Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(16)

I've photographed it, skied it, even hiked the summit a few times, but seeing it like this-flying toward Bachelor with the eyes of an angel-the familiar suddenly becomes extraordinary.

"I wish I could photograph it like this," I say, my voice raised. "Frame it. Hang it on the wall."

"It'd be one heck of a conversation piece," Jake says, his boyish scratch louder as well. "It wouldn't be the same, though, would it?"

"No, it wouldn't."

The wind steals my reply, but I don't repeat it. Instead, I close my eyes and let my imagination run wild. I imagine Dad staring at a picture of Mount Bachelor-of what it looks like in the Celestial. I imagine explaining it to him: This, Dad . . . this is what it really looks like.

But Jake's right. It would take more than a picture to convince Dad.

But why? Why can't we just snap a picture, hang it over the sofa, and stand our loved ones before it? Why can't we let a picture convince them of a realm beyond our own?

I know firsthand that it takes more than a single glimpse to persuade a soul. Still, something in my chest aches for the ease of an explanation without words.

Why can't it be that easy?

My question borders on the ridiculous, but an answer comes nonetheless. It's quiet-a whisper riding the breath of Canaan's wing.

Creation, it says, without belief in the Creator, will never be anything more than a pretty picture.



Canaan opens his inner wings, releasing us onto the mountain. My bare feet catch rock and I stumble, the halo tumbling from my brow. Jake catches it and steadies me. Behind us, Canaan stands in his Terrestrial form wearing his swim trunks and nothing more.

"Watch," he says, his eyes shining with excitement. "Watch."

So we do.

There's little that amazes like the top of a mountain. From here we can see the Sisters-Faith, Hope, and Charity-three volcanic peaks sitting to the north, the moon lighting the snow still glistening on top. There's also Broken Top and a few other peaks whose names I can't remember. Bowls of snow nestle into the mountain here and there. There are a handful of lakes that surround the mountain as well, but the night has cast many of them in darkness and I catch only glimmers of moonlight winking back at me from their surfaces.

Jake's hand cups my elbow. He moves his fingers down my forearm, sliding them into mine.

"Look," he says, his hazel eyes dancing like Canaan's.

It takes a considerable amount of self-control to look away from those eyes, but when I do I nearly forget myself and take a step forward. Jake pulls me against him, preventing a fall.

"What is that?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "What is it, Canaan?"

"It's the veil," he says. "The Terrestrial veil."

It is a veil. I see it now. It's as though a sheer curtain hangs in front of the mountain, blowing in the wind.

So delicate. So fine.

And then it starts to glow. The gray-and-white mountain brightens, its snow shimmering. The stone is no longer a flat gray but has the look of precious stones stacked one on top of the other. Their shades vary from a deep chocolate to a glossy silver, light springing from their craggy facets.

I'd panic, but I'm fairly certain I know what I'm seeing.

"It's the Celestial," I say. "But how?"

"Come," Canaan says, transferring, pulling us with him, the Celestial swallowing us once again.

"What are they?" I yell.

Standing, flying, hovering about the summit of the closest mountain-Charity-are several angels. I'm not close enough to make out their features, but they're definitely angels. Something about the way they move, though, something about the color of their wings is unfamiliar. They're different from Canaan. Different from Helene, but I can't quite see how.

"They're Sabres."

"Sabres," I say, savoring the sound of the word.

Our flight is not so much a flight but a glorified jump toward Charity. My stomach is sick with the roller-coaster-like phenomenon, but now that we're closer, I look more carefully at the angels before us. They're larger than any I've seen before, and brighter. I count them on approach-a dozen-and then I watch them, trying to understand their movements. Light curls around them, tendrils of incense rising into the sky.

"What are they doing?" Jake asks.

"They're worshiping," I say, awestruck.

Is there a rhyme or reason to where they've positioned themselves? Some of them kneel, some of them stand staggered across the rock, but the one thing they all seem to have in common is their wings. They're metallic. Not just in color, but in their very construction, it seems. I have an inexplicable need to reach out and touch them, to run my fingers over a single feather.

"They're huge," Jake says. "How tall are they, Canaan?"

"Eight, nine feet." There's no mistaking the amusement in his voice.

