Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (17 page)
“Well, that’s not true and you know it. I know plenty about you. Certainly not everything, but who does?”
“The Creator. My Creator. Your Creator. He knows everything about me. He knows where I am. What I’m doing. What you’re doing.”
A shadow passes over the Prince’s face, his expression growing tighter. “You’re deflecting. My point is that I know enough about you to be helpful.”
I make a face.
“Oh, but I do. For instance, I know your father’s having a rather hard time of it right now.”
“You leave my father out of this,” I say through clenched teeth.
He sits up and crosses his legs. “But he’s right in the middle of it, isn’t he? Now, I know you’re trying your hardest not to mention your boyfriend, but I assure you I’m less interested in him
than you think. Don’t get me wrong, as a pair you two ship off rather nicely, but alone he’s nothing but a circus act, and trust me, I’ve got plenty of those. But a girl who can see into the Celestial—now that’s something special. That’s a gift. That’s useful.”
“It’s
my
gift,” I say. “Useful to me and mine. Not you. Not yours.”
“True. Very, very true. And like your soul, I couldn’t take it from you even if I tried.”
His words are silky, confusing.
“But I do have a proposition for you.”
“No,” I say.
“It’s polite to wait until I’ve made the offer to decline it. Let’s try again. I have a proposition for you.”
I open my mouth to tell him no but find my lips sealed shut. I start to panic, but I can feel the invisible fingers pressing into my face. It’s a soI’m not sure yowpD;lid reminder that I’m not alone with the Prince. That he’s brought minions. I find myself wondering again the same thing I’ve wondered so many times over the past few days: are there really more fighting for me than for him?
The fact that there are
some
steadies me. I might feel alone, but I’m not. I will my heart to slow and stare down the Prince with as much vehemence as I can muster.
“Much better, Elle. You’re growing. I like that. Now, here’s what I have to offer. You hear me out, give me a few truthful answers, and I will save your father.”
I still can’t speak. My lips refuse to move.
“He’s dying,” the Prince adds quickly. “Or didn’t I say that already?”
My heart flip-flops and I sputter. My mouth finally opens. “You’re a liar.”
“Yes,” he says, his dimples returning, “I am, but only because I’ve seen the damage truth can cause.”
“Truth sets you free.”
“Does it? Do you feel free right now?” He leans forward, his sentences firing fast, giving me no time to respond. “It was truth that kept Adam and Eve locked in a garden. Truth that plunged the apostle John into boiling oil. Truth that exiled him. It was truth that saw your people stoned to death. Truth that had them chained to the floor of the coliseum. And it was the God of truth who fed them to the lions.”
“That’s not—”
“True? I assure you it is. And right now the truth is your father is dying.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He didn’t take your sudden absence very well. You should have left a note.”
“I—”
“The police told him he couldn’t file a missing person’s report. Not just yet. You haven’t been missing nearly long enough, and what with your boyfriend being gone, and your car, well, it looks far too much like a romantic rendezvous.”
Tears threaten to spill over, but I don’t want to cry. Not here. With the Prince. I pinch my eyes shut, but I feel their coolness on my cheeks anyway. The Prince continues, his words conjuring images that rise from the darkness of my mind. I see Dad. I see his hand wrapped around the neck of an amber-colored bottle. He blunders around, confused, his eyes frenzied. I open my eyes to escape the tragedy of it, but a gust of frigid air smacks me in the face. You’d think it’d be something of a relief here in the desert, but the change is too much, too severe, and I’m light-headed. I fold in half, my hands on my thighs, my eyes on Dad.
He’s here.
Over the Prince’s right shoulder I sI’m not sure yowpD;ee him. I see Stratus. I
jab two fists in my eyes, sand and salt stinging, scratching. But I blink them open again and the image is that much clearer. I’m still in the desert, still facing the Prince, but beyond him Dad drives down Main Street, a Vulture demon clinging to the top of his truck. His arm hangs out the truck window, a beer bottle clenched tightly in his fist. Desert sand coats the buildings of Stratus, the streets. It gathers on the sidewalks and in the gutters. More Vulture demons skitter through it, invisible, jabbering craziness as pedestrians cross.
