Angel Eyes (20 page)
As if in answer, Brielle removes the strange light from her wrist, and as he watches it transform, confusion rattles him.
It’s a halo. An angelic crown. Given only to those angels who stayed committed to the Creator. As a reward. A thank-you for refusing the Prince. For rejecting the rebellion.
But why does the girl have it?
His hands find the trunk of a pine, and he settles down in its branches. He’s to the left of the girl, watching her in profile.
She lifts the halo in her hands and spins it, forcing Damien to close his eyes. The movement of such a bright light pains him far more than it should. When he opens them again, she’s placed the halo on her head. She stands and runs her fingers over the stone angel before her.
What has her so captivated?
A small leap, and he’s standing on the chain-link fence. Through the arching wings of the statue, he faces the girl.
Her head jerks. Abruptly. She steadies the halo with her hands, and her eyes meet his.
But that’s impossible!
And yet, she trembles. Mouthwatering fear leaks from her chest. Like a gunshot wound, a deep black hole soaks through the brightness of all she is and shakes her body.
And then it comes. The bloodcurdling scream of a terrified girl.
She can see him!
Like the boy in Dothan. Like Elisha’s servant.
Is it the halo that lets them see?
Maybe. Canaan was there in Dothan, and he is here in Stratus.
Is the gift of sight hers by right, or will the halo allow any human to see? In any case, a human with Celestial sight can mean nothing good for darkness.
The jewel-toned sky bounces off his talons as he dives for the girl.
S
creaming and cursing, I stumble back. Something hits the back of my legs, and I topple over it. The halo falls from my head, and the Celestial realm implodes, drowning my cries.
The earth is cold, my back pressed into it, my legs sprawled over the stone bench. But I don’t stop. Just because I can’t see that thing anymore doesn’t mean it’s gone. I scramble backward, my hand falling on the halo. It’s re-formed into a cuff, but I don’t slide it on my wrist. I jam it into my pocket.
The thing terrifies me.
I jump to my feet and run down the cobbled path. The fence hangs open, and I press through it onto the paved road leading away from the cemetery.
I’m running and trying not to think and fighting to keep the image of that monster from my mind.
I don’t hear the car until it’s too late.
It pulls in front of me, and my hip rams the front quarter panel as I pull to a stop. Mud and rock fly from beneath its tires, and I throw my hands up, but debris peppers my face. Between my splayed fingers, I see a yellow convertible blocking my way.
I see the driver.
And I scream.
Serena was right.
Marco James is here.
In Stratus.
“Get in,” he says.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I shake and shake and shake.
“Brielle, get in.”
My feet want to backpedal, but I won’t let them. There’s something in that graveyard that just might be worse than Marco James. He slams his hand against the steering wheel and climbs out of the car. I can do nothing but tremble as he pushes me into the passenger seat and slams the door. And then we’re flying down the road, back toward the cemetery. Back toward the monster, and I can’t even find the strength to scream.
I
t’s the second time in a week Canaan’s seen Damien reaching his gnarled hands toward Brielle. He understands the demon’s interest in Jake, but what does he want with Brielle?
Canaan wraps his wings—all four of them—tight to his form, falling into a dive. He throws himself between Damien and the girl, taking a swipe of the demon’s talons across his shoulder. He feels an outer wing tear but unfurls it and unsheathes his sword anyway.
Damien’s scimitar is drawn, steaming as he swings it high and then low. Canaan blocks his advances, his fiery sword sliding on the icy blade of Damien’s.
Mind to mind, he speaks to his fallen brother.
“What are you after, Damien? Why here?”
Damien doesn’t answer, but he swings his sword more ferociously. Canaan can’t help but notice the squint of his foe’s eyes.
“Your eyes trouble you, brother?”
“I am
not
your brother,” comes the reply.
Canaan pushes against Damien’s sword, and they hover several yards apart. Glaring at one another. Each seeking to understand.
“But you were once. My brother. My confidante.”
“You should have come with me, Canaan. Should have taken hold of freedom while it was within your reach.”
Canaan doesn’t laugh. The loss of his brother—of so many brethren—is a sad one. “You’re not so deceived, are you? Rebellion did not bring you freedom.”
Canaan’s words spark something in Damien, and he strikes, hard and without ceasing. Canaan is pushed back, his injured wing costing him, sapping energy, skewing his focus with pain. Damien plants one foot on Canaan’s shoulder and the other on his thigh and swipes downward with his weapon. Both of Canaan’s left wings are sliced through, and the Shield spirals to the ground. He lands on his feet, but all he can do is watch as Damien takes off into the sky, his four wings propelling him forward.
After the yellow car. After Brielle.
Canaan sees him drop low, into the car, and when Damien rises only two of his four wings move up and down.
When the car pitches off the side of the road and tumbles into an empty field, Canaan knows it’s empty.
I
t’s stupid the things you think when you’re yanked from a moving car.
And I am yanked. The collar of my shirt tightens, and then I’m lifted and slammed hard against something frozen.
But for the briefest of seconds, I’m just grateful Marco kyped a convertible.
And then I can’t breathe. I can’t see. Everything is dark. I’m screaming. I’m sure I am. So it takes a second for me to register that I’m not alone. I peel my eyes open to find myself crammed against Marco. He’s a swirl of color and black goo. Our knees are smashed against one another’s, our faces separated by just inches. His white eyes stare into mine, and together we tremble.