Canaan leans forward and tucks his wings close, throwing us into a fall. I'd scream, but I think my stomach might tumble into the sky. A moment later he pulls us right side up, my lunch somersaulting back into place.

We're close now, so close that I can see that touching a Sabre's wing may be the fastest way to lose an arm. I set to examining the nearest one. He's gigantic, like Jake said. And his eyes are pure white, trademark white. Like Canaan's. Like Helene's. He has the celestial gaze of one who'd lay down his life for another. His skin, too, is white, so white it looks almost silver. His muscled arms and chest make Canaan look trim. But as much as I can find things to admire about his physique, it's his wings that so separate him from any other angel I've seen.

Their beauty is staggering, their design inexplicable. Where I expect to see rows and rows of snowy white feathers, one blade lies on top of another-thousands of them-sharp and glistening silver. I can't help but compare each and every one of them to the dagger that pierced my chest this past December. To the instrument of death that bled me dry on a rooftop.

Yet these blades are pristine, polished, organic even. The Sabre adjusts them and they ripple, a trilling tune making its way to my ears. His kinsmen do the same, and the skies fill with music. Loud, warlike, with a tremor of delicate strings woven through it. It's unlike anything I've ever heard. My throat tightens with emotion, and I gasp again and again.

Canaan's voice sounds in my mind: "These are the twelve who originally reported to Lucifer himself."

I remember now that Lucifer was created to be the Chief Worshiper, and yet I find it hard to believe that the Prince of Darkness could be as beautiful as these.

"Leaders of song," Canaan continues. "Their wings are instrumental wonders, their vocal prowess unmatched. At the Prince's command, these twelve were responsible for leading all of the heavens into worship of the Creator."

Canaan sets us down near their crude circle, but he doesn't release us from his embrace. There's a Sabre kneeling ten yards to our left, his hands cupped before him. Another stands just in front of us. His wings tower high above his head and scrape the rock at his feet, hundreds and hundreds of daggers making up his wingspan. They rub one against the other, trembling, sending music far and wide.

He doesn't acknowledge us in any way. None of them do. They're lost in worship.

Their song fills the air, and with my feet so close to the earth, it's all I can do not to fight against Canaan's hold, so deep is my desire to dance.

I think of Moses on the mountaintop, a story I read in my mother's Bible. I remember the burning bush and the voice speaking out of it, telling Moses to take off his shoes. Telling him he was on holy ground. It makes sense to me now.

The Sabres open their mouths and lift up a song, and tears pour down my face at the sound. I sniff, trying to keep another round at bay, and that's when the fragrance catches my nose.

It's the smell of worship.

Sweet like honey and smoky like a campfire. Deep and thick like the ocean's waters and fresh like their spray all in one inhalation.

I turn to Jake. Tears dampen his face, and his eyes are riveted on the sky above us. I tilt my head to see. Tendrils of smoke waft into the sky, bright colorful incense. It curls from the chests of the Sabres as they sing and lingers above us.

Canaan's voice seeps softly into my mind. "It's time to go," he says.

I want to plead with him for just a minute more, but his outer wings are already moving, pushing us away from the Sabres and back toward Mount Bachelor.

Jake says, "That was . . . it was . . ." But he can't seem to finish the thought. I understand entirely.

"Keep your eyes on the sky," Canaan says.

The gentle tenor of his voice stills me, calms my hurried heart. In the distance the Sabres continue to worship, their wings sending mirror-like reflections bouncing across the sky. Tendrils of incense twist from their mouths, from their wings, climbing higher and higher, tangling with the scent of worship pouring from the others.

One final ice-blue tendril curls toward those of his kin. Up and around it loops, twisting like a ribbon around the bundle, lifting the sweet smell of their worship ever skyward.

The sky sparks. I grab Jake's hand as it hisses, spitting light and color in every direction. The Sabres' song grows louder, more insistent. Their wings continue to play, whirling faster and faster, eventually lifting each one into the sky.

"Canaan?" I yell, his wings whipping hot air against us. "What's happening?"

"Watch," he says, his mind as calm as ever. "Just watch."

Our hands clenched, our breathing fast, Jake and I watch as the wings of the Sabres tear through the Terrestrial veil.