"One day," he'd say, "a new heaven and a new earth will be established. One day the Sabres will be allowed to worship where they wish, but until the veil is no longer necessary, the Sabres worship only within the safety of the Father's Throne Room or on the mountaintops, far from creatures who could be damaged by their song."
It's a beautiful ending to a tragic story, but it doesn't explain why they're here now.
In Stratus.
Canaan told Jake he didn't know. But as Jake sifts through the pages of Scripture, he's more certain than ever that their presence has something to do with Brielle's dreams. And if he can just figure it out, maybe it'll shed light on the missing ring and the dagger that's replaced it.
Maybe solving one mystery will lead to solving another.
A yellow rectangle spreads across the field outside, catching his eye. Brielle's living room light has been flipped on, and the glow spills through the window. At first Jake thinks it's Brielle, but she never uses the front door. The one leading from the kitchen to the porch is closer to her room.
The door opens, and Keith stumbles into the field wearing what looks like a bathrobe. He trips over something and sprawls face-first into the grass. His booming laugh makes its way across the field, and he pushes awkwardly to his feet. He's drunk. Something else Jake's been keeping track of. The first time Brielle noticed his uptick in drinking was Sunday, six days ago. Too many coincidences to ignore.
Jake climbs out the window and drops to the ground. He resists the urge to holler across the yard. Brielle doesn't need to see her dad like this, blundering around in the middle of the night.
Jake darts across the grass, his feet catching stones and dropped pine needles, but that's nothing to the devastation he knows Brielle will feel if he doesn't get her dad back inside. He ducks a series of branches and emerges to see Keith standing, staring into the apple orchard behind his house. Jake draws closer, slowing his footsteps, not wanting to scare the guy. The blood runs fast in his ears now, but he swears he hears music.
Is Keith singing?
The long grass brushes against his shorts, a rustle that seems loud in the silence of the night, but Keith doesn't turn around. He stands at the edge of the abandoned orchard, the grass dropping away to hardened dirt and weeds. The sound seems to be coming from within the grove.
And it's familiar.
Not nearly so loud as the worship of the twelve Sabres, but similar.
Jake steps closer. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and looks again. The trees are gnarled and the weeds growing around them tall and knotted, but there's no sign the veil is thinning here, no sign it's torn.
He looks back toward Brielle's house, wishing for her eyes. Should he wake her?
He swivels toward the orchard once again and finds himself face-to-face with Keith. He's tempted to take a small step back, but something in Keith's eyes keeps him close.
"Sir," Jake says. Keith wobbles, and Jake reaches out a hand to steady him.
"Hands off." He swats at Jake with a heavy hand, but he's slow and sloppy and he doesn't connect.
"Sorry, sir," Jake says, but he doesn't release Keith's arm. He can't. Keith's leaned into him now, and Jake supports a hefty portion of the large man's weight. Keith's other arm swings around, pointing into the orchard. Jake's bare feet dig into the grass and his thighs tense, keeping the two of them standing.
"You know what it is?" Keith says. "That music?"
Jake doesn't answer. He's too busy holding the man upright. But his hands and arms are damp with nervous sweat, and Keith slips free, stumbling into Jake, who steadies him.
"I do," Keith says, regaining his balance and standing taller. "I know who's singing."
Jake doesn't have a response to that.
"It's them," Keith says, his gray eyes moist. "The ones that took her."
Jake turns his eyes back to the orchard. "Who? I don't see anyone, sir."
"I don't see them either. But I hear them." He laughs, but there's no hilarity there. It's sad, defeated. "You don't believe me, I know, but I heard them. Heard them that day like I hear them now." Keith's swollen eyes leak tears as they scrutinize Jake-as they dare him to contradict his assessment. And then he blows out a puff of air in disgust. The sour smell of yeast and vomit lingers between them. "Who cares what you think? Who are you anyway?"
Jake knows it's the alcohol talking, but still this man's hatred of him tears at his chest. Scratches at the hope there.
"It's Jake. I'm Jake."
Keith pushes him off and turns back to the orchard. "I know who you are, kid. You and your dad." Keith sinks to the ground, crosses his legs like he's a first grader and it's magic circle time. "And now you're taking my little girl. Taking her away. Like them. Like they took Hannah."
