Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (25 page)
“What happened?” I ask.
Kaylee’s slippers purr along the linoleum, and two Tasmanian Devils move into my line of sight. “Okay, that didn’t sound like
a rhetorical question, but let’s just say I’m a little short on details myself.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Kaylee’s hands find my shoulders, and she pulls me to my feet. She doesn’t stumble, she doesn’t stutter. She looks at me with those gigantic brown eyes of hers and says, “I’ll tell
you
if you’ll tell me.”
Her eyes are a little too knowing, her lips a little too tight. And I understand that this is that moment. The one Canaan said would come.
The mind can’t be forced.
But now she’s asking.
“Are you sure you want to know, Kay? ’Cause once you do, you can’t unknow. It’s just . . . infuriating like that.”
“Infuriating like a halo that gives mysterious boys visions of you dying?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just like that.”
“Then yeah. I think I can handle it.”
“
This
is my lunch?” Dad stands in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at the contents of his lunch littering the floor, but I’m still staring at Kaylee. Still considering her words. She did handle the halo far better than I expected.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” Dad says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad kneel to the floor and start scooping his lunch back into the ice chest. “It’s not okay.”
“Okay,” Kaylee says with a nod.
“I just, I’ve got to do something first.” But even as I say it, I have no idea what I’m going to do.
Damien’s out there.
And the Palatine.
Whatever the heck that is.
Maybe it’s good. Maybe I want the Palatine here.
Jake would know.
But he’s gone and I have no idea where I left my phone.
I stare through the entryway into the living room. I stare at the landline phone sitting next to Dad’s recliner and I try to conjure up Jake’s number, but all I come up with is speed dial 5.
Speed dial 5.
So
not helpful.
All of this flies through my head in a matter of seconds, and then I see Damien.
Yes, Damien.
His talons appear first. They wrap around the entryway between the living room and the kitchen. He’s taken some damage during his fight with Helene and bears a series of festering sear marks across his arms and chest.
Still, he’s lethal. And I have no idea how long I’ll be able to see him.
My hands shake. And my legs.
My stomach roils, and I know I’m going to be sick.
God, are You there?
Please, please help me.
A bead of subzero sweat rolls down my spine, and it’s not God who answers. It’s Damien.
His voice snakes into my head, and it’s not melodic like Helene’s or soothing like Canaan’s. It’s gritty and toxic and cold.
“The Palatine are coming? Now?”
He’s
asking
me
?
I don’t nod. I don’t answer.
Why is he asking me?
I try to look away, but his presence in my house is jarring.
His chest is slick with fear. It blackens his talons further and pours liberally down my walls.
Is he frightened? Or does he just produce the stuff in vast quantities?
If the idea of the Palatine in Stratus frightens him, maybe they’re on my side. Maybe their presence will send him to the skies.
“Brielle, baby, are you okay?” It’s Dad, and I don’t know what to say. He stands and closes the ice chest. “Brielle?”
Kaylee takes my hand and tugs. Her breath flutters the hair at my ear as she hisses, “You’re doing it again.”
I break eye contact with the monster and look at my dad.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, trying to smile. “Just a little out of sorts, I guess.”
“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.
T
he 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.
“You know this?”
The guy picks it up and swears. “Where’d you get this, kid?”
“So you know it?”
“Sure, I know it. I did it, didn’t I? Haven’t seen this in forever.”
“Can you tell me who it is?”
“Doctor Doom,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
He laughs again. It’s weaselly, this man’s laugh. Kind of shrill, kind of devious. But his face is kind.
“Doctor Doom, ha! Yeah, that’s what we called him.” He taps the corner of the picture against his lip. “What
was
his real name? Bud, maybe? Billy? I don’t know. It’s been too long now. Don’t rightly remember.”
Brian
, Jake thinks.
If it’s my dad, his first name was Brian.
Jake’s lips have never felt so dry. He licks them, and then once more before he asks, “Do you know his last name?”
“Nah. Just Doom, you know? He was Doom to those of us around here.”
