Angel Eyes (12 page)
“No,” I answer, and I know I mean it. “She made me a better person. She’s a part of me. Maybe that part died too, but I don’t ever want to forget it existed.”
He smiles. “That’s very wise of you.”
Jake breaks eye contact, and we emerge from the intimate little bubble of emotion we’ve landed in. The army of raindrops has retreated, and the wind’s symphonic efforts have ceased.
“Come on, let’s get you home. It’s getting late.”
“Thank goodness,” I say. “Will you help me walk?”
“If you need me, but I think you’ll be fine now.”
I look down to see him rolling my ankle—first one way, then the other.
I gasp.
It’s not broken.
Not anymore.
C
anaan stands in the darkness beneath a weather-ravaged oak. Wet and windblown, but vigilant. The rain has slowed, and the terror he sensed has all but melted away.
And though the fear seems to be diminishing, there’s something malevolent nearby. Something close.
He extends his wings the full width of their span—wings that are not visible in this realm—and with a snap his Terrestrial ears cannot hear, he wraps them around his body. Had anyone been watching, Canaan would have disappeared before their very eyes. But the closest humans are huddled away in a shed just beyond the tree line.
He closes his eyes and allows himself to be pulled from the Terrestrial realm—an impulse he fights every minute he functions as the human, Canaan Shield.
Instantly the moon’s counterfeit rays are replaced by the ever-true, constant light that is his strength. He breathes it deep. Here, shadows do not exist. Light is his sustenance, and it is bountiful. Only the sludge of evil has any effect. It’s a realm where every one of his senses is heightened, for this is his home. This is where he was created to live.
Whereas his Terrestrial eyes are limited and can see only the prosaic, his Celestial eyes see anything and everything for miles. Neither wall nor mountain can obstruct his view. And whereas his Terrestrial ears hear only the sounds of this globe, his Celestial ears hear the sounds of both the earth and the heavens, human and spirit alike. Only in this form is he truly equipped to protect his charge.
Instinct causes him to draw his sword. Its pure, white light is hot as punishing hellfire and radiant as the river flowing from the throne of the Creator. The darkness he felt in his Terrestrial state crouches atop the shed. A demon.
One he knows well.
An ache forms in his chest.
This is Damien. A former friend. An angel who served alongside him. Whose mouth once sang the praises of the Creator. His abandonment was felt personally, not just by the Father, but by the other angels, by Canaan. Damien and the others left so much for so little. It’s a choice Canaan won’t ever understand.
He’s not seen Damien since Dothan, and Dothan ended badly for the demon. If Canaan had to guess, he’d say Damien spent several hundred, maybe a thousand years suffering for his failure there. For his defeat.
The Prince of Darkness forgives slowly, and he never, ever forgets.
Canaan watches as Damien salivates, the scene within the shed capturing the demon’s full attention. Like the rest of the Fallen, he’s learned to keep his muscular legs—once no different from a Shield’s—close to his body, under the protection of his wings and away from the light, almost always drawn into this crouched position. His hands, once used for noble purposes, have been twisted by ill use and maltreatment of the gifts instilled in them. They curl now, around the corner of the shed, black talons piercing the wood. His skin and hair, once alight with the glory of the Celestial, have long since charred, and his wings, once snowy white, now hang like lifeless sails, their feathers singed black by the very light they have rejected.
His strength, however, is not to be underestimated.
And yet he’s not noticed Canaan. Not noticed the drawn sword, the Shield ready to defend his charge. Whatever’s going on in that shed has him transfixed, and he presses his face into the roof, his wings twitching.
Canaan focuses on the walls of the shed and they thin before him, fading from view. He sees rubble and loose boards. Rusted rakes and fishing rods. And there amongst it all is Jake.
He sits on the muddy floor, his hands wrapped around the girl’s ankle. Her mouth gapes and her hands tremble. Fear breaks out in black beads along her forehead, running in thin, sticky streams down her face.
“How?” she says. “How did you do that?”
Canaan’s eyes flash to Damien, whose fascination he’s beginning to understand.
Jake must have healed the girl.
Damien must have seen.
Razor-sharp talons slip through the roof of the shed, reaching, reaching for his prey.
All four of Canaan’s wings push against the air, and suddenly he’s hurtling through the sky toward Damien.
D
amien’s ears pick up the sound of frenzied wings, and he turns, drawing his scimitar and shoving away from the shed all in one motion. His movement is sloppy, and the Shield’s sword connects with his elbow. He opens his mouth and releases a cry of fury, but there’s no time for self-pity. The Shield flies low, body extended, looping around for another pass.
Damien flies backward, squinting into the light. He encounters members of the Shield frequently—all of them strong, fast, capable. But even his dying eyes recognize this one.
He slows his wings and sets down, watching as Canaan draws closer and closer. He blinks and blinks, fighting the light, fighting his desperate need for darkness.
He can hardly believe what he sees.
His wings push him into the sky, and he raises his scimitar. The freezing weapon hisses against the heat of the Celestial, fogging the air with frigid smoke.
He waits for Canaan’s attack, but the Shield doesn’t advance past the shed. He hovers, his wings spread wide, his sword in his outstretched hand.
The temptation to attack is strong. Damien wants the boy. Wants him for his own. For his right hand.
The gift of healing is rare and so easily corrupted. Could be used to advance the kingdom of darkness. It takes so little to convince a human to do wrong. Especially a human who cares for others. In many ways, this one would be easier to destroy than Horacio.
