Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (18 page)
Dad’s pancakes are all soggy now. The entire stack stares at me, begging me to forgive him for a lie that’s stretched my entire lifetime. I’m tempted to take the plate and slam it against the
floor, against the wall. I’m tempted to make a statement, to show him how mad I really am.
But I don’t do mad well. I’m a crier and I know it.
I do slam the door on my way out. That’s about all the violence I have in me.
P
earla crouches atop a roof on Main Street. Below her, in the recessed entryway, is her mark.
Damien.
She’s been following him for hours, waiting for him to do something, anything worth reporting to Michael. He’s taken his human form now. Tall, olive skin, dark eyes. He leans against the wall, staring at the empty street.
It took her some days to locate him. His new eyes spotted her at once and she had to lie low for a time, but today she’s managed to stay hidden, discreet. Still, he’s done little to merit report.
His first stop was a farmhouse skirting the highway. He circled once and dropped through the roof. She watched as he strolled the house, his black wings brushing everything with fear. Down the hall he went and into a bedroom.
She knew right away that a Shield had made his home here. She could tell that by the onyx chest in the dwelling place. That Damien would enter a Shield’s residence showed a reckless disregard, and Pearla wondered then just how much stock he was putting in those new eyes.
At first Damien ignored the chest. He walked the house,
sniffing each room, leaking fear onto the furniture. But before departing, he re-entered the Shield’s room and glared at the chest. He hacked at it with his talons, beat it with his wings. He attempted to pick it up, but the chest would not move.
Finally he crouched before it, and with taloned fingers he lifted the lid.
Pearla clung to the roof, out of sight, amazed that the Throne Room would give up its secrets to one of the Fallen. She watched as he lifted a dagger from its depths. Watched as he opened his mouth and howled with delight. And then watched as his face turned hard. He tried to take the dagger, tried to slide it next to the curved sword at his waist, but the moment he sheathed it, the dagger vanished. Damien cursed as, with a heavy
clunk
, it rematerialized in the chest below. He tried again to retrieve the dagger. And once more the weapon would not be removed. In a fit of rage he left the house, flying past her, his mouth screaming hate.
Pearla doesn’t understand the demon’s actions, doesn’t understand the significance of the dagger, but it’s the one piece of information she has to report, so she tucks it away for her rendezvous with the Commander.
Soft footsteps pull her attention back to her mark. A woman approaches, crossing the street and stepping into the entryway next to Damien.
His human voice is low, threatening. “You came highly recommended.”
Fear presses through the woman’s satin shirt, but her voice is steady when she speaks. “So you said.”
Damien steps closer. “I’m reminding you because I’ve yet to see progress, and my fingers are just itching to send that e-mail.”
“Oh, stop. I’ll get it. Things take time.” She turns to go.
“You’re stalling,” he growls, yanking her back into the doorway.
The fear multiplies, but Pearla’s impressed by the woman’s ability to sound unmoved. “And why would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” Damien’s eyes rove her face. He really doesn’t know, and Pearla can see that bothers him. “But you being here, in Stratus, now, seems far too convenient.”
She pokes at his chest with a long fingernail. “You didn’t care where I was when you found me. You just wanted that bracelet. And I’ll get it.”
He pushes her back against the wall, a massive forearm to her throat. “Why Stratus?”
“The bracelet is here, right?” she says, her throat scratching for air. “Why does it matter?”
He releases her, but not before pressing her into the wall once more. “You had ties here before. Your work predates our arrangement.”
“You’re blackmailing me. That’s not really an arrangement.”
His hands curl into meaty fists. “You’re not answering me.”
“Look, the foundation has to do actual work from time to time. We can’t just continue to funnel money into Henry’s addictions. When Javan disappeared, that became possible again. And the girl . . .”
“Brielle?”
“Oh, please. Kaylee. She intrigued me. She’s smart. A fast learner. We could use someone like that at the foundation.”
Damien scowls. “That’s it? Your interest in Stratus is a gangly teenager?”
“Yes. Like you, I’m looking for a protégé.” Her words are delivered with precision. “Why would I lie to you?”
