Angel Eyes (5 page)
How could Damien not act?
He found a willing accomplice in the Syrian king, who also courted a fiery hatred for Elisha. A mere suggestion from Damien, and the king sent an entire army to Dothan. They arrived before dawn, surrounding the prophet and his lone tent.
Victory was imminent.
But then . . .
Ah!
Defeat had appeared in the form of an angelic army. Out of the bright Celestial sky, the forces appeared. Invisible to the humans, but present all the same. And with the stealth of a whisper, an invisible legion of light surrounded the Syrian king. Surrounded his horses and their riders.
Damien did what he could to warn them off, but he was one against so many, and it was too late.
His wings twitch at the memory. Some wounds never close.
Elisha lifted up his hands that day, and he asked his God, the Creator of the universe, to blind the Syrian army. And the Creator answered his prayer.
But the physical blindness the Syrians suffered affected their escorting demon in a way Damien could not have anticipated. He, too, was struck dim.
The last thing he saw, stationed invisibly before the Syrian king, was the prophet’s Shield: an angel named Canaan. One he knew well from his days around heaven’s throne.
Outnumbered as he was, fleeing would have been in Damien’s best interest, but pride moved him forward to meet his adversary.
His former friend.
He drew his own sword, a scimitar of ice and stone forged in the dungeons of outer darkness. And as he swung his blade, he caught sight of the child. The prophet’s servant. Such an inconsequential being, but as Damien’s smoking weapon met the angel’s, the child flinched visibly.
He flinched!
Could he see the warring angels gathered about? Could the boy see Damien?
And then blindness. A darkness he’d never experienced swallowed Damien whole.
He’d never been blind in his Celestial form. But it didn’t last long. In the moment that followed, he was thrust through. Canaan’s sword, no doubt.
And as the light of Canaan’s sword ate away at him, he considered the devastating possibility that humans could see through the Terrestrial veil. That they could see darkness for what it was.
If that was true and they could see fear and despair as weapons, as tactical warfare, evil didn’t stand a chance. And though the thrust of a Shield’s sword could not kill Damien, it flung him to the pit. The abyss of eternal light and fire. A chasm where the Creator’s glory reflects and increases. The light of the Celestial multiplied exponentially.
For those who have rejected the light, the pit is torture unrivaled. Their spiritual forms, created for immortality, are burned by His radiance again and again, only to spontaneously adapt and scar, healing in their own twisted way to be singed and charred once more.
In short: it’s hell.
After a time, when the Prince deemed his punishment sufficient, Damien was summoned and returned to the front lines. To earth. To humanity. To steal, to kill, to destroy.
And yet, the momentary blindness he experienced at Dothan damaged his eyes in a way that would not mend. They pained him constantly, and he was a weaker fighter for it. His only escape was to take on his Terrestrial form.
His human form.
Something he would do as soon as this scouting expedition was over. As soon as he identified the source of such mouthwatering despair.
Damien searches, flying low over a small stretch of a community. Shops on a run-down street, the town hall and a post office, a diner with violet neon lights.
He continues out over the highway. Everywhere he sees empty barns, farmhouses abandoned. Vacant plots of land. The economy has taken its toll here. So many empty places for darkness to hide.
A current of wind brings him another tendril of despair, and he follows it, inhaling, savoring the fragrance. Despair is everywhere, of course, but like all delectable dishes, some despair is more appealing than others. And this, whatever it is, is deep and dark.
He speeds his wings.
And there it is. Below him. An ordinary human house, not large, not small. Fear leaks from its windows and doors, black and thick. It oozes into the street, searching, searching for other souls to latch on to.
He slows his wings and descends, touching down next to a strange-looking mailbox.
Matthews
, it says.
The fear here is thick. The despair fresh.
He forces his eyes to focus on the wall in front of him. As it peels away, he sees her, the source of the fragrant ache.
So broken. So vulnerable.
And he decides. This town, this Stratus, is a good place to start again. It’s far enough from the city not to attract attention and small enough to destroy single-handedly. And this girl, this Matthews girl, is too ripe to be left alone.
B
eyond the bay window, the sky is a smudge of black and gray. Night shrouds the yard and wind sweeps through, diluting the canvas in gusty blows of rain. The shutters rattle, and the wind dislodges the front door screen, leaving mangled hinges in its place.
I watch for falling snow or ice—anything to signal a continuing dip in temperature—but am mildly relieved that November seems content with rain. Central Oregon can get nasty cold, but we usually have until January before the snow and ice take over.
The night makes me anxious. Dad’s been called away to remove and cut up a tree that fell onto the roof of the Presbyterian church in town. The dread I feel as he walks out the door nearly pulls me after him. He’s all I have now, and watching him fade into the night is torture, but the plea dies on my lips. My dad is the strongest, most able person in the world, and he’s managed to survive these past few years without me. I’m just selfish and don’t like being alone at night anymore. I have all sorts of new phobias these days.
I take sanctuary in my favorite reading chair and tug an old quilt over the afghan resting on my knees. I yank both up to my chin and watch the storm grapple with the shadowy oak tree in the yard. I’m not sure how the victor is declared in such a battle, but the tree takes quite a beating: branches torn from their home, flung up and down the road.
But by dawn the storm has blown itself out and the old tree is still standing.
I haven’t slept much, here in the chair, but the oak’s survival inspires me, and I slide to the floor. Shoving aside the blankets, I settle my elbows into the thick carpet and lift my knees to my chest, rotating first my left hip and then my right. My turnout muscles stretch with a familiar ache, and I keep at it until the sleepiness falls away. For years, stretching has been a morning ritual of mine, but in the past three weeks I’ve shoved it aside.
