Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(35)

"Maybe you should head back to bed? It's still early, kid."

Damien slides down the wall and crouches in the entryway now. Massive shoulders, frayed wings, bulky arms with razor-sharp talons pressing into the linoleum flooring that Dad laid himself.

My father's huge, but this beast dwarfs him.

It seems he's willing to wait for a response, though, which baffles me. Will he hurt my father to get one? The thought makes my knees weak. Damien's just feet from Dad now, and I try to warn him, try to say anything, but my throat just gurgles.

Dad's brow knots.

Kaylee laughs, but it's forced, and still I can't take my eyes from the demon in my house.

"Your dad's totally right, Elle. You're a space cadet, and we have tons to do today. I'll get her to bed, Mr. Matthews. You go. We'll be fine."

But leaving me in Kaylee's "capable" hands does not calm Dad, and he walks toward me. He hefts the ice chest in one hand and takes my chin in the other.

"Tell me you're all right, baby."

I can't avoid his gaze now. He's there. Blocking everything else with his ruddy beard and his dripping hair. He looks cleaner, younger-the dad of my childhood almost-and for a moment I consider crawling into his arms, asking him to tell me there's no monster. That it's just my imagination. He would too. He'd tell me that. He'd do it just because I ask him to. Because I'm scared.

But it would be false.

Like the years of lies he told to protect me.

Like the one Jake told.

"I'm fine, Dad. Sorry. Kaylee's right. You should go. I'm fine."

I'm not fine, not by a long shot, but if Dad can lie to protect me, then I can return the favor.

He narrows his eyes at me, a bear scrutinizing his cub. At last he kisses my nose and pulls me in for a hug. "Sleep, okay? Let this little vegan-"

"Vegetarian."

"-take care of you. You've got me all freaked out here."

You're not the only one.

The door closes behind him with a hollow rattle, and Kaylee yanks me toward her.

"You've lost the privilege of deferring till the second half, Elle. Talk. Now. What is going on?"

I'm out of ideas, and nothing but the truth makes sense. So I open my mouth and I tell her. "There's a demon behind you," I say. "In the archway between the living room and the kitchen."

Her face goes white, her eyes shifting left and right.

"Demon, like that hot guy who used to be on Buffy but has that Bones show now? That kind of demon?"

"Nothing like that guy."

"Fiddlesticks," she breathes. She stands stick straight, the thin muscles in her neck taut. "What's he doing?"

"He's talking to me. Asking me about the Palatine."

"Wh-What are you going to tell him?"

"I'm going to tell him the truth. That I don't know anything about the Palatine. You hear me?" I yell toward Damien, "I don't know anything."

Kaylee flinches at my outburst.

Damien does not.

"But they're coming now?" His voice is acidic, chewing away at my courage. "The Palatine are coming?"

"I don't know," I say, frustrated. "Are you not hearing me? I don't know a thing."

"Do not lie to me, human. I heard you say, ‘The Palatine are coming,' and we still have days before that should happen. I still have days."

He is frightened.

Dear Jesus, please let this be the right thing to say.

Please, please.

"I was repeating Helene," I say. "That's all. Maybe she was wrong."

"Helene." Damien's face contorts at the word. I think he's smiling. He turns his face to the sky, his fangs flashing, reflecting some unseen celestial light. And then he leaps through the roof and I lose sight of him.

Which terrifies me more than seeing him.

Still, I breathe deep. The air feels cleaner without him here. Kaylee's grip is an anaconda on my wrist, her eyes glued to my face.

"Helene," she whispers. "And the warehouse." Tears clump in her hot-pink lashes.

I want to ask her what she remembers, what haunts her, but we'll have to play catch-up later.

"Listen, Kay. Look at me. Good. I can't see him now, but that doesn't mean he's gone."

Her lip trembles. "Why? Why can't you see him?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

"Why could you see him before?"

"That's another tough one to answer."

She's giving me that look. The same look I'm sure I gave Jake when he was struggling to explain. "Look, there are answers, Kay. Kind of. But we have to get hold of Jake. Now. Do you have your cell?"

