Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(21)

Something skitters across my foot, small with lots of legs. I jerk, trying to be rid of it, but the thing is stubborn and clings to my ankle. I knock it away with my hand.

And then Helene is here.

"The sheriff's heading this way," she says. "He's gathered a crew to assess the damage. If you'd like to stay we can, but we should at least take to the Celestial."

I can hear them, their voices, their feet on the cobbled path. The sheriff shouts instructions; several men interrupt, asking questions. Their voices are gruff, demanding.

Angry.

In my mind's eye I imagine them carrying pitchforks, and I don't want to be here when they arrive.

I turn back to Helene. Her hands are on her hips, her legs straddling the casket. It's casual, almost haphazard, and my stomach twists at the near disregard for . . .

For what?

It's nothing but an empty box.

And it's never been anything more than that.

"I'm ready," I say. "Let's get out of here."



We land in my living room to the sound of a ringing phone. The answering machine picks up as we transfer to the Terrestrial. The three of us stand in a triangle-Helene, Jake, and I-staring at the end table where the phone and the small machine sit side by side. Our outgoing message is old, recorded nearly a decade ago-Dad and I singing some stupid jingle and then bursting into laughter. It's a relic of older, kinder days, and it makes me ill to hear it.

Especially now.

With a click, the machine starts recording.

"Keith. Mike here." I recognize the voice. It's Sheriff Cahill. The one we saw cowering behind the crumbling tombstone just minutes ago. He and Dad are friends, played high school football together back in the day.

"We've had some . . . vandalism out here at the cemetery." It's quiet for a second or two. "It's going to be on the news, buddy, there's no way around that, and I'd rather you get the details from me. I'm going to be stuck here for some time, but as soon as I can get away I'll stop by your place. Just do me a favor, Keith. If you get this, give me a call on my cell before you even think about snapping on the television."

I drop onto the couch and curl into a ball. My legs and arms are grimy, my shorts brown with muck. I need a shower, but all I really want to do is curl up and watch reruns of I Love Lucy.

I don't want to deal with Dad. He's either drunk or hungover. Maybe both.

And it's late.

Or early.

Whatever.

"Go to bed, Brielle," Helene says. "Let the police assume the responsibility of informing your dad, and let me talk to Virtue."

Her instructions are tempting, but I can't help feeling like I'm shirking some sort of daughterly responsibility. Do I really want Dad to hear this from someone else? From the sheriff?

"I don't know."

"She's right," Jake says, kneeling before me. "Unless you want to explain to your dad what you saw and how you saw it, you'd better let Sheriff Cahill talk to him."

I count the stitches on the couch cushion, picking at them as I go. I've torn eight of them free when I lose it.

"This is . . . ahhh! It's just ridiculous," I say. I'm tired and angry and confused. "What was he thinking, burying an empty box? Visiting it every week. Taking flowers and cards and . . . and me to a mound of dirt with . . . nothing underneath it."

Jake rubs my knees. "Benefit of the doubt, remember?"

He's gorgeous-that soft hair, those eyes both dark and light, a tall, muscled build-but sometimes I want to punch him.

"Let's not jump to any conclusions just yet, okay?" Helene sits next to me on the couch. "Virtue's words-his presence here-shouldn't be taken lightly. Whatever happened to your mother's body holds some relevance. If it didn't, I doubt he'd have unearthed the absence of it."

My throat dries at the mention of the Sabre. "Why are they here?"

She smiles. "He's no threat to you, Elle. He's a Sabre. A very powerful, very gifted angel."

"But my mother's grave? Why?"

"I can't begin to guess why he destroyed your mother's grave," Helene says. "But all twelve of them have left the Throne Room, Elle. Only the Father Himself could make such a request."

"I don't understand, though. They could all see him-the crowd-and they could hear him."

"They get brighter as they fight," Helene says, her face seeming brighter itself. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

I think of him plummeting to earth, of the sheriff screaming a warning. "Surely he could have accomplished . . . all that . . . in secret."

Helene brushes away a tear I never intended to release. Her hands are warm, sisterly, almost motherly, and for the first time tonight grief replaces anger and fear at center stage, and I mourn the loss of the thing I never had. I mourn the one thing that would fill the emptiness.