In my peripheral vision, through some sort of immovable, sheer barrier, I see the world pass by in a conglomeration of light and color. I don’t understand how I’m seeing the Celestial. The halo’s in my pocket, digging into my hip, but I figure a bright, shiny world is the least of my worries right now.
The cemetery, the empty farmland—it all passes below me. I’m being carried. By something. Someone. And without knowing
how
I know, I realize it’s that monster in the graveyard. The one I could only see with the halo on my head.
My stomach lifts and falls, and I’m going to be sick. But I can’t move even to hurl. I’m pinned, uncomfortably pinned, against something dark and frozen.
We’re jostled left and right. Up and down. Up and down. Marco’s yelling something, but I don’t understand. And then my stomach flips. My ears ring as the Celestial disappears and darkness surrounds me.
We’re falling.
Through the night sky.
Heavy raindrops fall with us, racing to the ground below.
Marco flails beneath me as I swing my arms and try to get my bearings.
The rushing wind fills my ears, so I don’t hear a thing when Marco crashes into the roof of the barn. The only warning I have is the delayed realization that he’s stopped. That I’m still moving. And then I land on him, knees first. I pitch forward, and my forehead collides with his cheek. I feel bones crack, and the air empties from my lungs.
I gasp and gasp, but I don’t move. I can’t. Everything hurts, and nothing cooperates.
Nails squeak against rotting wood. The creaking of crumbling boards grows louder, more insistent, and I realize our combined weight is too much for the old roof. With a yelp of pain, I heave myself off Marco. But once I’m off I can’t slow my momentum. I roll and slide, grasping at the roof. My fingers collect peeling paint and drenched wood slivers, nothing more. I’ve lost a shoe, and my sock collects rain water as I slide.
My feet swing over the ledge and into nothingness. My legs and hips next. My stomach scrapes against the lip of the roof.
But I don’t fall.
My head snaps up and there, his face visible over the ledge of the roof, his hand wrapped around my wrist, is Marco.
He’s panting. Rain or sweat or blood drips from his hair, his face a featureless shadow against the cloudy moonlit sky.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
His breath comes in halting puffs. I’m pretty sure I broke his ribs when I landed on him.
Good.
He deserves pain. Lots of it. He killed Ali. A girl who loved him. My best friend.
And yet here he is, holding me, saving me from at least another round of injury.
Why?
I slip. It’s just an inch or two, but I realize how slick our hands are, how badly Marco is trembling.
He can’t hold me much longer. I look down now, assessing the distance. With my feet hanging, I’m only eight or nine feet off the ground.
“Let go,” I tell him. “I can make the drop.”
“You sure?” His voice is . . . I don’t know . . . compassionate?
Hypocrite.
“Let me go, Marco.”
And then I’m falling again. My feet hit first, and a tremor ripples through my body. I can’t hold myself upright, and I crumble. I’m on all fours when Marco lands next to me. His heels hit first and then his rear end.
I’m not in immediate danger, not from him at least. He looks worse off than I do—so miserable I turn my eyes away.
I’m not going to feel sorry for this guy. I’m not.
The highway here is sprinkled with the odd streetlamp, but we’re a good distance from it now, surrounded by frozen mud and spindly trees. The light is sparse. Moonlit shadows close in on us, menacing and silent. Plinks of rain drop, crinkling leaves, splashing in puddles.
I can’t stop flinching.
Marco forces himself to his feet and presses his back to the wall of the barn. His face is deathly pale. His teeth are clenched, and his brow is drenched in sweat. He has a wound somewhere on his head, and blood runs down his neck and shoulders, slick and purple in the moonlight. I try to stifle my concern, but the wound beneath that hand on his thigh could be deadly.
“Elle,” he says, his voice strained.
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
He’s going to talk about Ali. I can see it in his eyes, and I don’t want to hear it. Not from him. I’d rather he succumb to his injuries, flop around like a dying fish.
That
, I can handle. Mallet to the head, right? That’s what Dad says.
“I didn’t kill her,” he says.
Right.
I close my eyes. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“I need you to believe me,” he says, his voice ragged.
“Your leg, Marco.”
He’s silent.
Too silent.
I open my eyes, and he’s still there. Staring back at me. Green eyes full of agony. Something there reminds me of myself. Of what I see when I look in the mirror these days. But after all, he’s an actor. A good one. And I’ll not be played.
I crawl forward, reaching for his leg.
“It’s fine,” he says, attempting to stand. His leg won’t hold the weight, though, and he falls back against the barn. “We need to get out of here.”
My fingers aren’t gentle as they pull his hand away.
“It’s not that bad,” he says. “Really.”
Blood runs thick and black from the inside of his thigh and down his leg. It puddles in his hideous loafers.
“It
is
that bad, Marco. How are you still conscious?”
And then he isn’t. His tall, thin body slides down the side of the barn, peeling away curls of paint and leaving blood in its place. I drop to my knees and stare at him, no idea what to do.
In this moment, I don’t hate him. I want to, but creeping up on me is an irresistible urge to rescue him. To fix whatever’s broken. Though I don’t believe a thing he just said and I’d really like to hit him with a mallet, I’d never recover if someone else died on me.
But I can’t do what Jake can do.
I dig my fingers into the seam that attaches my sleeve to my sweatshirt and yank until it comes loose. I’ve never really been squeamish, but I’m not sure I’ve got Jake’s bedside manner either. So I proceed carefully, sliding the sleeve under his thigh and knotting it on top.