Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(13)

"Like with grandfather's company?"

He rubs his thumb against her hand, the dirt there chafing. "Something like that."

For the first time I can feel the anxiety brewing in her gut. She doesn't understand what she's agreeing to, and she's anxious to have her hand back.

"Okay," she says, discreetly trying to tug her arm from his grip.

"Okay." Before she can free her hand, he flips it palm up and drags three fingers along the soft, milky skin of her forearm. It's cold. So very cold, and she cries out. His other hand is quick, covering her mouth and pressing her head against the wall. I feel the pain shoot through her crown and down her neck. His dark eyes are as hard as ever, and for the first time she shares my terror.

And then it's done. The pain fades and she stops struggling, stops screaming into his palm.

"I'm sorry I had to do that," he says, pulling his hand away. "But I don't want you to forget."

Tears and snot run down her face. "To forget what?"

"Our partnership." The smile he'd been liberal with before is gone, his lips a tight line. "You won't forget, will you?"

Before she can answer, the door to her grandfather's study opens. The man before her steps to the side, giving her a view of her grandfather. He follows two police officers into the hall, a cane draped over his right arm.

"I am so very sorry about your mother, child," her grandfather says. His face is shadow, the light behind him catching the flyaway strands on his balding head. "I know you'll miss her terribly, but you'll be safe here. I promise. Come, let us find you a room."

Turmoil sloshes around in her stomach, making both of us ill. She thinks about what her mama said. That her grandfather hurts little children. That he's the worst of the worst.

Three gray scars sit side by side on her forearm, like rivers of ice under her skin. They don't hurt anymore, not like the burns she has on her calf and ankle, and she makes a decision. She clasps a hand over her forearm.

"I won't forget," she whispers to the man next to her.

He slides a long arm around her shoulders, pressing her tight to his chest.

"I'll find her a room," he says.

Her grandfather waves a hand. "Yes, that'd be fine. Put her on my floor, will you?"

The girl's knees lose their strength, but the man steadies her, keeping her close. "The room next to mine will suit her better, I think. Closer to the restroom, closer to the stairs. Has a balcony. What do you say, sweetheart, would you like a balcony?"

Her mouth is dry, her lips cracked from the flames. "Yes, I-I think I'd like that, Javan."

Javan!

Through the girl's eyes, I sneak a look at the old man once again. At the cane trembling on his arm. My glance is brief before her eyes are slammed shut, but I've seen enough to know the girl's fear is not in vain. I've watched this man try to buy children. I've watched him laugh at the terror leaking from their tiny frames.

Henry Madison.

I'm flailing, I know I am. Trying to get out of this girl's head, out of this nightmare. I finally succeed in opening my eyes, but it's Javan's ghastly celestial form that stares back at me. The gaunt face, blackened skin stretched over it, dead black eyes. They swallow me whole and I scream out, finally wrenching myself upright.

The warm light of the old Miller place greets my frantic form. Jake's just inches from my face, his arms around mine, holding me still. Marco's sitting in the arm chair across from me, his eyes wide, his face white.

"Hey, hey. You're all right."

I'm slick with sweat, my hands shaking. Like the girl's. The girl in Javan's care. We have to do something. I will my eyes to focus and turn them on Jake. He has a scratch on his neck, and his eye is red and swelling fast.

"Did I do that?" I say, reaching for his face.

"It's fine," he says, taking my hands and pressing them between his. "What was that?"

His touch brings me back to the now, to the reality of where I am.

"Nightmare," I say. "I had a nightmare."

Jake's eyes are asking all kinds of questions, but it's the statement that escapes Marco's lips that demands attention.

"You said Henry."

I roll my neck, leaning back against the couch. "Did I? I don't . . . He was there. In my dream, my nightmare."

"Does he always visit your nightmares?" Marco asks, leaning forward in the chair, his hands clenching the cushion.

I glance at Jake, but he looks as confused as I feel. "No. Never before. Why?"

"Because I dream about that monster every night."                       
       
