That done, I stand and take inventory of my own wounds. Most of the blood covering my body appears to be Marco’s. My eye is swelling, and I have a gash just above it. I press my remaining sleeve against my forehead to staunch the blood flow. It’s tender. Beneath the wound a lump is forming.
I really should be falling apart. My best friend’s killer is lying in front of me, and someone or something just wrenched me from a moving vehicle and then dropped me from—well, from really high.
But I’m not falling apart. I’m sure I will later, but now, now I just want to understand.
Jake says Canaan’s an angel. So he has wings, right? Could he have done that? Pulled me from a moving vehicle? Would he have? I think again of the beast in the graveyard and shake my head.
There’s no way Canaan looks like that in the Celestial.
I pull the halo from my pocket. The cuff twists and turns in my hand, reforming itself. It hangs from my index finger for an entire minute before I can decide what to do. I’m terrified of what I’ll see if I put it back on, but I don’t want to be attacked by an invisible creature either. In the end, it’s the creepy crawly noises that decide it for me.
I can’t stand being blind.
With two hands, I place the halo on my head. My body feels like it’s been hit by a freight train, but I fight it, shoving aside the need for sleep. It’s harder this time, harder to refuse the dreams that ebb and flow just behind closed eyelids, but after the darkness of this night, I crave the light and life I saw less than an hour ago. That’s what keeps my eyes open.
And then it’s here, the barn and the grass transformed— the night sky as bright as noonday. Even Marco adds light to the atmosphere. Blood-red flames consume his body, flickering with a drum-like rhythm and then dissolving into the sherbet sky. I tilt my head. Something about it doesn’t seem normal.
“Brielle.”
I spin around, my muscles screaming in protest. The halo falls from my head, and I catch it against my chest. My throat makes a funny noise.
It’s Canaan.
I’m relieved and slightly disappointed, to be honest. He’s wearing the same clothes as before: slacks and a red polo. No wings. No white robe. And I’m holding his halo.
“Jake told me,” I say.
His face is calm, knowing. “It was time.”
Marco moans in his sleep and I want to kick him, but I’d rather he be awake to feel that.
“Um . . . you have wings or something, right?”
“Four, actually.”
I lean sideways, trying to find them in the darkness. “Four?”
“And we’d be wise to use them.”
“Okay. Um, yes.”
Canaan peers around me, and I step sideways to give him a better look.
“He needs help,” I say.
“Quickly, then.”
Canaan steps to Marco’s side and scoops him into his arms. It’s a bit comical, to say the least. He’s holding Marco the way one holds a toddler. His forearm is under Marco’s rear, and Marco’s head lolls onto the angel’s shoulder.
When Canaan turns around, his eyes fall on the halo clenched in my hands. “You’ve seen the Celestial, then?”
My thumb rubs the hot, slick metal, and I nod.
“You can put it back on your wrist. My wings will give you Celestial eyes tonight.”
Celestial eyes?
At Canaan’s word, the halo transforms. With it back on my wrist, I turn my attention to him, nervous.
“What do I do now?”
“Nothing,” he says.
Canaan steps toward me, and I lose sight of everything.
“I’d open my eyes if I were you.”
Before I can obey, a gush of wind fills my nose and mouth. I’m drowning, I’m sure of it. And then a surge of light blinds me, and a loud snap causes me to flinch. I gasp, finally able to inhale. The air is hot and burns my lungs when I breathe it in. The change is stark and sudden, not gradual like the halo’s effect. My face and neck are on fire. I kick and twist against Canaan, but he’s immovable.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. Open your eyes.”
I obey, hoping that somehow the action will fill my lungs with cool, fresh air. It takes my eyes a second to adjust, but when they do I am dumbfounded. My heart rate slows as my lungs adjust to the temperature of the air. We haven’t moved. We’re still standing in the field outside the barn. The halo’s on my wrist, but the night sky is bright again.
“Hold on,” Canaan says.
The sound of a thousand birds taking flight assaults my ears. I try to duck and cover my head, but Canaan holds me fast. Somehow he’s holding both Marco and me to his chest, though I’m facing out. The backs of our heads bump, and my tender scalp stings at the touch.
In my peripheral vision I see two massive wings moving up and down. Canaan crouches, and then we’re airborne. My stomach jumps into my throat and I scream, pinching my eyes shut against the nausea of motion sickness.
“It’s okay, Brielle. It’s okay.”
His voice is calm, and he holds me secure. I stop screaming but refuse to open my eyes. His wings press against the air, reverberating in my ears. It’s frightening at first, and then, like the bass of Jake’s stereo and the beat of the metronome, their consistency steadies me.
Canaan’s movement slows and I chance it, opening my eyes carefully. I’m viewing the world through a thin, sheer barrier. Like the veins on a leaf, it’s sinewy, almost reptilian. I press my forehead against it. It’s hard, harder than it looks. And hot.
It’s the heat that convinces me. It wasn’t Canaan who ripped us from the car.
So who was it? What was it?
We’re hovering about fifty feet above the ground, bobbing in midair as his wings hold us in place. Beyond the barrier, I see Jake. He sits on the steps of the old Miller place, the hues of his clothes swirling and changing. We’re home. Shiny raindrops like diamonds fall past us, soaking him. Unlike Jake, I’m not touched by the rain or the cold, and can only assume Marco and Canaan are free of it as well.
Unreal.
Every surface glows as if reflecting, in different degrees, the light of the sun. My car and Jake’s, the gnarled oak out front, the gravel drive, the porch and the swing—everything.
