Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(43)

"Are they gone?" Kaylee asks.

"For now." I grab her hand and pull her toward me.

"Is he . . ." But Kaylee's voice catches and she can't even finish the thought.

"He'll be okay," Jake says. "He's just lost some blood is all."

I have complete confidence in Jake's healing ability. What I don't have is an assurance that Dad won't murder Jake the minute he wakes.

"I told him, Jake. I told him about Canaan."

Jake looks at me, his face inscrutable. "How did he take it?"

"I don't really know. Damien's talon interrupted things."

"It's better that he knows," Kaylee says. "Way better. His head was super messed up about this whole thing. About your mom. Thinking Canaan had something to do with her disappearance. You had to tell him, Elle."

Jake bumps Kaylee with his shoulder. "Looks like this one knows too."

"No choice," I say, smiling at her. "She was here when Damien showed up. And Helene."

Helene! This is the first free moment I've had to consider her.

Kaylee seems to be thinking the same thing. "Do we know what happened to her?"

I shake my head.

"Don't worry about Helene," Jake says. "She's immortal. If she's hurt, she'll heal."

His hands are occupied, but I take his face in mine and I kiss him. Hard. It's awkward, with his hands still on Dad's shoulder, but he's warm and he's close, and I kiss him again.

"Oh, come on! Demons and make-out sessions? Unless you're getting me one of these," Kaylee says, gesturing to Jake, "save it for later."

"Fair enough," Jake says, blushing.

"Speak for yourself," I say, and press my lips to his once more.

"Barf," Kay says.

"Yeah, barf." It's Dad.

We jerk apart, but it's too late. His eyes are open, his mouth set in a frown.

"Sorry, Dad. I just . . ."

But he's moving his shoulder now. Jake's hands fall away, and Dad rotates his arm. He winces, pressing his fingers to the spot Damien's talon punctured.

"I'm not sure if it's done, sir," Jake says.

"Feels a heck of a lot better than it did before." He looks at Jake. I know that look. It's the same one he gets when he's trying to decide if he's going to eat his dinner steak rare, or bloody and mooing. "What did you do?"

Jake swallows. Audibly. "My hands can . . . God uses my hands to heal. Sometimes."

And just like that, Dad lets out a sob. Loud and awkward. He sniffs and jams his fist into his eyes, one at a time.

"Thought you said Canaan was the angel."

Jake is quick to speak. "I'm not an angel, sir."

"No?" Dad barks. "Then what are you?"

I slide my hand into Jake's. It's wet with Dad's blood, but it's warm. I squeeze, hoping to convey something encouraging.

"I'm human, sir. Like you. I just have a gift."

"And Hannah, my wife, is that what happened to her? Did she have a gift? Is that why they took her?"

With celestial eyes I see the waters of misery break over my dad. Murky and cold, they run from his scalp down his chest, puddling into the carpet around him. I didn't know my lungs could stretch so tight. Didn't know they could survive the weight of so much emotion. Of so much sadness.

"I wish I knew," Jake says. "I wish I had answers for you."

Dad blows out a puff of air, grumbling, cursing under his breath.

"Dad, I told you. Canaan and Jake don't know anything about Mom."

Dad rolls his shoulder again, his expression the fuming side of doubtful. I'm readying myself for an angry outburst, for a barrage of questions, when the room fills with music. Louder than I've ever heard it. It's everywhere. It's between us and under us. It dances around us. I see the tendrils of incense swirling about, see it wrap Kaylee and Dad tight, see them both gasp and blink and turn their heads left and right.

"Okay," Kaylee says. "I hear that."

"They both do," Jake says, mesmerized. "They both hear it."

And then from outside, Canaan calls.

"Jake! Brielle!" His voice is strained, desperate, and Jake pulls me to my feet.

Dad tries to stand, but he's still weak.

"Don't even think about it, Dad. You're hurt."

Dad's face is purple with the strain of trying to stand, but he's still stubborn. "You telling me what to do, baby?"

"Yes, I am." I shove him down, taking no satisfaction in watching him wince. "Kay, stay with him, please. Keep him here."

The last thing in the world I need is Dad getting attacked again.