And a human like this boy, his gift twisted to serve darkness, would surely garner favor. Maybe even earn him time at the Prince’s stronghold, far from the light that picks at his eyes, vicious as a scavenger.
Damian growls with anticipation.
Yes, he will see this gift corrupted.
The boy and the girl, then.
The girl for Henry Madison, and this boy with the gift as his new right hand.
But is Canaan here to protect the boy? The girl? Either way, now that Damien’s intentions are known, Canaan is sure to stay close. So Damien decides. He’ll arrange two more buyers for Friday. Two more humans corrupted by his fallen brothers. And when the buyers show up next week, they’ll be flanked by their demonic escorts. Brothers who will fight alongside him.
He can’t face Canaan alone.
He needs the odds tipped in his favor.
When his brothers see what the boy is capable of, they’ll agree Damien’s done well. If he can arrange for Maka to be one of them, perhaps word will travel quickly to the Prince. And when the boy’s hands have been corrupted, maybe, just maybe Damien’s failures will be forgiven.
Dothan will be forgotten.
And Damien’s eyes given time to heal.
I
t was broken! I saw it. You said it yourself! The bone was sticking out and . . . it was broken!” I’m rambling and clutching at my ankle in disbelief. Jake moves his hands as I grab desperately at my foot. My ankle is hot to the touch but completely uninjured. Finally my mouth forms a question.
“How . . . how did you do that?”
He looks away, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. Such a bizarre response, and one that does nothing to untangle this knot of bewilderment. He seems to be thinking, considering something. At last he shrugs—very devil-may-care of him—but his tone contradicts his blasé posture.
“I’ll make you a deal, Elle,” he says, using carefully measured words again.
“What kind of deal?”
“You keep
this
between us,” he says, indicating my ankle, “and I will tell you how.”
I can’t think. I don’t know what to say, how to answer him. I don’t understand what’s happened, but I do believe him.
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“Good,” he says, grabbing my hands. They’ve grown chilled, and the heat in his causes me to yank them away.
“Sorry,” he says, grabbing my biceps instead and lifting me to my feet.
“It’s fine, I just . . .”
I can still feel the heat through my parka, but it’s not uncomfortable. I stomp my foot on the muddy ground, dubious at the lack of pain. He grins at my display and walks out the door.
“Wait,” I say. “Aren’t you going to tell me?”
I run after him, sloshing through the mud. He turns back to me, but I can’t stop fast enough and I run into him. My forehead smacks his chin. He steadies me and laughs at my frustration.
“Tell me something,” he says.
“I thought it was your turn to tell me something.” I’m starting to feel a little like my old self. It isn’t so hard to think, to breathe. Sarcasm itself may be reviving.
Jake rolls his eyes. It’s incredibly endearing, so I nod, giving him permission to ask.
“Is Brielle your full name, or is it short for something?”
“Gabrielle,” I say, thrown by the question. “How did you know that?”
“So why Brielle? Why not Gabby?”
“Mom called me Gabby, I think, when I was small. At least that’s what Grams said before she died. But Dad liked Brielle. Once Mom passed away, there was only Dad, and everyone followed his lead, I suppose.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“I don’t know. I like Brielle, I guess.”
He grabs my sleeve and pulls me a step closer.
“Brielle,” he says very deliberately. “This thing, your ankle, it’s not something I can just ‘explain.’ ”
“But you said—”
“Spend time with me. There are things you need to see first.”
Things I need to see?
“If I spend time with you, I’ll understand how you magically fixed my ankle?”
“I didn’t say you’d understand. But I will explain.”
His request is fair, I suppose, but spending time with him has the butterflies in my tummy all manic. And that’s dangerous. I’d rather he just tell me now.
“You don’t trust me?”
“That’s not it,” he says, starting back toward the house, towing me along. “This is really all about me. It’s something I’m still getting comfortable with. Is that okay?”
I consider forcing the issue, but he genuinely seems uncomfortable, and I deflate.
“I guess.”
The clouds part slightly, and we’re favored with a glimpse of the stars. Just a sliver of the inky night sky is visible, but it’s enough. Enough to remind me that storms are temporary, that the cottony billows high above are little more than vague substance.
I speed up, falling into stride with Jake.
Glimpses. That’s what this night has been about. Whoever Jake is, whatever he can do, I’ve caught just a glimpse of it tonight. In a run-down shed in the middle of nowhere, something happened that even George Lucas and his special effects team would have trouble simulating.
His hand is still latched on to my cuff, but the heat travels up my sleeve, something I could definitely get used to. But the thought brings a small moment of panic. How much longer till Jake disappears?
Like my mom. Like Ali.
Are brief glimpses all I’ll ever get?
When Jake and I arrive back at the house, Dad’s truck is already parked in the driveway. I leave Jake standing on the porch and hurry inside. I hate making Dad worry. There’s been enough of that lately, and he deserves better. As expected, he’s a bit of a mess. He drops the boot he’s struggling to pull into place and collapses on the nearest kitchen chair.
“You gave me a heart attack, kid. I just called the sheriff.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, kissing his scruffy beard.
He asks me about my day and then stops me before I have a chance to answer. “Let me call the sheriff’s office and tell ’em you’re home. They’re sending a deputy out.”
While he phones the authorities, I duck onto the porch.
“Everything okay?” Jake asks.
“Yeah, but he’d already called the sheriff.”
“I should’ve gotten you back sooner.”