Even now, as I consider how long it’s been, the why stirs in my gut, and I abandon my exercises for a bowl of cereal. I run a brush through my hair and quickly dress, nearly panicking when I can’t find my left glove. At last I spot it beneath my nightstand, and I’m out the door.
I reach my poor mud-splotched car as Dad pulls up the drive. He parks next to me and hops out, his door still wide open.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“I left you some Cocoa Pebbles,” I tell him, leaning in for a kiss. I never could cook.
“What would I do without you? Enjoy school, all right?”
He’s distracted. His cell’s ringing, and he can’t find it. He empties his tool belt onto the floor of the truck and shakes out a wet jacket. The battered BlackBerry falls onto the seat just as the call goes to voice mail. He hits Redial and starts repacking his tool belt.
“What are you doing, Dad? Go get some sleep.”
“No time. I need a shower and some food, but not the Cocoa Pebbles, thank you very much. Those are all yours.”
Whoever he’s trying to reach must not be answering. He ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket.
“I won’t be back until late tonight. There are trees and power lines down everywhere. If we don’t get the trees moved, life in Stratus will grind to a complete standstill.”
“It hasn’t already?”
“Well, aren’t you feeling better? Mocking our quaint little town and giving me cheek. You never should have left me for that big city.”
I swallow hard against the lump that has magically reappeared in my throat. I haven’t thought about Ali this morning at all. Not really. I’m an awful, horrible person.
Dad must know he’s misspoken. He drops a socket wrench and draws me into his arms.
“It’s okay, Elle. I can’t believe I said that. You gotta remember, I’m just a stupid lumberjack. These big ol’ boots jump into my mouth faster than I can salt ’em.” He pushes my face back, looking into my eyes. “I’ll work on it, okay?”
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod and wipe away the tears.
“Okay. We should get a move on, both of us. You’ll be late to school. Go on.”
I sink into Slugger and twist the steering wheel in my gloved hands.
Ali’s face swims before my eyes, and I bite down hard on my lip to control the trembling. I am lost again, my mind back in the city, the detective asking questions I can’t answer, expecting a testimony I don’t want to give.
“You said she had bruises on her arms, right?” Detective Krantz drags a manila folder across the stubble on his chin. “The kid confessed, Miss Matthews. He’s not worth protecting. Marco James is a monster.”
Dad knocks on the window, and I jump, fumbling clumsily as I attempt to roll it down.
“Avoid 13th if you can. There’s a huge pine blocking the road. Take Main over to the school.”
Again I nod.
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I take a deep breath and cram away images of the detective’s pursed lips and furrowed brow. A strange feeling sneaks up on me, and it’s a minute before I can squash it. It’s a craving almost. To be back in photo. In the darkroom. And now I cram away another face. A younger face. With bright eyes and dark brows. I pretend thoughts of him don’t press my foot to the accelerator. I tell myself I just don’t want to be late to calculus. Because being late will attract attention.
Well, it will
.
But as I settle into Slugger once again, I realize both Dad and I have clock issues. Slugger says I’m running a good twenty minutes early.
I’d kill for a caramel macchiato, but Stratus isn’t grown-up enough to have a Starbucks.
We do have Jelly’s, though.
Jelly’s is a greasy spoon that predates me by at least half a century. They specialize in all the normal stuff—omelets and waffles, questionable coffee and apple pie—but ever since Kaylee’s Aunt Delia took over the kitchen a decade ago, Jelly’s serves carved gyros alongside their fried eggs. You can ask for bacon or sausage links, but you’ll get a sneezeburger if you do.
Slugger eases off the road, and I throw her into park against the stainless steel wall of the diner. Jelly’s is busy this morning. Maintenance workers taking a breakfast break from their post-storm cleanup, it looks like. Dad should’ve eaten here.
The door jingles shut behind me, and I grimace at Jelly’s version of a winter wonderland. Red garlands loop from anything and everything within reach of a staple gun. Candy canes hang here and there, and vintage ornaments dress a lopsided Christmas tree crowding the pint-sized entryway. Fake snow, stained with coffee cup rings, lines the counter. And though the scene is over-the-top gaudy, the pins pricking my heart have nothing to do with the mechanical Santa shaking his booty by the cash register.
Christmas without Ali.
I hadn’t considered it until now.
“Elle, honey, you’re back.” Aunt Delia leans over the counter and pulls me in for a quick hug, smashing a Rudolph figurine against my chest as she does.
“Brielle!” Kaylee’s here, behind the counter. “Hot chocolate?”
I nod. You’re taking your life in your hands if you order the coffee this early.
She disappears, and I catch part of Delia’s conversation with a mailman shoveling spoonfuls of oatmeal into his mouth.
“The boy called me
Jelly
, Frank.” She plants two thick hands on her round hips. “I mean, honestly, do I look like a Jelly?”
The mailman cuts his eyes at me, and I look away. Poor guy.
“Let’s go,” Kaylee says, appearing out of nowhere. She presses a to-go cup in my hands and tugs me out the door.
It’s hot, thank goodness, and I scorch my tongue with an overeager first sip.
“Delia’s all ticked off this morning. Can I bum a ride?”
“Sure.”
“Aunt Delia’s intuition’s in hyperdrive these days. Makes me wanna move back in with my parents.” She uses air quotes when she says
intuition
, and I almost snort hot chocolate out my nose. Delia depends on her “intuition” almost as much as Kaylee depends on her air quotes. These constants are reassuring.
“You working for her?”
“Just mornings. Kitchen prep and stuff. I’m saving for summer. Peace Corps.”