Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (3 page)

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Again, I can’t thank you all enough for coming. So many of you helped get this place open again. You donated your time to teach workshops. You helped sandbag the place when the rains got to be too much. And then, when it looked like safety concerns were going to shut us down, Miss Holt stepped in and kept the dream alive.”

The room fills with applause. Olivia smiles and waves it off.

Is her arm looped through Dad’s?

“Seriously, Miss Holt, it’s been a ride and a half, but we couldn’t have done it without you, without the foundation. Please pass our thank-yous on to the board.” Kaylee takes a sip of water, spilling half of it down her shirtfront. “So, behind me, right?
What’s all this dancing about?
Well! Miss Macy’s Dance Studio has agreed to offer a few classes here at the center free of charge.” She pauses. “You should totally be clapping right now. Miss Macy’s is one of the premier”—air quotes around
premier
—“dance studios in Oregon. She suggested that an introductory class here at the center would allow more of our kids to participate in the arts. You’re clapping, right? Yes? Clapping?”

The crowd obeys, bursting into rambunctious applause yet again. I shake my head in amazement. Standing here on the stage, watching Kaylee in her element, I find Miss Holt is not the only one impressed by my friend. The girl may be clumsy, but she’s great at rallying people.

“Miss Macy has brought one of her classes here to show you what they can do. After the performance, please take a minute to visit the other art rooms to see all that your support has made possible. Thank you, thank you for coming.”

Feedback screeches through the speakers yet again before the microphone can be silenced. After an agonizingly long pause,
the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” begins. The room fills with oohs and ahhs as our little ladies sashay right and left, adding a spin here and there as whim would have it. Miss Macy and I do our best to keep our dancers onstage—a task far more exhausting than my own performance earlier but equally as rewarding.

When at last the song is over and the parents collect their children, I grab my bag and slip into the restroom. I trade my leotard, tights, and skirt for jean shorts and a green flouncy top. Then I hop on the counter and pull my duffel bag onto my lap. I dig around until I find the halo. It’s near the bottom, tucked inside a legwarmer, warm and waiting.

I slip it onto my wrist and pull a light sweater over it. It’s warm out, and the halo’s sure to make me warmer, but Dad gives me grief every time he sees it.

“High school boys don’t give their girlfriends gold bracelets, Elle.”

“Sure they do.”

“Not bracelets like that, kiddo.”

I had no response to that.

My skin soaks up the halo’s presence, and I lean against the mirror. Today was a good day. A very good day.

So why do I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach?

Someone knocks on the door, and I jump.

“Coming. Sorry.” I slide off the counter and twist the doorknob. “Sorry, I was—” The door swings open, Olivia Holt on the other side. “I was changing.”

All at once, I know exactly why I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

“Not a problem,” she says. I step out of her way and into the hall. “A girl without a wardrobe change could never be the belle of the ball, right?”

She tilts her head at me, scrutinizing me from beneath those long—probably fake—lashes.

“Your dad, Keith . . .”

“I know my dad’s name.”

“Of course. He tells me you’re multitalented. Modeling, right? And some acting.”

I heft my bag higher on my shoulder. “Not so much anymore.”

She taps her teeth with a red fingernail. “Shame. The foundation’s looking to do some publicity in the near future. I wonder if I could convince you to help us out with some print work, maybe a commercial or two?”

She’s not the first one to ask. My agent’s called no less than a billion times over the past several months. I tell Olivia the same thing I tell Susie.

“I don’t think so. Dance is really my thing. I can get you the numbers of a few girls in Portland who might be interested, though.”

She shrugs off my offer. “Models in the city are easy enough to come by, but I’d like the opportunity to work with
you
.” She produces a business card. “Take it. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

I don’t want her business card. I don’t plan to change my mind. Still, politeness demands I take it. But the minute her fingers touch mine, I jerk away. The halo flames red-hot against my wrist—angry hot.

Her face pales and her caramel eyes narrow.

She felt it too. She balls her hand into a fist but leaves it hanging there, the business card wrinkled.

