Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(40)

It's cold. So very cold. My eyes glaze over at the assault, and the room crystallizes before me-everything chilled, everything locked in ice.

"There are things even white eyes can't overlook," he says. "Humans don't stay where they're not wanted. And your father's made it clear Jake's not wanted here. He'll leave you. One day, he will."

A hot, round tear spills over my lashes and races down my cheek. The crystals dissolve. The room is bright and alive again. Still I say nothing.

"Oh, she knows where to find him," Damien says. "I'm certain of it."

"She doesn't, though," Kaylee says. I want to clamp a hand over her mouth, keep her quiet. Keep her invisible to Damien, but his crocodile eyes settle on her. "Check the phone," she says. "The one you took from me."

His eyes are slits now, disbelief narrowing them.

"Dude, just check the phone!" Her voice is shrill, agitated. "We've been trying to get ahold of him. He hasn't . . . hasn't been answering."

He pulls Kaylee's phone from his pocket and throws it at her. "Show me."

Her deft fingers scroll and click. "Here," she says, shoving it at him. "I told you."

Damien takes the phone and reads. His face is unreadable. Is he angry? Is he scared?

And then it vibrates. The phone in his hand. Kaylee's phone.

We gasp as one.

"One new message," Damien says.

He presses the face with his gigantic index finger.

And then he smiles. Those white teeth glare back at us. "It seems your boyfriend's on his way, Brielle. These things are good to know."

"You can't . . . don't . . ." The words are jumbled on my tongue.

"Oh, I can," Damien says. "And I'll enjoy it."

Dad's off the couch and on top of Damien before I can move-before the demon realizes what's happening. Kaylee and I scream. We grab for Dad, his shoulders, his shirt, but Damien's faster than both of us. And he's stronger. He leans back, his hands buried in Dad's chest, and throws all two hundred and fifty pounds of him over his head and into the television. I'm sure there's a crash, some kind of loud collision, but the world goes silent and all I hear is that singing again.

My eyes are on Dad, on the mass of electronics and denim, but I don't move. I can't. Kaylee's there now, at his side, and I'm grateful because I can't move. I'm paralyzed by the Sabres' song. So much louder. So much closer than I've ever heard it.

And it seems I'm not the only one. Damien stands to his feet, blocking my view of Dad. His head is cocked, his dead eyes boring into mine.

We stare at one another and we listen.

Eight . . . nine . . . ten seconds of heart-stirring melody. And then Damien's eyes open wide-wider than I've ever seen them-and he vanishes.

"Brielle!" Kaylee's voice breaks through the music and brings me back to the living room. "Brielle!"

She's trying to heft the television off Dad, but she's nowhere near strong enough. I slide to my knees at her side, and we lift the television off his chest and onto the floor. Dad lies faceup, unconscious, his forehead bleeding onto the blue carpet. I press my ear to his mouth-he's breathing-and to his chest-heart's beating. Other than the gash on his head, he seems okay.

I grab my favorite quilt off the ottoman and press the corner of it to his wound.

"Here," I tell Kaylee. "Hold this."

She does, her hands remarkably still after what we've just seen.

I stand and turn my eyes to the ceiling.

"Are you okay?" I ask her.

"No," she says. "But if we get out of this, I'm so going to church with you on Sunday."

I laugh, a bizarre vibration that seems to erupt from my throat, but in my frustration it dies quickly.

"Where did he go?" Kaylee asks, her head whipping around.

"I don't know."

Try as I may, I can't see through the ceiling.

Why can't I control this angel eyes thing?

I scan the house, looking high and low, but there's no sign of the Celestial in here. Even the sludge of fear on Kaylee's face has disappeared from sight.

"I'll be right back," I say, diving over Dad and out the front door.

I stumble into the clearing between Jake's house and mine. The sun kisses my neck and face, thawing my skin. The smells of hot pine and mowed grass tickle my nostrils as I turn my eyes here and there praying for celestial sight, for something to indicate where Damien went and what he's up to.

