Angel Eyes (22 page)

“It’s Macbeth from
Macbeth
.
”

I don’t recognize the quote, but she always uses eerie voices when she does
Macbeth.

“Two points! And now, a favorite of mine: ‘There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.’ ”

“Also a favorite of mine. It’s
Hamlet,
” I say. “If I die first, put it on my tombstone, will you?”

“Ooo, good idea. I’d like it on mine as well. So return the favor, please, if the situation is reversed.”

“Deal. Now try harder this time. I’m winning three–zip.”

Her fingers drum against the book in her lap, making a series of soft, dull thuds. “ ‘Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile.’”

“You made that one up,” I say
.

“I’m flattered, but no. The credit belongs entirely with William Shakespeare, or whoever it was who wrote his plays.”

“What does it mean
?
”

“You’re stalling. In which work can it be found
?
”

I honestly don’t know, but I’m saved by a strange grinding sound and the sudden sputtering of lights. Our desk lamps spark to life, and the clock radio on my bedside table blinks back at us
.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I cry
.

Ali and I leap off the bed and dive at the metal grate on the floor. I slide my fingers into the vent as warm air slowly seeps through the opening. My fingers ache as the numbness fades. Ali’s striped toes wriggle next to my hands, and I eye her ludicrous socks
.

“Thought you said those things kept your feet warm.”

She shivers and pulls the comforter off the bed. “I lied. They’re more for decoration. Okay, next one.”

“You didn’t tell me which play the last quote was from,” I say
.

“Correction: You didn’t tell me. But it’s
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. Act I, Scene i
.
”

“How do you remember all this stuff?” I ask, reaching for my mug that’s sitting on the windowsill. The coffee in it is cold now, but still I sip
.

“I write it down,” she says
.

“Everything? In your journal
?
”

“Sure. Quotes I like. Books I want to read. All my top-secret research
.
”

“You’re doing top-secret research
?
”

“Of course
.
”

“And I thought you spent your nights scratching dreamy thoughts about Marco into that thing
.
”

“I do that too. But you’re stalling again. Ready for the last one
?
”

I take another sip of coffee. “Just waiting on you
.
”

With the room lit, I see an impish expression cross her face, and then she says the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard
.

“ ‘I will smite his noddles.’”

I snort, and cold coffee shoots out my nose. “His noddles?” It burns, and I snort again. More coffee dribbles out, but I can’t stop laughing. And now Ali’s laughing too. At me, I’m sure. “There’s no way that’s from Shakespeare!”

“It most certainly is. Sir Hugh Evans,” she says
.
“
The Merry Wives of Windsor.
”

This just makes me laugh harder. And then, with the sound of a starting gun, the power goes out again. No sputtering, no flickering. Just on and then—
bang!
—off
.

Ali groans, but I can’t stop laughing
.

“I will smite your noddles,” I shout at the darkness
.

Now it’s Ali who snorts. But she’s so small and dainty, it comes out all squeaky, and I’m sent back into a hysterical fit. My stomach aches with laughter, with the happy pain of it all
.

And then, out of nowhere, my hand feels like it weighs a ton. I try to lift it, but something holds it down, pinning it against my stomach. I turn my eyes to Ali, but she’s gone. Replaced by the creature from the graveyard. Black wings and a charred, melted face. Long scraggly nails that reach for me. I pedal backward, but he keeps coming
.

“Brielle? Brielle, wake up.”

I’m trying
.
Trying, trying
.

“Open your eyes, Elle.”

The saying of my name settles me, makes the monster fade, and at last my eyes spring open. Jake stares down at me, concerned.

“Hey there,” he says.

I exhale, unaware I’ve been holding my breath. The wildly alive Ali, it seems, was just a memory.

After a long moment, I will myself to sit up.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself there for a while,” Jake says.

Yeah, until the monster . . .

I lean back against him and tug the halo from my wrist. “It’s so heavy, you know. Makes it impossible to sleep.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” he says.

Filmy sunlight slips through the sheer window coverings and it’s easy to pretend the monster was a nightmare. Here in this warm, safe house. Here with Jake.

“Can we skip school today?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, looking far too elated for a guy who’s been gone all week.

“What time is it?”

He checks his phone. “Eight oh two. You want a doughnut?”

A pink cardboard box sits on the coffee table. He flips open the lid. Chocolate éclairs and cherry crullers. Dad’s favorite.

“You have an addiction, you know that?”

“Deputy Wimby dropped them by,” he says, eating half an éclair in one bite.

“Who’s Deputy Wimby?”

Jake stands, and I topple into the gap left by his body. I wonder if I can burrow into it and forget everything else. Just for a bit.

“
That’s
Deputy Wimby,” Jake says, pulling the curtain aside.

Parked on the street between Jake’s house and mine is a cop car. I stand and cross to Jake’s side. Pressing my fingers to the cold glass, I see a portly officer leaning against his driver’s side door, a cup of joe in one hand and a radio in the other. He catches sight of us at the window and waves, coffee splashing from his cup and onto his shoes. He tucks the radio under his arm as he stoops to wipe it off. The movement of his body jostles the radio and it slips free, falling to the gravel just in time for a steaming Jelly’s to-go cup to land on top of it.

“He’s here to protect you,” Jake says.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“He arrived while we were at the cemetery yesterday. Said he couldn’t get through to your dad’s cell.”