“You wouldn’t, because one rogue e-mail to the authorities and you’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in a jail cell.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear. What you haven’t made clear is exactly why you want the girl’s bracelet.”
“Collateral.”
She steps into him, running her fingernail along his chin. “That’s a big word for a bad man. Are you sure you know what it means?”
Again he pushes her back. “Watch your tongue. We’re running out of time, and I need time to test it before . . .”
“Before what?” Her almond-shaped eyes narrow. “What else do you have planned?”
“Just get it. And keep your phone on. I don’t like having to find you.”
“We done?” she asks.
Damien shoos the woman away. Fear covers her body, but she moves as if she’s used to the substance, worn it often, made friends with it. With hardly a tremble in her step, she leaves the entryway and turns right, her high-heeled shoes taking her away from Damien.
He watches her go and then steps from the curb and strolls down the center of Main Street. His swagger says Stratus is his for the taking. But Pearla can’t stop thinking about the bracelet that seems to have captured his imagination.
What does he want with it?
And why didn’t he tell the Prince he had other plans?
D
ad is cursing when I step out of the shower Monday morning. I hear his voice through the bathroom door, hear the hurt in his words, the anger, the hangover.
I wrap a towel around myself and slide down the wall, listening. Sheriff Cahill’s trying to calm him. “We don’t know. We just don’t know, Keith.”
Dad curses. Again. “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s been a day now, you should know something.”
“Well, we do know there were . . . explosives involved.”
“Explosives? Like firecrackers, that sort of thing?”
There’s a long pause, and I press closer to the door, imagine the sheriff taking off his hat, scratching his head. “Maybe,” he says. “I guess it coulda been firecrackers.”
He can’t believe that. I
know
what he saw, and it wasn’t a souped-up Roman candle.
But I wonder how his mind assimilated the Sabre, how much it shrouded what he saw in doubt. Virtue was more light than anything else that night. Still . . .
I put my ear to the door. I’d like to get dressed, but after
my dramatic exit yesterday, I really don’t want to talk to these two again. They can’t talk long anyway. Dad’s got work, and the sheriff’s obviously got an investigation to conduct. But I hear nothing to suggest they’re leaving. I dry my hair, and still I hear only their low voices and their feet bumping across the linoleum floor.
And then I realize they’re waiting on me.
They want to talk.
What else could they possibly have to say?
I yank my pajamas on, one leg at a time, and then I climb into the shower and pop the window out with my elbow. A trick Kaylee taught me freshman year. Squeezing through is considerably more difficult than it was back then, but I pull myself through the tiny window and onto the row of trash cans Dad keeps on the side of the house. I knock the recyclables over and scratch my knee on the stucco, but I make it out.
I round the house and grab my own window, still cracked. I shove it all the way open and half climb, half tumble inside.
“Brielle?” Dad’s muffled voice carries through the door. “You ’bout done in there?”
I freeze, a weird bundle on the floor, and I listen.
“Brielle?” He’s knocking, but he’s still at the bathroom. I strip off my pajamas and rifle through my drawer for a pair of underwear. There’s a red sundress draped over my hamper. I pull it on over the underwear, grab my sandals, and cram the wretched halo onto my wrist before jumping out my window and running across the field that separates my house from Jake’s.
If running away from your problems is ever acceptable, it’s right now. It’s this moment.
The fact that I’ve become an imposter in my own house—that
I’ll do anything to avoid talking to my dad—hits me. The halo sends waves of heat up my arm, but it’s not enough to end the battle tearing my insides apart. Still, I don’t really lose it until I’m at Jake’s, standing in his empty living room.
“Hello?” I yell. “Jake? Canaan?”
But no one answers.
Hating the darkness, I march through the house turning on every light. My fist slams into the switches down the hall and in the office. The walls rattle, and I release a laughing sob at the stupid sense of power it gives me. When I reach Canaan’s room, I pause. It’s empty. Marco’s bag is tipped haphazardly on the bed, but I don’t waste much time staring at the bed. It’s the chest at the end of it that seems to always have half my attention these days.