Jake can't help it. Compassion is who he is; it's who he was raised to be. He knows he risks further rejection, but he sinks down next to his girlfriend's dad anyway.
"She'd never let that happen, sir. She loves you. More than anything."
Keith folds in on himself, curling into a ball of terry cloth. He rolls to his side, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapping his body.
"Not more than anything," he says.
17
Brielle
Saturday's turning into a day of double duty for me. Between classes at Miss Macy's and our new program at the community center, I'm exhausted. The nightmares don't help. I find myself scanning all my students' faces to see if anyone resembles the girl from the marble hallway. I look for her on the street and at the supermarket. Yesterday I terrified a poor old man having lunch with his granddaughter. I'd do anything for a really good, dreamless nap.
Since that doesn't seem possible, I've been trying to pay attention to the scene that captures me when I sleep. I try to let my eyes wander, try to pick up anything that tells me what to do with what I'm seeing. So far I've not been able to see anything beyond the girl's own gaze, but I'm determined. If figuring this dream out is the only way to get rid of it, I have to keep trying. Canaan did check Henry's place for me. He's been there several times now, to the city, to the townhouse Henry owns. The old man's there, he says, but he swears Javan's nowhere to be found.
"Dad, I'm home." The cool linoleum of the kitchen floor soothes my tired toes. I tug open the fridge and feel unexpectedly violent. A wall of amber-colored beer bottles separate me from the pitcher of filtered water behind. I shove them aside and free the pitcher.
"Seriously, Dad. This is ridiculous. You stocking up for the apocalypse?"
When I kick the door shut with my sweaty foot, I see my father. He's leaning against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room.
"Am I out of beer? Can you pick me up a six-pack?" Each word carries the hint of a slur, and sick runs down his shirt. Speckles of it fleck his beard.
"Really, Dad?" I say, shaking the pitcher at him. "Really?"
He just stares at me, his eyes on my wrist. I plop the pitcher down and yank the halo off, shoving it into my back pocket. Dad pushes past me and grabs a half-empty beer from the counter.
"You really think you need another one?"
"It's Saturday, all right?" he says, swatting at the air like a petulant child.
"Saturday is not synonymous with ‘drink yourself stupid,' Dad. Neither is Tuesday or Wednesday or-"
"Independence Day."
"Exactly."
"I am sorry about that, Elle." He takes a few wobbly steps into the kitchen and pulls a glass from the cupboard next to the sink. He presses two hands flat on the counter, steadying himself, before he picks up the pitcher. He fills the glass, sloshing water onto the counter, and hands it to me.
"And yet here you are, drinking yourself stupid again. What is going on with you?"
The fur lining his lip trembles. His eyes slide back and forth behind red-rimmed lids, veins blossoming like roses against the yellowing whites of his eyes.
"I just miss you, Hannah."
There are moments when looking like my mom royally sucks.
"Dad . . ."
My phone beeps. Dad and I both turn our eyes to my pocket, where the light of my screen penetrates my jeans. It beeps again.
"That your boyfriend?"
"It's probably Kaylee. We're supposed to-"
"Bet it's your boyfriend."
I yank the phone from my pocket intending to prove him wrong, but when I look up again, he's trundling away. He falls into his La-Z-Boy, his eyes unfocused. My phone beeps again-the call going to voice mail-but I power off the phone, watching instead as the strongest man I've ever known opens another bottle of beer.
It's still light, but the sky is streaked with pink and orange, the sun finally going down on this long summer day. So I slide into an old tank top and a pair of boxers and give myself permission to call it a night.
Turns out it was Jake on the phone earlier. I text him, promising to see him tomorrow, and crawl into bed far too aware that a nightmare is waiting for me. It doesn't matter. I can't keep my eyes open any longer.
The halo won't prevent the nightmare, but I slide it under my pillow anyway. I think it eases the transition, and it certainly makes drifting off more pleasant. Warm, soft. I close my eyes as the celestial heat of the halo spreads down my back, my hamstrings, my calves, even my heels. Color assaults my mind, and I surrender to it. How pleasant this used to be before the nightmares. As sleep takes me, I pray for a reprieve.