Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(30)

I lick my lips, not wanting to belittle his experience, not wanting to hurt him further, but knowing the impossibility of it. "I would have been-what?-three years old, Marco. It couldn't have been me."

"But it was. I ran toward the window, but before I could get there, the window shattered. Glass flew everywhere, stopping me. Keeping me from reaching you. But you were there. Staring back at me, your . . ." His face contorts and he buries it in his hands, his words spooked and muffled. "Your blond hair was on fire, and your white dress. Your eyes were so blue, and they looked right through me. And then . . ."

"And then what?" Kaylee asks, climbing onto the bench next to him.

He drops his hands, his green face tortured, like some sort of tragic swamp thing.

"You disappeared."                       
       
           



       26



Brielle





Saluting Teddy the Elk, I push my way out of the community center. The sun's no longer in sight, hiding somewhere below the low-sitting buildings of downtown Stratus. The sky's still streaked with light, the windows fronting the community center reflecting a blue expanse dewy with the promise of a summer rain.

I cut behind the community center and through the alley connecting it to Main Street. It's darker here-secluded-and worry flutters through me once again. Before it can settle in my gut, a prayer whispers across my lips.

I pray all the time now. When I'm walking. When I'm sitting. When I'm eating.

I wake up praying.

All this unease has driven me to seek answers-real answers-and as infuriating as these dreams are, the only place that's ever provided me completely satisfying answers has been the Throne Room.

So I pray.

My prayers aren't particularly eloquent. They're more of the desperate variety, and I don't always feel heard. But saying the words, asking my Creator for answers, for direction, is right.

I know it is.

Even if I don't feel it.

Feelings can't be trusted. That's something else I'm learning.

I round the corner, stepping onto Main. The Donut Factory is down the street from here, but its sugary smell dances down the street, smelling an awful lot like Jake. It reminds me of an encounter we had there, in front of the theatre, the very first time I saw Damien.

The thought is mostly pleasant, and I relive it as I meander down the street. I pass the Auto Body and wave at Grace, an old classmate of mine. She started working there just after Dimples was arrested.

Dimples. The super-nerd who kidnapped Kaylee and dragged her into the mess at the warehouse.

Just beyond the Auto Body is a real estate office and then the Photo Depot where I'm to meet Jake. He doesn't get off for another few minutes, but I can wait.

And stare.

I haven't had time to adequately stare at him lately.

But just as I'm crossing in front of the real estate office, the world flashes orange.

Celestial orange.

What the . . .

Sweat breaks out along my neck and chest, and I stop. The street and the sidewalk, the ramshackle old buildings, the few cars parked along the storefronts-all of them shine with the light of the Celestial.

And then the summer night folds in around me once again.

My hands fall to my left wrist, to the halo thrumming there.

Did I just see the Celestial without the halo on my head?

I blink and blink at the blue sky. I will it to happen again, but only the stars wink back.

Both Jake and Canaan have warned me about this possibility-that I might one day see the Celestial without the halo.

Is this what they were talking about?

Will it come in strange flashes?

Or has the lack of sleep finally gotten to me?

A gust of wind blows against my bare knees. It's colder than it should be, but that's the Northwest for you. I hear the footsteps of another pedestrian, but when I look left and right, there's no one there. I'm alone on this small strip of Main.

I so need to sleep.

I rub life back into my arms and continue on.

But another step forward and I feel a tug on my head, like fingernails raking through my hair. I whip around, a flash of shimmering apricot sky hurling past me.

And I'm not alone on the sidewalk any longer.

It's Damien. On Main Street.

His wings are black and tattered, his form rife with thick, pink scars. Jagged fangs hang over his charred, scabby lips, but it's his eyes that frighten me.

They're wide open. Two black moonstones mounted in a melted face.

I stumble backward, colliding with a newspaper stand. On impact, the Celestial disappears along with Damien and his frightening stare.

I gasp and gasp. My elbow stings and my hands tremble, but now I'm certain.

It's the lack of sleep or the anxiety brought on by the nightmares or . . . or . . . something.