Really it’s the ring inside.
The hope of a happily-ever-after.
And I want to feel better right now.
But I want to be mad too.
I don’t want to hurt, but I want to nurse the anger a little longer.
I can feel the halo doing its thing, thawing me, calming me.
I’m half-tempted to yank it off. To give in to the frustration. Just for a while. Because this warring sensation in my gut sucks.
The wanting to be angry.
The needing to know what happened to my mom. The wanting to forget. The desire for it all to go away.
And the whole time the halo reminds me that there’s something else going on. What I see isn’t always what is. It’s certainly not all of it.
I tip my hand and shake the halo off my wrist. It reforms into the crown—the crown given to Canaan by God the Father.
For refusing to join Lucifer’s rebellion. For staying when so many left.
The risk of sleep is nil, so I place it on my head.
Canaan’s room gives off rays of light here and there, the transition slow. And then the light swallows me. So bright, so real. And as much as I hate to admit it, the sadness wanes and my anger at Dad dims. But I still don’t want to see him, so I’m careful at what I look at, at how much focus I give the walls.
I like walls right now. I need them to keep unwanted sights from my eyes.
And yet it’s been months since I’ve looked inside the chest. Months since I’ve seen the ring that’s to be mine.
I turn my gaze on the chest and focus.
But nothing.
The sides don’t thin out, they don’t become transparent like every other surface when focused upon. I try harder, stepping closer to the chest.
Zip.
Zilch.
Strange.
I move toward the chest, slowly, very aware that this is not my room. But I’m trying to understand. The chest was given to Canaan by the Throne Room. Does that mean it’s impenetrable?
I kneel and place my hands on the lid, lifting and shoving at the same time. The smell of wet grass and spicy evergreens wafts from within, and for the first time in forever I look forward to the autumn. To cooler weather.
“Hey!” a voice calls from the living room. “Anybody here?”
It’s Marco.
Shoot.
I slide the lid shut and yank the halo from my head. I stare at it, willing it to move faster.
Come on!
As soon as it’s reformed, I jam it onto my wrist and head for the door.
“Yo, intruder?” Marco calls again. “You left the door open, and I’m a paranoid ex-con. I’d answer if I were you. You don’t want me going psycho on your—”
“Yeah, Marco,” I yell. “It’s just me. I’m here.”
“Brielle?” he says, his voice closer.
We meet in the hallway near the office door.
“It’s me,” I say. “And you’re not an ex-con.”
“Tell that to the talking heads.”
“Yeah, well, it seems truth depends on who’s holding all the facts these days.”
He looks at me through waves of black hair. “Jake told me about your mom, er, her grave. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” I step past Marco and into the kitchen.
“You really think your dad buried an empty casket?”
I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “He did. Told me he did, anyway. You want?” I say, offering Marco the bottle in my hand.
He takes it and sits at the kitchen table. “Why would he do that?”
I shrug. I don’t want to give Dad’s excuses credence by bantering them about.
“You not talking to him?”
I take a swig. “Jumped out the window instead.”
“Ah. Jail break.” Marco removes the lid from his water bottle and spins it on the table. It spins, spins, spins—longer than I
would have thought possible, his long fingers nudging it as it slows. “Been there. Done that.”
“Any advice for a first-timer?”
He stops the lid with his palm.
“Nah. Well, just that sooner or later you have to face the music. But you know that. And your dad’s a good guy. Can’t hold his alcohol, but he’s a good guy. I’m sure there’s some kind of explanation.”
It’s different talking to Marco. He doesn’t try to fix me.
He twists the lid again and I watch it spin, thinking about the barbecue, about Marco’s first impression of my dad—that he’s a good guy. How could he possibly have arrived at that conclusion after the drunkard Dad turned out to be?
“You and Olivia went to school together?”
“Yeah, Benson Elementary. I haven’t seen her in years. She had it rough back then. Rougher than I did, at least, and that’s saying something.”
Despite my dislike for the woman, I’m curious. “Her parents split up?”