“Probably just static electricity,” she whispers. “This dry weather and all.” But her eyes are on my hand, and I have a sick
feeling, like I’ve just given up a friend’s secret. I slide both arms behind my back and twine my fingers together.

“There,” she says, placing the card on the bathroom counter. “Don’t want another shock, do we?” And then she takes a step back and grabs the door. “I’d appreciate you taking the card, Brielle. Just in case.”

But I leave the card on the counter and walk away.

Because she’s right.

Another shock is the last thing we need.

3
Pearla

P
earla watches the demon chained to the floor. He struggles to stand as the Fallen assembled round about bite and snap at him from a distance.

The Fallen are a species who eagerly devour their own kind. Cannibalism, the humans call it. Yes, they specialize in cannibalism. Only here, in the depths of hell, the beings are spirit. Not flesh and blood. And death doesn’t come easily to spirit beings.

The chewing lasts for ages.

But the blistering, smoking wounds on this one weren’t inflicted by another demon. The Fallen don’t use fire as a weapon. They fear it. The demon waiting below is nursing wounds that could only have come from the pit.

The abyss.

The eternal fire created for the devil and his angels.

Pearla’s seen it—navigated the cavern on occasion. It’s a place that cannot damage her. When the Prince’s stronghold was formed, the Creator confined the celestial light that was displaced to a chasm just beyond the black walls of Abaddon.
There holy fire reflects itself eternally, magnifying in that ever-brightening divide.

The pit is a glorious thing to the angels of light. It is God’s goodness multiplied. But for those who chose darkness, the abyss is feared above all. Because even the Fallen heal.

Angelic beings are eternal; regardless of the damage they sustain, their spiritual bodies cannot be destroyed. Those sent to the abyss for punishment are burned by the Father’s radiance again and again, only to spontaneously adapt and scar, healing in their own twisted way to be singed and charred once more.

It’s hell.

And ironic, really. The very thing that energizes Pearla and the other angels of light is devastation to their adversaries. All because of a choice they made long ago. A choice none of them has the capacity to regret.

Pearla has surfed the abyss, searching for answers, for clues. She’s watched the Fallen count their time there in licks of flame, wondering, between screams of misery, when and if the Prince will summon them from its cavernous depths.

Silence consumes the assembly now, imposed on them by the sight of an icy white figure dropping into the hall from above. His wings, spread wide, are white, save the tips, which retain a char he’s never rid of.

Black-tipped wings for the Prince of Darkness. Healthy wings. Strong wings. His skin shines like polished marble. His hair lies in curls of midnight around his face—still fresh, still bright, still retaining the beauty that seduced a third of the angels. Human eyes would have a hard time distinguishing the Prince from a Warrior like Michael. But the absence of light behind those pale blue eyes hints at the creature’s true nature. And they are pale,
so pale the blue seems buried far below, glinting like coins at the bottom of a well.

He’s exquisite. Majestic.

And he’s afraid.

Celestial light has been banned from this place, but even here among the arctic shadows, fear cannot hide. Its blackness swirls in a controlled spin down his right arm, over his well-formed bicep, around his elbow, circling around his forearm, and sliding from his palm down his middle finger where it puddles beneath his throne. Tendrils branch out across the stone floor seeking, seeking.

He cups his hand, allowing the fear to pool there. His fingers close around the sticky substance and he prods it, molds it like a human child playing with a handful of clay. All the while, his eyes rip into the demon before him.

After a slow descent, the Prince’s feet touch upon the seat of his throne—the graven dragon behind him. His legs and waist are wrapped in cords of white. His torso and arms are bare. Very little separates him from the other archangels. And yet so much.

Pearla watches the Prince. The Creator gave him beauty—a beauty unrivaled—and he’s taken great pains to preserve it. His time here in Abaddon has kept him from the damage his hordes have suffered in the light of the Celestial. Pearla’s heard stories of the Prince venturing above, but his untarnished appearance alone is proof that his time to heal greatly exceeds that of his minions.

“Sit.” His celestial lips are still, unable to vocalize anything but animalistic rages—like those assembled, like the demon chained to the floor, like every angel he led astray—but they all
hear. They all obey. It’s sad, really. His song, like his face, was far superior to all others. Now his mouth is good for nothing.