“Before he went out searching, your father threw a couple back. He nearly lost control of his truck as he crossed Crooked Leg Bridge. There’s a smear of paint on the railing to prove it.”
I watch Dad leave Main, watch as his truck bumps along the highway past Delia’s, past the high school. I watch as he hangs a left onto the narrow road that leads out to the bridge. His face is pale and frightened. Fear fills the truck, pouring from the open windows.
The Prince’s voice is soft. “He made it off the bridge, but only just.”
“So he’s okay?”
“I’m afraid not,” he says. “My sources tell me his truck slid down the hillside just beyond it. Your father is currently slumped over the wheel in a ditch.”
I see it. All of it. The bridge and the truck, the ditch and the overgrown grass there. I want to disbelieve him, but I can see it so clearly. It’s there, right in front of me. It’s so probable. So likely.
“My source tells me there’s been quite a bit of blood loss. You and I both know Crooked Leg Bridge is just far enough outside of Stratus that no one will find your old man until it’s too late.”
I want to tell him that his words are lies, that thecan offer the
T
hey’ve been back in Stratus for less than a day and Marco’s dreaming again. In fact, he can’t stop the dream that Damien started when he slammed the halo onto his head. It’s there when he closes his eyes and it’s there when he wakes. He does what he can to appear normal, for Kaylee’s sake mostly, but the scene plays out again and again, and eventually he takes to Delia’s spare bedroom to analyze it. It’s a distraction that leaves a lingering headache behind his eyes, but he almost doesn’t mind. It’s the first he’s had like this. A dream about the future, and it’s not terrifying. There’s actually hope in the images that stalk him.
And with Jake and Brielle on the far side of the earth, with Liv nursing the scars on her arm and legs, he finds himself clinging to the promise of a better tomorrow.
Because in that tomorrow he sees Jake. Healthy, whole. Sitting on a barstool, strumming a guitar, singing a song Marco’s never heard. The room is full—young people, old people—the smell of chocolate clinging to the curtains.
There by the window, just past a square table, surrounded by yellow chairs so simil
D
one.”
Behind the Prince I watch a scene take shape and hover above the salt. From the bed of Dad’s truck a demon crawls. Small, chalky. Before his talons can hit the ground he’s taken a human form. Old, gray, bald. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and dials.
Relief blossoms next to the guilt taking root in my stomach.
“The sheriff himself will handle the call, I’ve made sure of that,” the Prince says, taking my chin in his hands and turning my face toward him. His hands are cold, but I’ve been bathed in fear for hours now and I hardly notice. “They’re friends, yes? The sheriff and your father. His involvement should keep this little incident out of the papers. Off the television. I know how you dislike that.”
My lips tremble as I speak. “Th-thank you.”
“I’ve held up my end of the bargain,” he says. “Now it’s your turn.”
I owe him. I know I do, so I sit. I’ll listen. I’ll answer his
& about ow entirely questions because he saved my father, but that’s all. I don’t owe him any more than that.
He crosses his legs and sits, our knees nearly touching.
“Now, tell me. What is it that you want?” he asks.
“To spend my life with Jake,” I say. Because it’s the honest, if selfish, answer. I don’t think the Prince minds selfish. He won’t judge me for it. There’s a sick sort of relief in that.
“It makes sense, you know? Even to me. The two of you are beautiful, gifted, talented above others your age. And more than that, you love each other. I’ve spoken to him, and I know he loves you. Selflessly loves you. That’s uncommon. Even the Creator’s seen fit to bring you together for whatever purpose He’s working toward.” With a delicate finger he brushes away the salt that’s gathered on his cheek. “So the question begs to be asked: why are you afraid?”