She nods and Dad protests, but Jake's pulling me with him, and I turn my focus away. We run hand in hand out the front door and into the field and then we're standing next to Canaan, the three of us staring into the apple orchard behind the house.

"What is that?"

"Is that . . . ?"

"Do you . . . ?"

"How . . . ?"

Jake and I start to formulate questions, but our lips won't finish them. The orchard is on fire, but it's not burning. The trees, the mangled overgrown shrubs, the weeds protruding everywhere-it's all a bright red. Not the frightening bloodred of violence, not that terrifying crimson shade, but dazzling, luminous.

The music continues to swell, piping louder and louder. Violins and pianos. And voices, so many voices. Flutes and the deep swell of a bass. And I see the music. See it with celestial eyes, just as I saw it in the house. Curling ribbons of worship in color after color, wrapping the orchard and then rising above it higher and higher until it disappears into the army of death above.

The blood racing through my veins turns hot with desire. I want to touch it, to be part of whatever is making the orchard flame. I want to be inside those trees, inside that life.

I release Jake's hand and I run, flying through the grass, dropping down onto the orchard floor. I shove aside branches, needing to find the source. My hair catches on a limb, but I press forward, ignoring the pain tearing at my scalp. The fragrance of worship surrounds me: flowers and fruit, salty sunlight and the smell of Gram's front yard. It's all so familiar, so achingly familiar.

And then Jake is next to me. I smell the coffee on his skin, the sugar of his touch as it brushes my shoulder.

Sweat pours down my arms, down my back. "This isn't the Celestial, is it?"

"I don't know," he says, looking around. "I don't know what it is."

I look at his face, at his eyes. He's on overload trying to take it all in, as confused as I am.

"The Terrestrial veil is thinning," Canaan says. "Here, in Stratus, as it did on the mountaintops above. They're doing it slowly, carefully."

Jake and I turn at his approach. He steps off the grass and onto the orchard floor. As he walks toward us, flickers of his celestial self come into view. A thread of light wrapping his waist and then disappearing. A white wing there and then gone. His eyes, silver then white, then silver again. One half of his face yellow with a celestial glow, and then fading again to the olive of his human form.

"What does that mean?" Jake asks.

"It means that if the Sabres continue to do their job, if they're not stopped by the army above, eventually the veil will tear."

"Is that good or bad?" I ask, the thought both wonderful and terrible in my mind.

And then for the briefest of seconds I see Canaan in his full celestial regalia: alabaster wings, cords of light that wrap his legs and waist, his feet and chest bare, his silver hair floating on waves of celestial heat. The red orchard surrounding us is glorious, but it's nothing to his beauty.

He smiles. "Wasn't it Hamlet who said, ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so'?"

I turn my eyes back to the trees-back to the red, mottled trees-and I try to understand what Canaan's just said. He helps me.

"For the man drowning, rain is only another helping of tragedy, Elle, but to the man on fire, that same rain is the last hope he has."

Proverbial truth. An orchard on fire. Fragrance and music. Light and life. My senses are on overload. What will happen if this veil actually tears? What will happen to those who don't understand? To those who do?

My heart hammers my ribs, the thud-thud of it quivering outward from my chest, filling my arms, my legs, my neck and face. And then I realize it isn't my heart. It's the sound of drums.

"Do you hear that?" I ask Jake.

He shakes his head, and I turn my eyes to Canaan. His head is cocked, the intensity of his gaze tells me I'm not alone in what I hear.

"What is it, Canaan?"

He listens for a moment more and then stands taller.

"The drums of war," he says. "The Palatine attack."

I turn my eyes to the sky but I can't see past the trees. Can't see past the beauty, and that terrifies me. I'm claustrophobic, panicky. What does this attack mean for my dad? For Kaylee? How will they fight? They don't have a song.

Canaan strides toward us, and Jake's hand finds mine. Canaan steps behind us, but he does not cloak us, he does not take us into the safety of his wings. He remains in his human form, a hand on both our shoulders, and together we listen.

The drums are closer now, and I hear strange, violent voices. Like animals. Like angry, raging animals, they approach. I step closer to Jake, squeeze his hand tighter.

And then Jake is quoting Scripture. "He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; my God, in Him I will trust.'"