear strange, violent voices. Like animals. Like angry, raging animals, they approach. I step closer to Jake, squeeze his hand tighter.

  And then Jake is quoting Scripture. “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him I will trust.’”

  I know this one. It’s a psalm, written by King David. I join in, and Canaan does as well.

  “He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow
that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked.”

  And then a silver light invades the orchard and we’re surrounded.

  I scream out, but Canaan’s grip on my shoulder tightens, and I understand we’re in the presence of friends. Of allies. Of the angelic. Their backs are to us. Their forms are so bright I have to squint to see, but I make out wings of blade on every single one of them. We stand within a circle of gigantic winged men, their swords drawn, the metal-like feathers of their wings vibrating one against the other, encasing us in song.

  I resist the urge to count. I don’t need to. Helene told me. There are twelve of them. Twelve Sabres, and not a single one of them is cloaked.

  “Some things were never meant to be secret,” Helene told me.

  Virtue turns toward us, his silver form vibrant against the red limbs that surround us.

  “It’s time to remember,” he says to me.

  “Remember what?”

  “Why the grave is empty.”

  He steps closer, his white eyes mesmerizing. I watch them closely for some sign of what I’m to do, of what I’m to say. And then I’m falling into them, into his eyes. Into the purity of love’s greatest expression.

  And I remember.

  40

  Brielle

  The room is small with Mom’s hospital bed here, with the machines whirring and the medicine dripping down a tube and into her thin hands. The sight shakes me, but I still feel disconnected, like I’m nothing but a fly on the wall watching, observing.

  It’s my room, I realize, not Dad’s. She lived out her last few days here.

  A toddler bed is pressed against the wall, low to the ground, covered with the quilt my Grams made me when I was born. Pink with a large purple octopus stitched on. I still have that blanket, tucked away at the top of my closet. But here, in this memory, it’s spread across my bed, covered with stuffed animals and sticker books. A pair of ballet slippers hangs from the wall, pictures of flowers and fairy kingdoms, but mostly the room is filled with Mom.

  Mom’s bed, Mom’s machines, Mom’s medicine, Mom’s cancer.

  I look at her now, in all her illness, and I see my mother as she was. She’s thinner than any of the pictures I remember seeing. Obviously frail. Her head is full of flaxen hair, but it’s brittle, dying.

  Like everything else about her.

  She’s propped up on large white pillows, and there, lying in her arms, is me.

  Three-year-old me.

  I don’t remember this. Don’t remember it occurring, but seeing it brings a small sense of peace. It’s good to know it really happened.

  That my mommy held me, that she stroked my hair.

  And then the strangest thing happens. I’m aware that I’m still in the orchard, can still hear the Sabres and their music, can still feel Jake’s hand in mine, but for the first time ever I remember. It’s like something explodes in my mind.

  I don’t remember her touch or her voice. I don’t remember the room or the bed or even the brush in my hand. What I remember crawls inside me and twists itself around my heart, squeezing until I’m just sure it will burst.

  For the first time ever, I remember what that moment smelled like, what my mother smelled like. I choke and sob at the memory. The first real memory I’ve ever had of my mother.

  She smelled like worship. She smelled like curling, fragrant tendrils of adoration. My three-year-old self breathes her in, again and again.

  Standing in the orchard, watching this memory in the eyes of Virtue, I do the same. Inhale, exhale, and again. Remembering, remembering.

  I watch as my three-year-old eyelids grow heavy and the hairbrush in my hand falls to the mattress next to my mommy’s shoulder. She lies there, her thin fingers tangled in my hair, her mouth whispering praises. In broken sentences and stuttering pauses, her cancer-wracked body thanks her Lord and Maker for every moment she has left with me. With Dad.

  “I’m not ready to leave,” she says. “To leave my husband. To leave my little girl.” These are the first full sentences I’ve caught. The first words I’ve fully understood. “But You’re taking me, I know that.”

  Her eyes are open, her pale face soft in the yellow light pressing against the blinds.

  “If there’s anything I can do for You, Father, before I die, anything I can do here, I am willing.”

  And then Virtue stands before her. Uncloaked, unhidden from her human eyes. She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t flinch.

  He’s expected.

  “Hello, Hannah,” he says, his lips still, his wings rubbing one against the other, their music filling the room.

  Her eyes fill with tears. They run down her face, wetting the hair at her temples, dampening her pillow. “Are you here to take me? Am I to see my Father now?”

