Angel Eyes (18 page)
I
t’s back: The darkness. The fear.
Canaan doesn’t hesitate. With a demon nearby, he can’t afford to. He transfers to the Celestial and turns his eyes to the room at the end of the hall.
Jake sits on his bed, facing the girl. She’s on the phone, her back stiff, the black tar of fear soaking through her shirt and pouring thickly onto the floor. A fog rises like steam from the muck and settles heavily around them. From under her blond hair, the clingy substance oozes, running the length of her body. Her hands shake, desperate to be rid of it.
She isn’t alone in her distress. It’s leaking from Jake as well— his pants saturated. Fear is pooled on the floor of his room, but is not content with only two victims. Like a heat-seeking missile, it runs into the hall looking for someone, anyone to attach itself to.
If human beings could only see the manifestation of such a weapon, they would understand how it paralyzes, literally holding them captive with the glue of it.
Like every being of light, Canaan hates fear. It has little effect on him, but humans can’t make such a claim. Only Celestial eyes can see it for what it is. Black and thick. Like tar, but icy and alive. It clings and oozes. It weighs down its victims until they are either frozen in a trench of indecision or worse—they make the first possible move, no matter how unwise, simply to rid themselves of it.
It’s the deadliest weapon the Fallen possess. They can inflict it, to be sure, but the tragedy of fear is that since the Fall, humans have held it inside their very being and can unleash it, even unwittingly, on themselves and on others.
The girl’s body is shaking more violently now. Canaan rises into the sky and examines the little town again. Patches of darkness spread here and there—fear and doubt, sadness and corruption, but no sign of Damien. Nothing to indicate an attack is imminent.
He slows his wings and allows himself to sink through the roof and into the kitchen. As soon as his feet touch the floor he forces himself into the Terrestrial, the earthly realm, just in time to see Brielle stumble out of Jake’s room. She runs past him and out the front door.
Jake is behind her, moving slowly, unsure.
“What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” Jake says, his face ashen. “She got a phone call, and then it was like she couldn’t stand to be near me.”
He’s in pain. Her rejection is what he fears most, and Canaan’s been concerned for some time now that it could hinder the mission. It also hurts Canaan that this girl could cause Jake anguish. His time on this planet has not made him immune to the complexities of human relationships, and he is continually amazed at how much despair they cause one another. He steps toward his charge and places one hand on each shoulder.
“You can’t let fear keep you from her,” Canaan tells him. “I don’t fully understand our role in the life of Brielle Matthews, but I know everything you and I have done together, everyone we’ve helped, has led us to this girl. Lives hang in the balance, Jake.”
“I know. I just . . .”
Canaan can see his young charge struggling against something. He’d bet it’s the same
something
that’s been bothering Jake for days. Finally, he is able to put it into words.
“I can’t force myself on her, Canaan.”
Ah. That’s the crux of it.
“The choice is hers, Jake,” Canaan says. “It always has been and always will be.”
“Is it?” Jake asks. “If we know even part of the outcome, how do we know she really has a choice?”
“Just because she hasn’t made them yet, doesn’t mean the decisions aren’t hers to make.” They’ve had similar discussions before. “Do you feel you’ve been robbed of choice?”
He lifts his chin. “Of course not.”
“Then go,” Canaan says.
Jake doesn’t hesitate, but it’s impossible to know whether it’s Canaan’s words or his own heart that pulls him after her.
I
run for the door, tripping more than once over books and shoes and my own feet. My shoulder scrapes the wall as I crash down the hallway and past Canaan. He’s working over the stove, his face shrouded in steam. I throw the front door open and stumble down the porch steps. Turning right and breaking into an all-out sprint, I don’t slow as my Uggs pound onto the road.
I’m on automatic now.
I hear Jake behind me, running and shouting my name. I can’t stop. The fear is so real it almost has a face. There is only one place in this town that can erase all emotion from my being, and I head there.
I run until my legs ache and my lungs burn with the winter chill. Finally I reach a chain-link fence with a rusty gate. The roses that grow intertwined in this fence during the spring have withered and died, leaving behind nothing but dead wood.
How fitting.
The Stratus cemetery has been here for ages and has that historic feel about it. Stone angels and gothic crosses protect the dead and gone. Here and there, pint-sized American flags mark the graves of brave soldiers.
There is such beauty here in the spring, when flowers with short life spans litter the lawn. Just another reminder—to those who don’t need reminding—that life doesn’t last forever.
Now, in the depths of autumn, there are no flowers to be seen. In their place rotting leaves and sticky mud jam into the thick tread of my boots as I pull open the gate and step onto the cobbled path that leads to my mother’s grave.
Dad laid her to rest under a large weeping willow on the northernmost boundary of the cemetery. Beneath the tree’s canopy sits a stone bench. I’ve sat here many times trying to remember what she was like, trying to remember her voice or her arms around me, and always, I feel nothing. I sink to the freezing cement and succumb to the fear, trusting this place to swallow it whole.
Within moments Jake’s hands come to rest on my shoulders. The heat melts through my sweater. I stop trembling, and my mind begins to clear.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“What’s happened, Brielle?”
I think of Serena. Of all she speculated on the phone. But it’s the first sentence that matters.
“Marco’s escaped,” I say, repeating her words.
“Escaped?”
“Yes, escaped.”
Jake circles the bench and sits next to me. He takes my shoulders in his hands and turns me to face him. “They’ll catch him. You know that, right? Someone will.”
It’s something Dad would say—anything to make me feel better. I ignore it.