The answer’s an easy one. The seed of it planted by Jake the night I found out the ring was missing. “I think we’ve messed it up. We’ve done something . . . or maybe it’s me, maybe I’ve done something . . .”
The Prince looks genuinely confused, and I’m saddled with this need to make him understand.
“Maybe it’s nothing that’s happened yet, you know? Maybe it’s what I’m going to do. He’s all-knowing, God is. Omniscient, right?” I’m flustered, talking too fast. “He sees something in my future. Something I’m going to do that will change . . .”
The Prince leans toward me. It’s a small movement, but it steadies me somehow, reminds me I’m not alone here. “That will change what?”
I breathe deeply, force my mouth to slow. “Maybe I’m going to do something that will change God’s mind.” The salt shifts
beneath me, and I pull my legs closer to my body. It’s honest, what I’ve said. But the words are out there now, and the silence that wraps them is uncomfortable. “About me. About Jake. About us together.”
He’s thinking. I can almost see the mirrors in his eyes spinning with the effort. It’s another eight seconds before he speaks.
“What made you so certain you had His seal of approval in the first place?”
“The engagement ring.” The words are out of my mouth before I’ve considered the consequences. I’ve handed him something. A truth he didn’t know. A weapon.
He cocks his head, surprise registering. “He made you a promise, then. The Creator.”
“It wasn’t a promise. Not really.”
“And then He took it away, didn’t He? The ring.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve known Him a long time, Elle. His ways are not so mysterious to me. I bet it was beautiful. But you could be right. Perhaps it wasn’t a promise. Just a simple manipulation,” the Prince continues, “to get you involved, to see His plan move forward.”
“He wouldn’t manipulate—”
“Call it what you will, Elle, but letting you two believe you were meant for one another and then taking back the sentiment sounds a lot like manipulation to me. I’m rather an expert in that field.”
“I’m sure there’s a reason,” I say, my resolve faltering.
“I’m sure there is,” he says, his words dripping with bitterness. “And I’m sure it serves His purposes nicely. But I wonder if it serves yours.”
“Mine aren’t important.”
“That is where I disagree.”
I’m silent. The chill left with the images of my bleeding father, and now I feel the burn of the sun on my face and neck. Sweat drips from my brow, and I hardly want to fight with the father of lies.
“Do you recognize this?” he asks.
Between us, on the salt platform, Canaan’s halo appears. It sits there in its crown form, shining like always. Unchanged, untarnished. I could use its strength right now. Its fire. I reach out, but the Prince grabs it first.
“Do you know why Canaan was given this crown?” he asks.
“Because he refused to join your rebellion.”
“I love that word:
rebellion
,” he says, nostalgia brightening his face, “but that’s not precisely what it was.
Rebellion
indicates that there was one person in charge, but that’s not accurate. The Creator had divided His kingdom, had given responsibility to many of His angels. It was only when I excelled that things changed. He didn’t like sharing His glory. He was the one who incited the rebellion, Elle. He demanded the angels choose. It was not my doing. When a third of them chose me, His anger was kindled. I was cast out, deprived of the only home I’d ever known.”
“It’s a sad story, but I don’t believe it.”
“Unlike the Creator, belief isn’t something I require. Doubt is only natural. You’ve been subjected to a lot of information—propaganda, if you will—but there is something you
should
believe: I can ensure you and Jake a long life together.”
His declaration takes me off guard. At first I feel relief—relief that Jake and I forever is still a possibility—and then my stomach heaves. I turn away from the Prince, vomiting over the
side of the platform. It’s the kind of offering that feels &se𠄚impossible to turn down. And yet our futures aren’t the most important thing, are they? It’s our souls. I remember thinking that just yesterday, just today even, and yet the memory of that feeling is locked away in a cage of ice too thick to break through. I can’t feel it anymore—the sentiment behind the words—and I can’t help thinking it’s . . .