Wings rustle and talons scratch as countless demons crawl and flap toward rough shelves cut into the cliffs surrounding the hall. The demon chained to the floor drops to his knees.

Humility, even false humility, is appreciated here.

The Prince doesn’t sit, though. No. He stands on his throne, his legs spread wide, looking down at the demon trembling on the floor.

“It’s unfortunate, brother, to see you in chains. Again.”

His voice—sincere, seductive—vibrates through Pearla’s small being.

He’s opened his mind to the entire assembly, which makes her job much easier, but the Prince’s voice is dangerous, his lies far too easy to believe. She draws her legs more tightly into herself, ready to launch up and away should occasion call.

“Let us relieve you of that burden.” A small flick of his hand. “Please, friend, release Damien from his chains.”

From the darkness beyond the throne emerges another soul—coal black, his shoulders broad and thick, his arms and legs muscled. Scars zigzag across his body, the largest—the one gracing his chest—bears the undeniable shape of a Shield’s sword.

Pearla knows this one. This is Maka. Confidante of the Prince. His wings snap on approach, taunting his demon brother. Strange. The rumors had him suffering the pit. It seems he’s been shown mercy. A rare thing here.

Damien stands and offers his hands. Maka draws his scimitar and slices through the binds, wrists first and then waist and ankles. His icy blade rubs against the chains of fire, sending up a haze of steam, but Pearla can still see Damien’s wings unfurl as the
chain around his waist is cut through. They spread wide, like sails released after a storm’s confinement. Relief shivers through him, a growl escaping his lips and sending tremors through the hall.

Maka turns and marches away, his talons clacking against the stone floor. The Prince examines Damien like a bird eyeing the worm beneath its feet.

“So subservient, so docile you are, Damien—here in my fortress. And yet, it seems, you cannot be trusted beyond these walls.”

Damien stands tall. “I can be trusted.”

“Can you?” Dark brows lift over those pale eyes, but the Prince’s voice remains silken. “I do not recall asking you to rally your brothers for a heroic battle. Nor did your assignment require it.”

The Prince squeezes the ball of fear in his hand. Like sickly blood, it clots and coagulates inside it, oozing between his fingers.

“If I’m not mistaken, and correct me if I am, you developed a fascination that pulled you from the enslaved. Am I mistaken, Damien, or are your ears as damaged as your eyes?”

Silence.

“I require an answer.”

“You are not mistaken, Lord Prince.”

“Ah.” The Prince flings the ball of goo from his hands and twines his fingers together. He peers over loosely bound knuckles at Damien as the fear continues to drip. “I didn’t think so.”

“You must admit, there was ample cause for my fascination.”

Damien’s outburst is dismissed with a shrug. The Prince drops into his seat, his wings lowering him slowly.

“I admit nothing. I’ve spoken to Maka, to Javan. I’ve spoken to the Twins, Damien. I know what it is that captured your imagination.”

“Then you know I was right.” Damien is shaking now. Fear, rage. It all seems bottled inside this one. “That boy can heal, Lord Prince. If corrupted, his value to darkness is insurmountable.”

Fear trails from the Prince’s elbow now, running down the arm of the throne. He watches it.

“Others claim to heal, Damien. He is not the only one.”

“But this boy can do it with a touch. He’s different, Lord Prince. Like me. Like you.”

The Prince stiffens. His nose flares and his eyes narrow. The idea of another being approaching his glory in any manner has always unsettled him.

“Oh, I doubt very much he is like me.”

“No, no. Of course not, but beyond the gifts bestowed to other men, this boy has
something
, Prince. Something.”

The Prince glances sideways to Maka, who has established himself against a pillar. Maka seems uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but nods slowly.

It seems they’re holding a private conversation: Maka and the Prince. The ability angels have to control just who hears their thoughts is a frustration to the cherubic order, to those who gather information. Pearla grows frustrated that they’ve closed out the assembly. She’s not the only one: growls and hisses sound all around, and the twitching wings of the accused say they’ve closed out Damien as well.