“Yeah, he’ll be hard to reach for the next few days.”

“Canaan let him know you’d be staying here while your father’s away. I hope that’s okay.”

“I don’t really have to, do I?”

“Angels can see through walls. If you need to go home, that’s fine.”

I rub my neck, pretending that statement doesn’t make me uncomfortable. “And Marco?” I say, looking to the empty couch, scrubbed clean by the smell of it.

“Moved him to my room. He’s okay. He’s sleeping. You want to talk to him?”

“No,” I say, turning to him. “Not yet.”

Jake’s eyes are disarming, his lips parted slightly as if he has something to say. I’ve never wanted to read someone’s mind so much in all my life.

“You said you’d tell me . . .”

“Everything,” Jake finishes.

“It seems we have time.”

He lets the curtain fall from his fingers. Wimby disappears, and we’re alone.

“There’s a lot to tell. Where should I start?”

I want to ask him about the monster. I want to know why Canaan needs two sets of wings. I want to know what we’re going to do about Marco and why Canaan hasn’t just turned the guy over to Deputy Wimby out there. But the thing holding my attention is Jake’s trembling hands.

“I want to know what you’re afraid of,” I say.

I don’t mean the words to sound so biting, but I can’t quite muster the energy to apologize.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s just,
my
paranoia makes sense, right? Invisible monsters, escaped murderers, Deputy Wimby, for crying out loud. But you seem just as scared as I am, and I want to know why.”

Jake shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Brielle . . .”

“I’ve gutted myself, Jake. Told you all the little things that terrify me. In the spirit of fairness . . .”

“Fairness, huh?”

He stares at me a minute longer and then hooks his finger into the pocket of my sweatshirt and tugs. “Okay,” he says, his tone reluctant. “Come on.”

He leads me through the kitchen and down the hall. I assume we’re heading to his room, so I’m surprised when he turns into Canaan’s. He drops to the floor at the foot of the bed. Confused, I do the same.

“I told you before, Canaan’s a Shield. He’s an angel, right, but more precisely, he’s a Shield. His role here is specific to the charges he’s given. Make sense?”

“I guess so.”

Jake continues, his tone more resolute, his face staid. “For example, about twelve years ago Canaan was sent to an apartment building in Portland where he was to locate and recover a young boy who’d been abandoned: me. He says it’s the easiest assignment he’s ever been given. He entered our ratty apartment, and there I was, curled up on the end of the couch, syringes on the floor and cocaine on the kitchen table. He carried me from the building remaining entirely in this realm, but no one stopped him, no one questioned, and no one’s seen my parents in years.”

I fidget. “This realm?”

“Yes. The halo, Canaan’s wings—both let you see into the Celestial realm. This realm, the realm where angels breathe air and eat food—the realm you and I see daily—we call the Terrestrial. Anyway, Canaan took me home with him and raised me as best he could. He cared for me and taught me, and until last week he’d received no further assignment regarding me.”

“Okay, you say
assignment
like it’s homework or something.” My question frightens me a little, but it has to be asked. “Who makes these assignments?”

“The Father,” he says softly. So honest, so straightforward. “The Creator. El Shaddai. The Almighty. He has many names.”

I shift my gaze and pick at my fingernails. Dad would so be dragging me from the room about now. “So, God, then.”

Jake chews his lip. “Yes, God. The assignments come from his Throne Room.”

“His Throne Room?”

“Yes. The Shield are just one group of angels, one rank. Canaan carries a sword, he’s prepared to fight—to protect humanity. That job falls to the Shield.”

I want to ask who he’s prepared to fight, but the possible answers terrify me.

Jake continues, “But he hasn’t always been a Shield. He spent over a thousand years as a Throne.”

I demanded he tell me all this, but the endless string of details is overwhelming. Maybe I was right before. Maybe it’s all just too much.

But would not knowing make it all go away?

“A Throne?”

“Yes. I know you envision an ornate chair, but it’s also a Celestial rank,” Jake explains. “Thrones are angelic beings assigned to the Throne Room of the Father. They’re responsible for dispensing His instructions to angels positioned throughout the earth. He requires all Celestial beings to spend time in His presence before entrusting the task of guardianship to any one of them.”

Jake’s gaze slides away from my eyes and rests near my collarbone.

“That’s how much He loves humankind. He’ll only give the very best the rank of Shield because with it comes the responsibility of keeping watch over His children. Of course, the Father’s omniscience allows Him to complete any task Himself, but like a good father, He
includes
His creation,
uses
His creation to accomplish His will.” Jake pauses, and his eyes drift back to mine. “Questions?”

My face must have betrayed my discomfort. “The halo?”

“The halo.” Jake takes a deep breath. “What do you know about the fall of Lucifer?”

I shift. “He was an angel, right? And then he got thrown out of heaven.”

“Right. He rebelled. He thought he could be like God, and he convinced a third of the angels he was right. And when Lucifer fell, those angels followed.”

“Demons.” And I know, without having to ask, what that thing in the graveyard was. I know who Canaan is prepared to fight.

Jake nods. “The Fallen, yes. But the angels who remained— those who refused Lucifer and his lies—were rewarded. To honor their loyalty, the Creator gave them crowns. Halos.”

“Wow. And Canaan can just . . . give it away? His crown?”