Her mouth opens, and her eyes glaze over.

I grab her shoulders and shake. "Kay!"

"Yes. I'm sorry." She pinches her eyes shut and shakes her head. "My phone is in the car."

Outside. Ugh.

I look at the door like it's a mutinous traitor. The reality is we're not any safer here than we'd be outside. These walls, this roof over our heads-they offer nothing in the way of protection from invisible forces.

But I won't get separated from Kaylee. That would be a mistake. Damien knows I care about her, knows I wouldn't let her die. So to leave her without celestial eyes would be dangerous.

"Okay, then. Let's go." I step to the door and twist the handle. "You have your keys."

Kaylee pats down her pockets and pulls a bedazzled key ring out of her pajama pants.

I take her hand in mine and we run down the stairs and to her car. The day is warm and bright, a glorious northwest summer day, but there's a chill in my chest. I stay at Kaylee's side while she jams the key in the lock and flings open the door. She reaches inside and pulls out her phone, shoving it into my hands.

I fumble with her phone, but it's newer than mine, fancier, and I can't find Jake's number.

"Can you . . ."

She takes it from me and slides her finger along the screen. A few taps and the phone is ringing.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Pick up, pick up.

PICK. UP.                       
       
           



       30



Jake





The neon sign in the window says Open, but it's a lie. Two hours ago Jake climbed out of his car and shook the door handle. He succeeded only in dislodging the sign that declared the tattoo shop was open from eight to midnight daily. The clock hanging just inside the window says it's half past eight now, and still Evil Deeds is nothing but shadows and glare.

On its left is a hair salon-very girlie, very bright. Above the red brick storefront, a swirly sign in red and orange guarantees you'll love your locks when they're through with them. Something about the place screams Kaylee.

To the right of the tattoo shop is an awning with vibrant swatches of material decorating it. The sign above this door says New Age Books, but not a single book is visible from where Jake is standing. Through the window he can see display cases of candles and perfumes. Baskets of rocks and crystals line the front counter. The doors are thrown open, welcoming, beckoning morning shoppers. The smell of incense irritates his nose, and he steps sideways to avoid it.

As annoying as the incense is, the bookstore is far more welcoming than the dark hole of a tattoo shop next to it. Yet Jake stands in front of its windows staring at the artwork painted there. A snarling lion emerges from a heart styled of scrolling loops and curves. His heart feels an awful lot like a lion is trying to claw its way out of it, and as the minutes pass he develops a fascination for the artwork.

He reaches out a hand and runs it along the twisting lines merging with the lion's mane. If he can figure this out, figure out why the Throne Room sent him here, maybe he'll understand why they took the ring. Maybe, just maybe, it'll be enough to convince Brielle to hear him out.

In his back pocket is the picture of the tattoo-the one they found in the chest-but he doesn't need to pull it out to recognize just how similar the styling is to this. To this lion and its evil heart.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry."

Hurrying toward Jake from the south side of the street is a man wearing threadbare jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt with the sleeves shredded. A cigarette dangles from his lip, unlit, more decoration than anything else. He's easily in his fifties, but his gray hair is plastered into a series of little spikes and he's wearing thick black eyeliner. A chain of keys slaps against his thigh, making his approach sound like a chorus of bell-wielding children. His arms and neck bear hundreds of tattoos, his hands are decorated with an array of rings. Thick bands, silver skulls, gaudy gemstones.

He lifts the jangling keychain from his hip, finds the correct key with remarkable ease, and jams it into the lock. He spins the key around and thrusts himself into the building.

"Bike broke," he says by way of apology. "You here for some ink?"

The man drops his keys on the counter and tucks the cigarette behind his ear. He busies himself-flipping switches, turning on computers.

"Actually, I have a question," Jake says.

"Little early for pop quizzes, ain't it?" The man slides onto a barstool behind the counter and looks Jake in the eye for the first time. He must see something there he likes, because his demeanor softens. "Go ahead, kid. I'm just messing with ya."

Jake hesitates. The idea of knowing what this guy knows is suddenly terrifying. Still, he pulls the picture from his pocket and slides it across the counter.