Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) (8 page)
His hair’s damp and he’s changed out of his work clothes. He looks relaxed, much more relaxed than the last time I saw him. The swing moves slowly as he thumbs through his old Bible. I love that thing. It’s old—really, really old. The paper has yellowed and the leather has cracked, but he continues to cram the margins with words I can’t decipher, his handwriting’s so bad.
We still haven’t talked about the thing with my dad—just cryptic text messages conveying our undying devotion in the face of adversity. I hate texting. It’s all so melodramatic in tone and underwhelming in content. Nothing like seeing him face-to-face.
“Hey,” Jake says, smiling at me, closing the Bible.
“Hey.” I drop my dance bag at the foot of the stairs and climb toward him. I’m still wearing my dance clothes, but Jake doesn’t seem at all offended by that. “Whatcha reading?”
“A story from the book of Acts. Philip and the Ethiopian. Have you read it?”
“Haven’t gotten there yet,” I say, climbing onto the swing.
“One of my favorites. Angel fingerprints all over it.”
“Do angels leave fingerprints?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“So you were being histrionic.”
“I don’t know what that means,” he says, smirking. “But I was being figurative.”
“Ah.”
“Speaking of histrionic,” I say. “I really am sorry about my dad.”
Jake kicks off the ground, swinging us back and forth. He takes my hand in his, running his index finger down each one of mine. I let him, relishing the butterflies dancing like idiots in my tummy. I wonder if we’ll have a porch swing one day. If we’ll do this every night till we’re a hundred.
“You heard me, right? I was apologizing for my dad.”
“I heard you,” he says, turning toward me. I love the darkness of his brows juxtaposed with the brightness of his eyes. A brilliant green iris with a tawny starburst exploding at the center. “And you don’t have to apologize for him. Look, Elle, I don’t have many good things about my dad to cling to. In fact, I don’t even know his last name. My real last name.”
I feel the shock on my face. “I never realized. I thought you took Shield to avoid questions.”
“It helped, but if I ever knew it, I forgot. It’s been a pain lately
because I’ve been looking into possible connections between Marco and myself, but it’s near impossible without a last name.”
“I’m so sorry, Jake. That’s hard.”
“It’s fine, and I didn’t mean to change the subject. What I’m trying to say is that I envy what you and your dad have. You’re close, and that’s rare. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want you to have to choose between us, between family and me.”
“You
are
family,” I say, wishing he’d relax again. Wishing he’d smile. “At least you will be soon enough.”
“Right,” he says, his eyes searching my face. “Soon enough.”
“Tell me you won’t worry about my dad, please.”
“Okay,” he says. “I won’t worry about your dad. Not tonight.”
“Good. Thank you.”
He stops the swing. “I, um, meant to tell you. Marco’s home . . . er, here.”
“Is that my surprise?” I ask. “I had no idea he was coming home today.”
“No, Marco’s not your surprise. I didn’t know either. He was crashed out on the couch when I got back from work today.”
“You really should lock your door.”
“If I had, Marco would have been sleeping on my doorstep.”
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“Ran into town to pick up a few things. Canaan’s making dinner, and I wanted to invite you.”
“I’d love to. Let me change, okay?”
“You don’t have to,” he says, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “I like tutus, remember?”
“This,” I say, standing, twirling, “is not a tutu. It’s a skirt.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes. Tutus aren’t soft.”
I lean in for a kiss, but he makes me wait for it.
“You don’t like soft?” I ask, brushing my lips against his.
He closes his eyes, a sound deep in his chest answering for him.
“I like soft,” I say, our exhales mingling. But he remains still, his self-control far too refined for my taste. So I stand and turn toward the door.
He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. The porch swing squeals in protest, but I get my kiss. Or two.
Or twelve.
Canaan goes all out at dinner. Grilling up prime rib and corn on the cob, sprucing up potatoes and concocting a fruity iced tea drink.
“These things must be celebrated,” he says.
For his part, Marco is fairly subdued. Quiet and calm. His dragon-green eyes clear, clearer than I’ve ever seen them, actually. His hair is shorter, and he’s gained back some of the weight he lost during his imprisonment.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?” I ask.
The four of us are at the kitchen table, reaching across one another for second helpings.
“It happened pretty quick. Last week the doc said he’d submitted a good report to the authorities, and this morning I woke to the news that the state was satisfied and now considered the matter closed.”
“Wow, just like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, just like that.”
“You weren’t guilty of the charges,” Jake says. “There’s no reason for the state to insist you stay any longer if the doctor’s satisfied.”
“That, and they finally got that Eddie punk talking. His parents had him lawyered up, I guess. Took the DA forever to unravel all the details, but once Eddie started talking, the state was able to put the pieces together. They found Horacio’s body in a separate warehouse, along with evidence that people had been held there against their will. They’re trying to gather enough information on Damien to start an official manhunt.”
I swallow the corn that’s been sitting on my tongue, refusing to make eye contact with anyone but Marco.
“Well, I wish them luck,” Canaan says. “I imagine catching someone like Damien would be a difficult task.”
After dinner, Canaan steps out. Says he needs to check in at work, whatever that means. I imagine he’s circling the skies over Stratus. I imagine he does that a lot.
Jake clears the table, leaving Marco and me to talk.
“I wanted to show you something, Elle,” he says, standing and moving to the living room. “You have a sec?”
“Sure.” I follow, watching as he pulls a blue-and-gray backpack up next to him on the couch and unzips it.
“Jake’s got a bag just like that,” I say.
“Not surprised. There were only three options at the sports store on Main, and one of them had a purple kitty cat on it. Anyway”—he pulls out a small leather journal, Ali’s journal—“Ali’s mom contacted me at the psych hospital.”
“Did she? That’s awesome.”