  Virtue smiles. “Not quite yet,” he says. He gestures to my sleeping figure, the tiny three-year-old body curled around my mother’s. “May I?”

  She pulls me tighter to her chest. “Will I see her again?”

  Virtue runs a silver hand along Mom’s brow, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Will such an answer help you say good-bye?”

  The tears fall fast now, her voice thin and weak. “No,” she says. “I don’t think so.”

  She squeezes me, her arms straining against the tubes in her hands, and she kisses my blond hair, her eyes pinched shut. Her chest shakes and her lips move against my head. I wish I could make out the words, but I can’t. It seems they were for the Father alone. After a moment she nods at Virtue, who takes me in his arms and lays me at the foot of the bed. I watch my three-year-old self sprawl on the quilt, my arms spread wide, my tiny chest moving up and down. There, next to my heart, is Olivia’s necklace.

  “Please,” Mom says to Virtue, “take care of her, protect her. And my husband. I want him to know the Father like I do. Give them eyes to see and ears to hear. Can you do that?”

  “A beautiful request, Hannah. It is not within my power to grant such things, but your Heavenly Father hears and answers His children. You can be certain of that,” he says, his hand still upon her brow. “Are you ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  Another smile from the Sabre as he removes the tubes from Mom’s arms and lifts her from the bed as easily as he’d lifted three-year-old me.

  “You are needed elsewhere.”

  41

  Brielle

  The orchard comes into focus one twisted limb at a time. Virtue is gone, as are the other Sabres. And Canaan. Jake and I stand alone, my hand trembling inside the warmth of his.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  If I feel anything right now, I feel numb.

  “Dad was right,” I say. “He took her. Virtue did.”

  Jake turns me toward him, a look that would quell the darkest storm on his face. “Then I know without a doubt that she was well looked after.”

  “He’s big,” I say. It’s a stupid thing to say, a stupid thought, but his size brings me comfort.

  Jake seems to understand. “Really big.”

  And then we laugh. And cry. It’s all so jumbled, but there’s relief there. And pain. We sink to the ground, the red trees surrounding us, and I tell Jake about my mom’s final moments in Stratus.

  “I have a memory of her now,” I say, my mouth quivering, my nose running. “Maybe it’ll be enough to help us find her.”

  “I hope so, Elle. I do, and we’ll look. I promise.” Jake wipes at my face, soaking up tears with his index finger. His mouth curves into that little crescent moon I love so much.

  “What?”

  “I just smeared mud across your cheek.”

  We laugh again.

  Understanding why Mom’s grave was empty didn’t solve a thing, but it gave me a way forward, an
d my heart is lighter for it.

  “Where are the Sabres?” I ask.

  “Fighting,” he says.

  “And Canaan?”

  “Looking for Damien,” Jake says. “He made a grab for us just as you started your trip down memory lane.”

  “He tried to attack while we were surrounded by Sabres?”

  Jake nods, his face serious. “Tells you how desperate he is to have us, Elle. The Sabres hurt him, but he kept coming. With his sight restored, he’s a dangerous specimen.”

  I think of the dagger that punctured my chest last December, of my life leaking down the ridges of an aluminum building.

  “He was dangerous before,” I say.

  “And now he’s worse. Much worse.”

  I want to tell him I’m sorry about last night. I want him to know that I understand he was trying to protect me, just as I was trying to protect Dad, but before I can voice either of those things, I’m pulled into the Celestial.

  I gasp for air as my kneeling body is yanked straight and pressed against a hot, soft form and flown backward through the orchard. She’s singing, loud and fierce. It’s Helene! She’s here! She’s whole.

  But relief is short-lived. We’re flying fast and low through the trees, my eyes trained on the spot I’ve just left. On Jake. Just beyond the orchard, there is a flurry of activity. I see Sabre wings flashing. I hear music droning from them, smell the fragrance of worship as they fight. I see darkness as the Fallen close in. And then Canaan dips into the orchard, shaking a demon off as he does. With his inner wings he pulls Jake to his chest, and I watch as they fly skyward. Four demons abandon the Sabre they’re fighting for an easier target. A smaller angel, slowed by a charge, and carrying only one sword.

  They fly at Canaan.

  I cry out, but it’s nothing save unintelligible hysterics, and there’s too much noise. Too many demons screaming like animals, too many Sabres singing violently. Blade rings loud against blade, demons dissolve with hissing sputters into the Celestial around them.