Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(33)

I can't go with him. We both know that. Not with my dad so unstable and the possibility that Marco could return.

"I'd rather you stay too."

My heart bangs in my chest at his closeness, at the heat between us, at the promise of a future together. I think it's trying to break through-my heart-trying to be closer to the man in front of me.

I know just how it feels.

Close just doesn't seem close enough anymore.

It's another few minutes before he moves, but it's still far too soon.

He grazes my bottom lip with his thumb. "I'm going to go throw a few things in my bag."

"Marco's bag, you mean?"

"Yeah, Marco's bag."

He kisses me lightly and leaves me leaning against the kitchen counter. I'm still standing there holding the photo when he crosses the hall with Marco's bag and heads to his room.

I follow him down the hall, wanting to savor the last few minutes before he leaves. I'd help him pack, but I can't ever find a thing in his room. Still, I can sit in the mess and watch.

I pass Canaan's room, and that woodsy, outdoor smell tickles my nose. I stop and take two steps backward. It's coming from the chest. Jake must've left the lid ajar. I step into the room and take the five and a half steps necessary to reach the end of the bed.

I look down, but the chest's not open.

Huh.

Still, the fragrance is stronger than ever before, and an overwhelming need to see inside the thing pulls me to my knees. My hands are slick with sweat, so I rub them on my shorts before I shove the lid to the ground.

The first time I had the lead in a ballet was when I was eight years old. I was confident, bordering on cocky, really, and I had zero fear. But when that spotlight hit me and the world faded to black, when I could see nothing beyond that small circle, the terror crept in.

Just as it's doing now.

There is nothing beyond this circle of fear. Nothing in the world but me and Damien's dagger-Damien's bloody dagger-and the unmistakable absence of a sterling silver jewelry box.

A jewelry box with my initials on it.

With my . . . my ring inside it.

Tremors shake my body, but I reach inside the black chest. I wrap my hand around the dagger and lift it.

And I see with celestial eyes. But just the fear. It curls down my arm in chilling lines of black dread.

"I can explain," Jake says.

"Where's the ring?" I ask, biting my lip to keep it from trembling.

"Elle . . ."

"Where's the ring?"

There's so much fear in the room. It drips from Jake and crawls toward me, and I know the answer before he's said it.

"It's gone."

I drop the dagger. It falls into the chest, but I don't hear it hit the bottom. I hear nothing but the rushing of blood in my ears, the thundering of my own heart.

It's gone.

Like the halo. Like Marco.

Like Ali.

Like my mom.

Like her body.

So this is what he's been hiding. This is what has fear nesting in his heart.

"When?" I ask.

"December."

Just after the warehouse, then. I shove away from the chest and draw my knees up under my chin.

"You've been lying to me for seven months?"

"I haven't lied . . ."

"Don't even . . . ," I say, staring at him with every bit of vehemence I can muster.

"Elle," he says, bravely stepping toward me.

"‘I haven't lied,'" I mock, doing an awful impression of Jake. "And my dad didn't actually say that my mother was in the casket he buried either. But I assumed. We've talked about it, Jake! About the ring. About . . . us. I believed you."

"I should have told you."

Understatement. Of. The. Year.

"And the dagger?"

"I noticed it the same day the ring disappeared."

I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest. Before I can stop them, tears roll down my cheeks.

"I didn't know things could disappear from the chest."

Jake kneels in front of me and takes my face in his hands. "Neither did I. Neither did Canaan."

I let myself sob. I shouldn't. I should be strong. But I'm so tired of being strong.

"What does it mean?"

He doesn't answer right away, and I pinch my eyes shut, willing him to speak. These quiet, thoughtful moments of his drive me crazy sometimes. But when I open my eyes, I see the fear. With celestial eyes I see it. Crawling like a train of conjoined ants from my chin, up his arm, and across his chest.

I've unleashed fear on him.

And I hate myself for it. But he lied to me.

Jake lied to me.

"I don't know," Jake says. "I don't know what it means. Nothing, I hope."