And Jake is no exception. Against the still dazzling but muted light radiating from the trees and houses, Jake glows fiercely, easily the brightest thing in sight.
“Does he know we’re here?” I ask Canaan.
“No,” Canaan says, “but he will.”
And then with a flash of white his wings propel us forward, and a shallow dive plunges us through the roof and into the living room of the old Miller place.
I’m still screaming when our feet touch the ground. Jake walks through the front door, glowing and dripping rainbows of water everywhere. With the deafening sound of a ball being fired from a cannon, the world of light is stripped away, leaving the mundane, but very welcome, atmosphere I’m accustomed to. Jake is still in front of me, soaking wet and as engaging as ever, but like the rest of the room, he is no longer glowing.
“Brielle?” he asks from the doorway. “Are you all right?”
Craving the safety of his embrace, I take a step toward him. But my legs have the vitality of Jell-O, and I drop to my knees.
“I really don’t like flying,” I whisper.
Jake rushes forward, but Canaan is closer, and having already placed Marco on the couch, he lifts me carefully and lays me on the love seat. My eyes flicker with the release of it all, and I allow them to close.
“I assume this is Marco,” Jake says.
“That would be a good guess. The wound on his head needs mending.”
“I’ll do it,” Jake says.
“The first-aid kit is in the closet, yes?” Canaan says. “We should stitch his thigh.”
I try to sit up, but exhaustion wins and I succeed only in opening my eyes. Jake sits on the couch, his hands cradling Marco’s head.
“Jake?” I say.
“You okay?” he asks.
His smile is there, honest and soft. And mischievous, even now. Marco’s bled on him too. Jake’s hands and clothes are covered with the life that seems desperate to abandon the tragic actor.
“There was a monster,” I say.
Jake’s eyes snap to Canaan, who’s just returned with a blue duffel bag, the red cross on its side indicating it contains medical supplies.
“Damien,” Canaan says. “Helene’s following him.”
Helene? Where have I heard that name before?
Jake’s face is pale. Paler than I’ve ever seen it. “I’m sorry, Elle. I shouldn’t have left you.”
But my eyes are on Canaan. He rifles through the duffel bag, pulling out gauze, thread, scissors, a needle, and a bottle of fluid.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why can’t you do that thing? That healing thing?”
“We could,” Canaan says, cutting Marco’s pants away. “But then we’d have a lot of explaining to do. We have no choice with his head wound, but this, this I can stitch.”
I have questions. So many questions, but my body’s shutting down and I can’t fight it anymore. Again my eyes shut. I drift into that fuzzy place between sleep and awake. I hear their quiet conversation and vaguely want to participate, but am rendered still by the overwhelming weight of tranquility that has settled on my mind.
“Have you checked the chest?” Jake asks.
“There’s nothing new, Jake. Not since the copy of
Hamlet
.”
Hamlet?
“Helene and I are going to redouble our efforts. We’ll take shifts searching the warehouses and circling Stratus. You’ll need to stay prayerful. I can’t promise you’ll be attended at all times.”
“We’ll be okay, Canaan. Do what you have to do.”
“This is done.”
I hear the snip of scissors and the zip of a bag. Soft footsteps pass by my head and fade away. The room is warm and quiet, and the ache has left my head.
And then I hear words. Soft with the rattle of tears.
“Dear God, please,” Jake says. “Please.”
That’s it. That’s all he says, but there’s fervency buried in the words. The couch squeaks, and another set of footsteps drifts by. I hear water running and smell soap—sandalwood, I think— but I’m still, lost in the Neverlands, without wings, without any desire to go.
“I’m off,” Canaan says. His voice is far—so far away. “I’ll call when I can.”
“What do we do about Marco?”
I count to twelve before an answer comes, and to my weary ears it’s not sufficient.
“We need to tell Brielle. I don’t think we’ll get any more direction until that’s done.”
Tell me what?
“Would you like me to do it?” Canaan asks.
“No,” Jake says. “I’d like to. It should be me.”
But whatever Jake says, it doesn’t sound as though he’d
like
to tell me anything. I strain my ears, hoping for a clue, but the conversation is over and a hot, damp hand comes to rest on my forehead.
Jake.
He sits next to me and lifts my head into his lap. In my mind, tendrils of steam linger between his fingers, and my attachment to consciousness begins to melt away. One final thought severs all ties.
Hamlet’s debate is flawed.
Death can’t end heartache.
But love?
Love just might.
I
had no idea I could be this cold.”
It’s Christmas Eve—my second Christmas here in the city— and the power in the dorms is out. No lights. No heat. Ali and I are huddled in a mass on her bed, trying to keep warm
.
“I have another pair of toe socks, if you want them,” she offers
.
“You have tiny little munchkin feet. How will that help me?”
“My flashlight’s dying,” she says. “Can you hand me a couple batteries?”
“You want me to move?”
“No,” she says, closing the leather-bound book in her lap and tucking the pen behind her ear. “Not if it will make you any grumpier than you already are. Let’s do Shakespeare again.”
“I thought you were documenting our demise in that journal of yours.”
“Your entertainment is more important. And clearly, you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored. I’m cold.”
“You get grumpy when you’re bored.”
“I get grumpy when I’m cold,” I insist
.
“Same difference. Shakespeare?”
“Sure.”
She thinks for a second and then delivers a quote. “ n.’ ”
Easy peazy
.
“Prospero
, The Tempest.”
“Ding, ding, ding. One point, Elle. A harder one this time,” she says, leaning back against the wall. She adopts a lilting ghostly accent. “ ‘Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs.’ ”