Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(5)

The Prince waits until the hall is free of the imp's clamor, his face a carved stone. When at last silence returns, he reaches out a near-perfect hand, placing it on Damien's eyes. Fear drips from the Prince's arm and onto Damien's chest, mingling with the thin coat of terror the Fallen always wear. With the lightest touch, the accuser of the brethren restores the demon's celestial vision.

A swift movement, and his hand is gone.

Damien's eyes snap open and the Prince watches him, awaits his response. Damien flinches, his large hands grip the sides of his head, and he wails in agony.

"Yes, Damien?" the Prince asks.

"You are . . ." His mind sputters. "You are beautiful."

The Prince's lips part in a specious smile. "But I will not forgive again."

A flick of his wrist brings a scimitar to the Prince's hand, its frostiness smoking. He slides it into the sheath at Damien's waist. "Bring them to me at Danakil, Damien. The girl who saw through the veil and the boy with hands like mine."

This order surprises Damien. "To Danakil?"

"You question me?"

Damien cowers now, his hands raised in surrender. "No, Lord Prince."

"If these two are as special as you say-if they bear angelic gifts-I should very much like to meet them myself. Give their . . . abilities . . . a little test."

The Prince's wings flutter softly and then snap open. Grace and force.

"If you fail, brother," he says, stepping into Damien's face, "the cavernous pit will be nothing compared to my rage."

Damien nods-a soldier ready for battle.

The Prince turns toward Maka. "Maka, are you ready to redeem yourself?"

There is something very, very wrong with the Prince of Darkness using the word redeem, but Maka stands tall, rising to the opportunity.

"I am. You know I am."

"Good, then."

The Prince's wings take him back to his throne, where he hovers high above. Damien and Maka look on, the assembly growing restless.

"Hear me, brothers." The Prince waits for silence. "Hear me! You who love freedom, arm yourselves. Prepare for battle."

Pearla's wings twitch as the Prince reaches his arms wide, his pale eyes roaming over hell's manic hoard.

"The Sabres have been released."

And like that, the chamber is a torrent of angry noise and skitter, of spastic movement, claws and wings and snarls. Pearla's mind is just as chaotic.

"Calm yourselves!" the Prince cries, and silence permeates the hall once again. "This is not the first time the veil has undergone attack. You remember, yes? The Sabres have torn through it before, but we repaired the damage. We were victorious. We will be victorious again."

The once-slow trickle of fear leaking from beneath the Prince's wing has spread, and now a waterfall of terror pours, hiding the bottom of both wings and covering the Prince's lower body in the black tar.

Now he looks like darkness's prince.

"The earth is mine. My domain. My veil. Mine to control. War is upon us."

The noise is raucous, but the anger is tinted with celebration now. Amidst the chaos, Maka draws near the throne.

"Where, Lord Prince? Where will the Sabres attack?"

A terrifying smile splits the Prince's face. "Can you not guess?"

Maka bows his head. He can guess, it seems, but his silence is nothing but an ache in Pearla's chest. The Prince turns his eyes to Damien.

"You have fourteen days, brother. Fourteen days to secure the boy and the girl. After that-hear me, brothers-after that, the first demon to bring either of them to Danakil will be rewarded. And you, Damien, will never again see beyond the chasm."

"Y-Yes, Lord Prince."

"General Maka, I am putting the Palatine under your command. Have you confidence in yourself?"

"Pride, my Prince. I will not fail."

"With ten thousand of my finest at your command, I don't imagine you will. A defeat of that magnitude would demand consequences of severity."

"I will. Not. Fail."

"That pleases me. What say you about our brother Damien and his task?"

"I say fourteen days is too long. Surely he can secure them in less time."

The Prince shakes fear from his wings. "It will take some days before your war band is ready, General."

But Maka's muscled form is taut. He's not satisfied. "And the Sabres?"

The Prince places a pale white hand on Maka's massive black shoulder. "Their progress will be slow, friend. I know them well, and they will not risk harming the humans. We have time. But, Damien," he says, rounding on the fallen one, "come that fourteenth day, I will send the Palatine into Stratus to destroy the work of the Sabres. And I will have my prize whether you bring it to me or not."