“They don’t really have a lot of details, and what they do know doesn’t make much sense.”
“Tell me anyway.”
A breeze blows through, cooling the tears that have warmed on my cheeks. I swipe at them and pass Serena’s information along to Jake. When I’m done, I ball my hands into fists and cram them into my pockets to stop the trembling.
“Serena thinks he’s on his way here.”
“Why would she think that?”
I close my eyes, and another round of tears slips from beneath my lashes. “In custody, Marco made two requests. The first was to speak to Ali’s parents, the second to speak to me. Ali’s father’s a judge. They have constant surveillance. So Serena figures I’m much easier to get to.” I watch the drooping fingers of the willow tree scratch at the ground. “She’s right, isn’t she?”
Jake doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I’m very traceable. Everyone I’ve danced with or had classes with knows exactly where to find me. Not to mention that Dad’s in the book, and Stratus is a ridiculously small town. If Marco makes it here, it’s only a matter of time before he finds me.
“The authorities have already phoned the Stratus sheriff’s department, and someone’s supposed to be getting in contact with me.”
“When did this happen? Yesterday? Today?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she said.”
We sit in silence, Jake like a furnace, his warmth a stark contrast to the frozen bench.
“Why? What purpose could finding you possibly serve?” Jake asks.
I shrink at the thought of the sickening task still before me.
“I was her best friend. The only one who knew how much time she spent with Marco.”
“Ah,” Jake groans. “You’re testifying.”
“I’m testifying,” I confirm. “I saw the bruising and the change in her behavior. I should have done something. This is the only way I can help now.”
“But I thought he confessed?”
“I guess he changed his mind.”
Jake puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes. Fire floods my senses and harmony washes over me.
“We’ll figure it out, Brielle.”
“Okay,” I say, soaking up every ounce of him I can. It’s stupid, I know, but I’m close to that heat-induced euphoric trance his proximity brings on, and though I’m conscious of the danger heading my way, I’m no longer afraid.
I stare at the stone angel weeping over my mother’s grave. Considering Dad’s aversion to religion, I’ve always thought it strange he chose an angel. Granite wings arch high above a bowed head. I wonder if Dad thought she looked like Mom—if that’s why he chose her.
It’s an absurd thought. The angel’s face is completely obstructed, buried in her hands. It’s really only the hair that makes me think of Mom: smooth under her halo with a bounty of curls right at the shoulder.
Wendy, John, and Michael!
Something is sliding into place—another piece of the puzzle has been handed to me. I stand up and take six steps, crossing my mother’s grave until I stand before the stone angel. I reach out and trace her halo with my index finger.
Laced with adrenaline, I turn to Jake. He’s smiling at me. It’s tender, apprehensive.
“You asked me a question earlier, just before Serena called.”
Jake stands very slowly and slides his hands into his pockets. “I did.”
“Ask me again,” I beg, electricity coursing through my veins.
He is quiet and still, but his fiery eyes are active, searching my face.
“The ring,” he says. “Where would you wear it?”
I reach out my hand and place it on the solid stone crown of the weeping angel.
“On my head,” I answer. “Like her.”
Jake swallows, his eyes on mine.
“Yes. That’s where Canaan wore it too.”
I
’m kneeling on my mother’s grave, the weeping angel behind me, Jake on his knees in front of me.
“Canaan’s an angel.” My voice quivers with revelation.
“Yes, Canaan’s an angel.”
“And you’re . . .”
“Not,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’m
not an angel, Elle. Just Canaan.”
“But my ankle?”
“I was honest with you about that,” Jake says, moving to sit. “Canaan had no way of knowing how I’d respond to the halo. There aren’t many examples. It’s not common for a Shield to share his halo with a human charge.”
“A shield?”
“I’m sorry, an angel. Are you all right? It’s a lot, I know.”
“Why did you call Canaan a shield?” I ask, ignoring his concern for me.
“Angels have a hierarchy,” he says. “Canaan is assigned here.” Jake places his hands flat on the moist grass and mud. “He stands guard over certain individuals. He’s a Shield. That’s his rank.”
“His rank.”
“Yes,” Jake answers, his eyes boring into mine. “Really, I will tell you anything you want to know, but please. Are you all right? Tell me what you’re thinking.”
What
am
I thinking?
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.” I’m coming unraveled. I can feel it. My voice trembles. “My dad, he doesn’t believe in this stuff.”
Jake waits, expecting me to continue maybe. But I don’t. I want to know what he thinks about my dad’s disbelief. What he’d think about mine.
“A lot of people don’t believe,” he says.
His response isn’t adequate, and I dig my fingers into the mud. “He says God’s cruel. That He doesn’t exist.”
Jake’s voice is steady. Quiet and calm. “He can’t be both, Elle. He can’t be cruel and nonexistent.”
I’m shivering, the weight of his words too heavy for a girl made of ice. And the questions are piling up. The ice cracking.
“What about Ali?” I say, my voice shrill. “Murdered at eighteen. And my mom, dead before I knew her. A horrible, horrible death, Jake. Cancer at twenty-four.” A tremor runs the length of my body. “There are angels? Angels who
protect
humans?”
“I know it’s hard—”
“Hard? It’s laughable.”
But I’m not laughing, I’m shaking. The only thing tethering me to reality is Jake, and even he doesn’t seem real. I draw my knees up and curl in on myself, ducking my head, shutting him out.
“But how can I not believe you?” I whisper, trying to will away the doubt. “After my ankle. After the . . . halo.”