"It has to mean something," I say.

"I just hoped they'd put it back. The Thrones. That whatever we'd done or didn't do would somehow get undone, and when I opened the chest one day the ring would be right there where it belongs."

"Is that possible?" I ask, my mind reeling at the thought. "Did we do something to . . . change the Throne Room's mind?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice raw. "And I hate not knowing."

I see the truth of it in his eyes. How much he hates that he can't fix this.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry," he says. "I didn't want you to be afraid."

I take a breath. Deep and rattling.

"But I am. I am afraid. Every day. And now I know you can lie to me. You. The one person I thought would never mess with my emotions."

"I didn't mean-"

"But you did. The truth is supposed to set you free, right? Isn't that what you told me?"

He's crying now, his face red, his eyes pleading. But he's broken me, and I don't know how to undo that. How do I trust him when I know he can lie so easily? So expertly.

I stand, needing to move, needing to shake the fear from my body.

"All you had to do was tell the truth, Jake. That the Thrones made a mistake. That God changed His mind. That we don't get a happily-ever-after."

"It may not mean that."

"I think it does. And so do you. Because if you didn't, you would have told me."

I want him to have an answer. I need him to. But the only thing pouring from Jake is fear, and I have enough of my own to deal with.

I leave him there on the floor and walk out the door with the tattered remains of my heart. I may never piece it all back together, but I don't have to give it to a liar either.

It's mine. And I'll take it with me.                       
       
           



       28



Brielle





The remnants of a nightmare tumble around in my brain when I wake the next morning, but it's not the girl I think of. Not Olivia. I think of Jake-of the fear spilling onto the floor and the tears falling from his eyes. I think of all the angry words I threw at him last night and crawl back under the covers.

The ring is gone.

And Damien's dagger . . .

Why would the Throne Room send that? Why?

It's a warning, it has to be. Like the halo flaming at Olivia's touch, the dagger is a terrible warning. And Jake's kept it from me for . . . well, for far too long.

And now Damien's here, in Stratus. I know he is. The strange flashes I've been getting of the Celestial, Damien behind me on Main, fingers dragging through my hair. How could he have gotten that close?

I kick the covers off the bed and reach for my phone. Where is my phone? It's not on my bedside table. Not on my windowsill. I drop to the floor and search under my bed, under the desk, in last night's pants.

I need to call Helene.

"Elle!"

Dad is yelling, pounding around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, banging down cups or bowls or . . . hammers on the counter.

I'll use his phone.

"Elle, you up?"

"Yeah, Dad. Be there in a sec!" I rummage through my drawers, coming up with a pair of black shorts and a slouchy tank I'd worn once for a photo shoot. It's wrinkled from my poor treatment of it, but I feel more pulled together, more in control now that I'm out of my jammies and wearing something that was designed with such care.

Like me.

I run my hands over my stomach, willing it to unclench.

I'm fine. I am. If Damien had wanted me he could have had me. I was there for the taking. I close my eyes and breathe. I think of Canaan and Helene. I think of the Sabres, whose presence I hear from time to time.

There are more fighting for me than those fighting against.

I think of Jake. How can I not? He's the one who introduced me to this world, but thinking of him makes my hands shake, so I shove that thought aside and walk to the kitchen. I'm not going to panic. I'm not going to freak out my dad. I'm going to find a phone and call Helene.

But one sight of Dad and I remember I'm fighting battles on multiple fronts.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He looks like death. He hasn't shaved in ages, his face pale and frantic, his hair greasy and matted in thick patches.

"Making my lunch," he says. "What's it look like I'm doing?"

"Remodeling?"

"Can't find my lunch box. You know where it is?"

I step closer, squinting at him through sleep-crusted eyes.

"Are you sober?" I ask.

"What kind of question is that?"

"A logical one."

"Yes, smarty-pants, I am sober." He leans against the fridge, both hands pressing into it. "I'm a little hungover, maybe, but I'm sober."

I stare at him for a few more seconds, and pity gets the better of me.