"Yes, Lord Prince."

"Make your arrangements, then. And, Damien, keep your new eyes open. I imagine our old friend Michael won't be long."

Damien's wings falter. "Light is already on the move?"

The Prince shrugs. "If not, they will be soon."

"My lord?"

The Prince's pale eyes search the cliffs. "You are not so naïve as to believe our walls don't have ears, are you?"

Maka and Damien turn, following the Prince's gaze.

"If their King doesn't tell them, their Cherub will."

Pearla's legs tense.

"But what does it matter?" the Prince says. "The skies over Stratus will be ravaged. The boy with hands like ours and the girl who sees will be brought to me, yes? And the veil-"

"Will be restored." This time it's Maka who answers.

"Good, General Maka. This matter is now in your hands. Now go."

Pearla doesn't need to be asked again. Up, up, up and through the rocks, through the very earth itself she flies. Toward the Commander and the only army capable of handling the deadly forces of the Palatine.                       
       
           



       4



Brielle





When I wake Sunday morning it's early. The sky's still black and my sheets are drenched with sweat. I take a raspy breath, but my chest feels tight, like my ribs are closing ranks. My heart presses against them, crowded.

It's the first nightmare I've had in months. The twilit morn paints smears of color on my wall. I stare at them, trying to remember the details, but everything's fuzzy.

A girl, her clothes torn, her skin burnt.

And fear. So much fear.

Shadows walk like men across my ceiling, and a shiver runs the length of my spine. The girl wasn't alone, but with my waking eyes I can't recall anything more. After another minute, I roll onto my stomach and press my hands beneath my pillow.

The halo's gone.

I reach for my side table, feeling with my fingers. I drop to the floor, my quilt tangled about my legs. My knee falls on something hard. Something hot. I feel it through the blanket. I must have knocked the halo to the floor. Before the nightmare or during? I don't know.

I shift and pull it from beneath my knee. There's not much light to be found, not much light for the halo to grab and reflect, but it seems to have found every bit of it. I slide it beneath my pillow and climb back onto the bed. The minute my head hits the pillow, colors swirl on the insides of my eyelids. Red and orange, blue and green, purple. Again and again, lulling, mesmerizing me until at last I'm asleep.

This time I don't dream.

But I don't sleep long either. A couple hours at most. When I wake, it's to the sound of the Beach Boys and the smell of bacon.

Dad's singing, which should really never happen. He drums dual spatulas on my quilt-covered bum for ninety-eight seconds solid before his rendition of "Surfer Girl" gets so bad I lose count. I curl into a ball, hoping to burrow through my mattress to a place where there are no singing, drumming lumberjacks.

But he's incorrigible.

"Stop drumming. Stop, stop, stop. I'll get up. I will. Hey! I will."

He ignores me, moving the spatulas down to the exposed soles of my feet, where they make a slapping sound. "Do you love me, do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl. Surfer girrrrlllll . . ."

"Please, please stop singing."

I throw the pillow over my head, but he continues on and I'm forced to plot his demise. My plan requires a well-aimed ninja-kick to distract him and catlike reflexes to grab the makeshift drumsticks. But he's fast for such a big guy, and the moment I throw my halfhearted kick, he's across the room, smiling at me from between the slots of a spatula.

"Mornin', baby," he says. "I made pancakes."

I shove the hair out of my face, trying to huff and puff, but I'm a sucker for pancakes.

"You know you want some."

I shove at the sheet and blanket, trying to find my legs. "Can I shower first?"

"Sure," he says, his red freckles brightened by his performance. "Made bacon too, but that's been disposed of." He taps the spatula against his brawny gut.

"That's all right," I say, finally freeing my right leg. "I've had more than enough ham this morning."

"Hardy har."

"Hardy har yourself. Now, out. Let me shower." Left leg's finally free. "And just so you know, I'll be mad at you until after I've had my first pancake. You put chocolate chips in them?"

"Nah, we ran out."

"Then I'll be mad until I've had at least two pancakes."