“Well, don’t get too excited. They haven’t agreed to see me, but she sent a card telling me they finally had the gravestone
placed.” He opens the journal, flipping to the last quarter of the book, to empty pages Ali hadn’t gotten to.
Just the sight of all the days she’ll never have, all the journal entries she’ll never make, has my chest tight.
“What happened here?” I ask, running my finger along a half-inch strip of frayed paper near the seam. Several pages have been torn out.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Blank pages on either side. I never could figure it out.” He keeps flipping. “Here. I didn’t have my camera with me, but I did the best I could.”
It’s the sketch of a cemetery, of gravestones and trees. Of flowers and benches. It’s a place I’ve only been to once, but I can easily spot it in the lines of Marco’s sketch. I touch my finger to the place I stood at her funeral, under an umbrella, alone in my guilt and misery. He turns the page once more, showing me a sketch of Ali’s grave marker.
A ridiculous sort of laugh erupts from my throat. “Oh man, she’d hate that.”
A half smile emerges on Marco’s face. “That’s what I thought too. Rich people,” he says, shaking his head. The gravestone is huge. A gigantic stone tower formed into a triangular point at the tip top. “But look, I thought you’d like to see the engraving.”
I lean toward the page, reading the words Marco penned on the bottom of the monument.
A
LISON
M
ARIE
B
ENI
O
CTOBER
18, 1993 – N
OVEMBER
5, 2011
T
HERE IS SPECIAL PROVIDENCE IN THE FALL OF A SPARROW
.
I run my finger over the words. “It’s Hamlet,” I say, my voice quiet.
Marco’s lips twist, his cheeks wet with tears. “Yeah. I know you two used to run Shakespeare quotes. Thought maybe you had something to do with this.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t. I haven’t spoken to Serena in a long time. Not since the day after the warehouse.”
Marco closes the journal, wrapping the long leather strands around it and tying Ali’s memories away. He looks at me, swiping away the tears that have made it all the way to his chin.
“Providence, I guess.”
T
he Cherub can’t help it. Questions ravage her mind, but her soul longs to sing. So she does. Pearla’s childlike voice is soft, effortless. The frenzy of her wings masks the sound, but she knows He hears and that’s all that matters.
She flies low, the sea churning beneath her. Blues of every shade sparkle in the light of the Celestial, illuminated by the Creator of all things. His glory bursts from within the waves and without, reflecting, bouncing off the water and bending across the sky in an enchanting show of color. Her dark skin grabs onto the light, pulling it with her in a dazzling shimmer across the Atlantic.
In the distance she sees land. Sandy shores and tall leaning trees. Palms waving in the wind. She presses high into the sky and flies on. The coastal villages give way to expansive plains of undulating yellow grasses spotted by the occasional acacia. Migrating creatures, great and small, move in chunky swathes, crossing the Serengeti. Abruptly, the glory of the savannah vanishes, swallowed by a thick, emerald rainforest. Thunder shakes the sky, and a twisting river of deepest bronze cuts through it all, disappearing beneath the lush canopy of the Congo.
And then she stops, her tiny wings skittering like a hummingbird’s, keeping her in place. Before her, emerging from the horizon, is the Army of Light. Not all of it, of course, but the host who travel always with Michael, their commander.
Michael rides out front, his steed a blaze of red and gold. The Commander lifts his javelin, and in turn the flag bearers leading the troops raise their banners high. Three thousand angelic horses halt, their riders’ obedience instantaneous.
A legion of angelic Warriors stare at the Cherub. From this distance there’s not much to distinguish her from the black enemy of darkness.
Pearla moves forward cautiously, her eyes wide open on approach. She carries no weapon—her speed and her size are all the protection she needs. But it’s the white light of her eyes that will identify her as an ally. She knows the moment the Commander sees them. Knows the very second her features can be discerned. She knows it because Michael too becomes clearer in her sight. The creases around his eyes and mouth melt into the luminescence of his skin. His shoulders, armored in thick battle gear, relax and his spear comes down. He kicks lightly with his heels, pushing the faithful creature forward. The steed snorts and gallops ahead, his hooves lost in the atmosphere that birthed him.
Humans rarely think of the spiritual realm as a physical thing, with streets and buildings and beings who can touch and be touched. But the Celestial is every bit as physical as the Terrestrial—if anything, its physicality is even more demanding than the realm they see.
The skyscrapers and bridges of earth, her mountains and lakes—they do not cease to exist in the heavenly realm. It’s true
anything without a soul can be passed through, but to angelic fingers it can all be grasped, held on to, and thrown. The angelic mind works quickly, the decision to pass through a wall or to lean against it second nature. It’s subconscious, instinctual, like a chameleon changing colors. But even here, in the realm for which they were created, there are things they can’t do.
The Cavalry, for instance, is gifted with a single set of wings. Rarely abandoning the deep trenches of battle, they have no need to cloak themselves or others. The sinewy inner wings held by the ranks of the Shield and the Herald are not necessary. Instead, they are armed with a pair of large arching wings that tower several feet above their heads. Strong, powerful wings to carry strong, powerful angels. But even formidable wings tire. So the Creator gifted his army with a race of noble steeds. They are an extension of the Warriors themselves—a band of horses born of light, emerging from it when needed and diving beneath the surface, like creatures of the deep, when their presence becomes unnecessary. Never has a warhorse known the minds and needs of its riders like these. Never far from their rider. Ever as near as the Warrior’s next breath of celestial air.
Certain Michael has identified her, Pearla speeds her wings, meeting him halfway. He stows his javelin in the scabbard at his back and swings off his mount. His wings snap wide, catching a gust of light and wind. He moves them softly, keeping him in place. Slivers of wheat-colored hair jut from beneath his helmet, mingling with a downy beard cut close to his chin.
