Authors: Shannon Dittemore
Tags: #ebook, #book
Advance Acclaim for
has everything I look for in a novel—gorgeous prose, a compelling heroine, humor, and an intriguing plot—and two things I dream of finding—permission for brokenness and the promise of hope.”
is a fine debut. A touching and exciting romance with celestial implications.”
“Stunning. A captivating read with all the intensity necessary to keep me turning pages well into the night.”
AUTHOR OF THE
“Shannon Dittemore gives us a classic tale of good versus evil with an authentically contemporary feel – and the assurance that beautiful writing is back.”
© 2012 by Shannon Dittemore
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Scripture quotations are taken from the N
. ©1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Angel eyes / Shannon Dittemore.
p. cm. -- (Angel eyes ; 1)
Summary: Just returned home to tiny Stratus, Oregon, after finding tragedy instead of success as a ballerina, eighteen-year-old Brielle discovers she has a destiny with new neighbor Jake--to join a battle in a realm that only angels, demons, and Brielle can perceive.
ISBN 978-1-4016-8635-2 (pbk.)
[1. Supernatural--Fiction. 2. Angels--Fiction. 3. Demonology--Fiction. 4.
High schools--Fiction. 5. Schools--Fiction. 6. Fate and fatalism--Fiction.] I.
Printed in the United States of America
12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Matt, who chose me
And for Justus and Jazlyn, who had no choice in the matter
“Do not fear, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them.”
LISHA, THE PROPHET
Dothan, Israel—2500 years ago
he boy trembles. Fear wraps him tight, rattling his callow frame.
He sees an army arrived in the dead of night. He sees soldiers flooding the canyon floor, flanking them on every side. Cursing, spitting soldiers, here for his master. The boy sees horses fogging the morning air and chariots pulling men with bows. He sees spears with bronze tips and swords of iron glinting in the predawn light.
And he imagines.
He imagines his master hauled away in chains. He imagines his own blood glazing one of those swords. He imagines death.
Fear does that to the imagination.
“Master,” he asks, “what shall we do?”
The prophet wrestles silently with a truth. He knows things the boy does not. Sees things the boy can’t see.
He sees the enemy. Oh yes, he sees them. But he sees their forces surrounded. He sees an angelic army. Great winged men with swords of light and halos of gold. He sees them lining the mountains that hem together this canyon. He sees horses emerging from fiery skies and chariots with wheels of sunset cloud. He sees riders with bows drawn and arrows of flame fixed on their adversaries.
And he knows. He knows they’re here to protect him. To protect the boy.
Truth does that to the heart.
And the prophet knows this: There’s no room here for fear. Only truth.
The boy needs to know it. He needs to know there are things unseen, forces for good and for evil. He needs to know there are more fighting for them than for their enemies.
Day breaks over the horizon, and the prophet lifts up his voice. With a cry to rival the snorting horses and the irreverent soldiers, he prays for his servant.
“Lord, give him eyes that he might see.”
And God answers the prophet. By the hand of an angel and a halo of gold, he answers him.
And for the first time in his young life, the boy sees.
he knot in my throat is constant. An aching thing.
Shallow breaths whisper around it, sting my chapped lips, and leave white smoke monsters in the air.
It takes them nine seconds to disappear. Nine seconds for the phantoms I’ve created to dissolve into nothingness.
How long till the one haunting my dreams does the same?
The absence of an answer makes my hands shake, so I slide the lambskin gloves out of my book bag and put them on.
If only it were that easy.
Like glacial masses shoving along, ice travels my veins, chilling my skin and numbing my insides. Three weeks of this biting cold outstrips the severity of my nightmares, but I haven’t suffered enough and I know it.
“Miss, isn’t this your stop?” The man’s voice skates atop the frozen air.
I want to answer him, but the words don’t come. A single tear thaws, escapes the confines of my lashes, and races triumphantly down my cheek. It soaks into my knit scarf—an invisible trail marking its life.
“Miss?” he tries again. “We’re here. We’ve reached Stratus.”
My legs are stiff, refusing to stand. I just need a minute. I should say something at least—answer him—but the knot in my throat refuses to budge. I raise a gloved hand to wrestle it away.
“I’m sorry, dear, but the conductor is impatient today. If you don’t exit the train, you’ll have to ride back to Portland with us.”