And that's when a thousand daggers come tumbling toward me.                       
       
           



       36



Jake





I'm going after her," Jake says.

He and Canaan are about a half mile from the cemetery, just outside the border of Stratus, surrounded by redwoods and pines. Canaan's taken on his human form beneath the dense covering of trees. The branches are full with summer life, pressing against their backs, pushing them closer to one another as they speak.

"You'll be walking into a trap, Jake. Damien wants you both. He'll keep her there as bait. He knows you won't leave her."

Jake speaks through clenched teeth. "He's right."

"And what then? He takes you both to Danakil? To the Prince?"

"We'll be together," Jake says, his voice catching. "That's what matters."

"No," Canaan counters, "that's not what matters. Your souls matter. Proximity makes you easier to use against one another. Makes your will pliable, your heart emotional, your flesh weak."

"Then what? What do we do?"

"You do nothing. You wait. I'll go. I'll get Brielle out of Stratus."

Jake shakes his head. "You're a much bigger, much brighter target than I am. I can get in and out . . ."

"You might be able to get in, Jake, but with Damien there, you're not getting out."

Jake's jaw snaps shut.

"I can help." A tiny girl appears next to them on the forest floor. Black skin, black hair knotted at her neck, bright brown eyes. She looks no more than eight years old. A dark orange cloth is tied at one shoulder and hangs to her knees. Her feet are bare.

"Pearla, yes?" Canaan says, kneeling before her. "The Commander's Cherub?"

"Yes, sir, I am, and I've been sent to help."

Jake's open to anything right now. Anything except standing here talking.

"Go ahead, Pearla," he says. "Tell us."

"Your charge is right, Canaan; you're far too bright to enter unnoticed."

"Do you believe the Palatine will abandon their posts to attack a single Shield?"

"It's possible. The Palatine are vicious fighters, but they aren't known for their ability to follow commands. But more to the point is that they've been given incentive to capture Jake or the girl themselves. The Prince has promised a reward."

Jake's heart flips.

"General Maka's made it clear that the Sabres are their first priority, so while he won't command the legion to pursue a single Shield, you may attract the attention of a few who are more interested in reward than fearful of General Maka's wrath."

"Fair assessment, little Cherub."

"The Prince wants Jake. Wants Brielle. But he did not send the Palatine for that task. They are here to ensure the Sabres do not succeed."

"So your plan, Pearla?"

"I suggest you both enter, but in your human form, Canaan. That way your entrance will not be so conspicuous."

"My celestial form won't be hidden entirely from the eyes of the Fallen."

"No," she says, "but you'll have a chance-a much better chance-that way. I'll stay near, in the Celestial. I'll warn you if there's anything to fear."

"Won't they see you?" Jake asks.

"Not if I'm careful. I'm created for such purposes. Darkness was given to me as a gift, and the Fallen often mistake me for one of their own."

"But your eyes . . . ," Jake says.

"Will give me away if I'm not careful."

"So . . ."

"So, I'll be careful."

So matter-of-fact. So light. So carefree. Her plan, her presence fill Jake with confidence.

"This will work," he says, standing.

It's a long second before Canaan joins him. "It could."

"We have to try!"

"Okay," Canaan says, his hand on Jake's chest, his eyes on Pearla. "Let's do it. Let's try."                       
       
           



       37



Brielle





I dive to the ground, my palms scratching against the rough grass, my check pressed to a pinecone. And that's when I hear the music. It crawls in through my ears, but it doesn't settle there. It moves through my body, through the invisible spirit part of it. It's a wave that moves over every part of me, pulling me into myself and out of myself.

I long to stand. I long to stretch my limbs and dance to this song, to worship with my arms and my legs, with my whole body. I'm on the verge of giving into this craving when the memory of a single dagger slicing through my chest floats to the surface of my mind. It hangs there, terrifying me, keeping me frozen. The idea of a thousand daggers is enough to keep me huddled on the grass a moment longer.

Maybe many moments longer.