           



       11



Jake





The chest is still empty. Well, not empty. The dagger's still there, inscrutable, taunting. Jake closes it away, careful not to wake Marco. He's out, snoring softly on Canaan's bed, his shag of black hair hanging over the side. Jake leaves him there and retreats to the kitchen where he takes refuge at the table. He sits, his hands in fists, his body unable to relax. He tries praying, but his mind won't still.

Brielle's nightmare was far too detailed to be just a nightmare. Too specific. Too terrible.

Jake has very little experience with visions and prophetic dreams. He's heard stories, of course, read accounts in Scripture, but such things are less prolific now, it seems, less common than they used to be. He needs to talk to Canaan, but he's been gone all night. So Jake sits up, hoping to catch him before the barbecue, hoping they have some time to discuss Brielle's dream.

And Marco. Jake didn't realize just how much Marco remembered about the night at the warehouse. It seems doubt didn't shroud everything.

"I see him every night," Marco said. "I see him laughing and clapping. Mocking the children he came to purchase. And then, right before I have the chance to show him what it's like to be victimized, he disappears. Just like he did that night. You remember that, don't you? Him disappearing. You remember that?"

He and Brielle sat in silence while Marco ranted. They dodged questions. They didn't dare look at one another. But Jake's certain Marco won't let this go. As yet, he hasn't been able to locate a last name for Henry, but it's not for lack of trying. Jake stares into the darkness and wonders just how big a mission this has become.

If Brielle's dream holds any truth, Javan's out there somewhere. In Portland, most likely. Just hours away, reunited with Henry and terrorizing a young girl. Which means Canaan's intel is faulty. And if his intel on Javan is faulty, who's to say Damien is still suffering the pit?

Suddenly the dagger is so much more significant than the missing ring.                       
       
           



       12



Brielle





I have mixed feelings about the Fourth of July. Both Dad and Olivia are going to be there, and that can't mean good things for Jake and me, but I don't want to deal with them alone, so I drag Jake along.

And Canaan.

And since Olivia is going, Helene decides she'll get some sun as well. The first time I met Helene, she was yanking me out of a warehouse full of abducted children and tucking me beneath her wings. Like Canaan, she's assigned to Stratus. Assigned to me.

Marco's also a reluctant participant in the Independence Day festivities.

"I'm not really a sunshine kind of guy," he says.

Cue every vampire joke I can come up with-and I've read all the books, seen all the movies. Eventually I shame Marco into getting some sun.

Jake hauls him down to Main Street to grab some sunblock and a pair of shorts-something that takes them far longer than is reasonable in any city, big or small. I wait outside, sitting on Slugger's hood in a pair of shorts and a Bohemian-looking swimsuit cover-up. I've also got the halo on my wrist. It's a ridiculous-looking thing to wear to the lake, and I fully expect Dad to give me grief, but I'm determined to nap in the sun today, and I'll do whatever it takes to stave off those nightmares.

It's another fifteen minutes before Jake and Marco make their way to the car. I'm tempted to make fun of them-call them girls or something-but they look like they're bonding, and Marco needs that. I huddle them into the car and drive up a block to Jelly's to meet the rest of our party.

Jelly's is an old diner of the greasy spoon variety. A giant grape jelly jar sitting atop its stainless steel structure is the first thing you see when driving onto Main Street. Neon purple lights spell out Jelly's on the jar and run like racing stripes around the center of the building. When Kaylee's not at the community center, she's here helping her Aunt Delia, who owns the place.

I pull Slugger up to the curb, just feet away from Canaan and Helene. The two Shields sit side by side on a weathered wooden bench outside the diner. Canaan, with his broad shoulders and chiseled jaw, one leg crossed over the other; Helene, a lovely heart-shaped face framed by auburn hair, her hands resting gently on her knees. So different, but with so much in common. There's the obvious, those striking silver eyes, but it's more than that. It's the look on their faces as they converse. It's that incorrigible interest they have in every single interaction. I watch as they talk, their heads bent close, their lips moving intently. It's like they understand the gravity of the present. That every moment has meaning.