I mourn my absent mother.

"Some things," Helene says, "were never meant to be secret."



I let Jake walk me to my room. My thigh brushes the rumpled comforter on my bed, and for a moment I crave the deep escape of sleep. My pillow's warm, the sheets inviting, but memories of my last nightmare chase the desire away. The last time I let warm and inviting take over, I dreamed about red unicorns with blue tails and little girls I didn't know.

And death.

"It's going to be okay, Brielle," Jake tells me. "We'll figure it out."

I stare at my wall, at the child Cosette. I stare at her broom and her bondage and I wonder if there are puzzles that can't be solved. Jake would never think that way. He can't. He's a healer. He thinks everything can be fixed, but what if it's more complicated than that? What if someone doesn't want to be fixed? What if there isn't a body to heal?

I don't have the wherewithal to argue with him. I'm hollow. There's nothing left to expend, just dents and dings where I've been scraped empty.

I run a hand over Cosette's face. "Okay."

"No, I mean it," he says. "We will."

He's on a mission. I feel it. He's going to make me feel better or die trying. But the idea of rehashing today is overwhelming.

"Okay."

"Elle . . ." There's an ache in his voice as he gathers me to his chest, holding me. Like a bandage, like one of those butterfly bandages that hold everything together. But as a wound I'm bled dry, and his arms make it hard to breathe. I pull away.

"I believe you, Jake, I do. But can we figure it all out tomorrow? I'm just . . . I'm . . ."

His arms are still open, still hanging there, waiting for me to crawl into them. "You're tired," he says. "Of course you are."

"I'm . . . yes, I'm tired."

He's hurt. I know he is, but there's that emptiness in me, that inability to carry his hurt alongside mine.

"Okay," he says, dropping his arms. "I'll go."

The door closes behind him, and still I feel nothing. I'm not scared. I'm not angry. I'm just nothing. I fall into my desk chair and roll it to the window. The blinds are up, and I press my cheek to the glass, wanting to feel the cold on my face, wanting it to wake me. It's not enough, and my eyes close. Forcing them open, I yank the window open, feeling the cold night air on my face. But the night can't last forever, and when the sun crests over the horizon my face is warmed by its rays and my eyes close. I've no energy left to fight it.

And the nightmare takes hold.                       
       
           



       20



Brielle





I wake screaming.

My rolling chair has slid away from the window and tipped me onto the floor. I clamp a hand over my mouth, mortified, hoping I haven't roused Dad. If there's anyone I want to avoid this morning, it's him.

But he's gone. His bed unmade, his room empty.

I wander his room, looking for the old Dad, I guess. It's a man's room. A stinky room. On his side table is the oldest Harley Davidson key ring in the world, seven keys hanging off it. Wherever he's gone, he didn't do the driving. Someone's picked him up. I'm guessing the sheriff, but I don't let myself think about where they went or what they're doing.

His dresser is cluttered with pictures, but at the front is a picture of Mom, her loose curls lying perfectly on her shoulders, the same shade as mine. The picture's faded, so her blue eyes look gray here, but they sparkle. Like she's madly in love with the guy taking the picture. I wonder what she was like back then.

I'm up early courtesy of that dreadful nightmare, but Jake's still here to pick me up before I've even brushed my teeth. He's looking all handsome, dressed in black, a pair of slacks and a suit shirt. He's even wearing a thin gray tie today, and it's hard to remember just why I needed him to leave last night.

"I'm sorry about last night," I say.

"You needed space. You're entitled."

He busies himself in the kitchen, nuking me a Pop-Tart and whistling the Transformers theme song. The whistling is a habit he picked up from Canaan, and if there's any habit of his that drives me crazy, it's that.

Especially when I haven't slept.

I shush him twice, warning him not to wake up Dad before I remember that Dad's not even home.

He's out.

With the sheriff.

All ready, I find Jake in the living room watching the morning news. Sheriff Cahill was right. Mom's desecrated grave has made headlines. In fact, it seems to be the headline. It's terrifying and far too familiar seeing my last name on the television screen.