Because Jake assured me Damien was long gone. That Canaan's sword of light banished that demon to the pit of hell, where the Prince would leave him sweltering and burning-punishment for all the mistakes he made pursuing Jake.

Pursuing me.

I push away from the newspaper stand.

Jake wouldn't lie to me.

There aren't many things I'm certain of as I step into the Photo Depot, but that's one of them. Jake's integrity. His constancy.

"What happened to your arm?"

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead; a computerized photo sorter churns away behind Jake.

"My arm?" It takes my brain a second to register the question, but eventually I look down. That's right. It does sting. Blood runs in several small streams from my elbow to my wrist, looking like the pole outside Fancy Hill's Barber Shop.

We're alone. No other customers. No fellow employees. Jake pushes through the swinging door that separates the front counter from the lobby of the Photo Depot.

"What did you do?" he asks.

"I'm okay," I say, my brain sluggish. "Ran into the newspaper stand outside. Clumsy, I guess."

"I think Kaylee's rubbing off on you. You need to spend some time with the coordinated."

I laugh, but it's stiff and unnatural. "Are you offering?"

"Here, sit," Jake says, lightly shoving me into a chair by the door. "We've got a first-aid kit in back."

Seven and a half steps take him through a swinging door and behind the counter. Another two take him into a staff room.

"Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really need a first-aid kit?"

His head pops into view again. He stands there for a minute, thinking, staring.

Blinking.

He's been skittish to use his gift. In the six months since the warehouse, I've not seen him use it once. It's not like he's gone out of his way to avoid the injured, but he hasn't gone searching for them either, and right now I need to see it. I need to be reminded that I'm not the only one gifted.

His face brightens, and a smile emerges. A small one, the one that sits there at the corner asking for a kiss. "No, I guess I don't."

He walks to the door and flips the sign to Closed. Then he reaches behind me and drops the blinds. Fleetingly, I wonder if there's any chance Damien's there. Any chance that this small act could cost us something. But Jake wouldn't keep that from me. Wouldn't risk something like that.

He walks back to my chair and lowers himself to his knees. He has an apron around his waist, which he unties and dumps on the carpet. An ink pen, a notepad, and a couple film canisters topple to the ground. He folds the apron into a square and wipes the blood from my arm.

Then he drops it between us and wraps a single hand around my bicep just above the elbow.

He's warm. So very warm.

And I'm tired.

My eyes flutter and my head seems to have doubled in weight. I lean my forehead against his shoulder, his temple pressing against my cheek. His pulse quickens, and my arm burns. And then . . .

"It's done," Jake says. He runs his fingers down my arm and over my elbow. "Good as new."

I don't want to move.

I've missed this closeness.

I've needed it.

"Your dad came in today," Jake says.

"You are so good at ruining these moments, you know that?"

"Sorry," Jake says, picking up his apron and the things he emptied onto the floor.

I flex my arm, feeling the wholeness of it, the strength I didn't know had gone. "What did Dad want?"

"Dropped off some film. Old stuff. 35mm. Demanded that Phil take his order, though. Wouldn't look me in the face. It was kind of funny."

My stomach rolls. "I don't think that's funny."

"Anyway, he dropped off an order-hour photo-but he never came back to pick it up." Jake stands. "I'll get it and you can take it home to him. Just tell him it's on me."

"Like that's not asking for a fight."

"Kill 'em with kindness, right?"

Jake disappears again, and when he emerges he has his keys in one hand and an envelope in the other. He hands me the latter.

I wonder what Dad got developed.

"Was he sober?" I ask, tucking the envelope into my purse.

"Looked sober."

"You know that's not the definitive litmus test."

Jake snorts. "Well, I didn't sniff him, but he seemed all right."

I cock an eye. "I'm going to need you to sniff him next time."

"You're serious?"

"As an empty grave."



By the time we get to my place, Dad neither looks nor smells sober.

Neither does the kitchen.

"Dinner at my place?" Jake asks.

Dad's fallen asleep at the granite island. He's sitting on a barstool, his hefty upper body sprawled across the countertop, which is littered with beer bottles.