Angel Eyes (9 page)

Her wings sound high above, and he turns his face to the sky.

The height to which Helene has already risen is a challenge for Damien’s tarnished eyes. He can barely see her, and the odds of catching her are diminishing with each second. But he wants that boy. He wants Baby Joe. Not because the kid has value, but because the boy belonged to him. Belonged to darkness, and now light is staking a claim.

Next to him, Horacio curses. Panicking as those around him vanish. Thick, gooey globs of fear bubble out of his nose and ears. They leak slowly from his eyes and mouth, running down his chest.

Damien knows the Shield won’t let a man die, not if she can prevent it. Not even a man like Horacio. The optimism of the Shield is sickening, but it is certain and steadfast, making it, above all else, predictable.

Damien is nearly on top of Horacio when he transfers back to the Terrestrial. His sudden reappearance causes the man to trip and fall. Damien pulls his gun from its holster and without ceremony shoots Horacio in the gut.

He sputters something and gropes at his stomach in an effort to catch the life-force as it leaks out of him. It’s a futile attempt, and Damien turns away, transferring back to the Celestial. Without question, Helene has heard the gunshot and will return. The demon leaps into the sky, flaps his wings just once, and lands on the roof of the crumbling church across the way. If the Shield acts as expected and lands at Horacio’s side, he’ll be out of her immediate reach here.

His ears pick up the thrust of her wings before she comes into view, at last wrapping her outer wings tight to her frame and tunneling like a sniper’s bullet to the earth. Tucked against her core, enveloped in her sinewy, transparent inner wings, is the frightened Baby Joe. His knobby arms and legs are balled up—a ridiculous spectacle.

The force of flight notwithstanding, Helene lands softly, hugging Baby Joe to herself. She glares up at the demon, enraged, as though he hasn’t played fair, as though he’s cheated. Damien savors the compliment, waiting for the perfect moment to act. He watches as she kneels next to Horacio, reaching her hands out to his wound.

Suddenly, too suddenly, she stands and shoots into the sky. Away from him. Away from the dying man on the ground. Flustered and bewildered by her abandonment of Horacio, Damien takes flight, quickly gaining on her forsaken position at the man’s side. Only the whites of Horacio’s eyes are visible as they roll back and forth in his head. His face is moist and gray beneath the sludge of fear.

Death is close. Damien can taste it.

He can conceive no reason for the angel’s desertion of a human facing certain death. As much as it angers Damien to do it, he needs Horacio. He’ll have to heal this dying man.

Damien reaches out, placing his hand on Horacio’s abdomen.

A current of electricity shoots up his arm. The pain is raw, excruciating. He tears his arm away in horror—horror at the pain coursing through his body, and then more devastatingly, horror at his mistake.

He’d forgotten. Neglected the obvious.

Although Celestial beings can deliver both life and death, their finality does not rest with the angelic. Like a violent dog on a short leash, he howls.

From high above, the sound of frenetic wings draws his attention. Helene hovers hundreds of feet up, her face pointed toward the heavens. Damien cannot make out her expression, but he has no trouble hearing the words her soul cries.

“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done!”

The demon curses and spits. As much as He allows their rampant intrusion, life and death rest solely in the hands of the Creator. If Horacio’s end has been determined, death will not be permitted to give him up. Damien pulls out his scimitar and drives it through the man’s heart, sending his tortured soul into darkness. Years and years of work on this man, training him, corrupting his gifts. All wasted.

With Horacio’s soul added to his cosmic scorecard, his lips curl and he snaps both sets of wings, taunting the angel still hovering above the warehouse. She cries out again.

“Holy! Holy! Holy is the Lord of hosts! The whole earth is full of His glory!”

The sound of her voice is a grainy, acidic salt in the wound of his mistake, and Damien cringes.

Her anthem continues to echo across the heavens, and he remembers a time when his mouth, too, sang the Creator’s praises. It was like an impulse, a compulsion, like there was nothing more imperative than declaring the holiness of the Almighty. An overwhelming sense of gratitude and awe continually flood the angels of light—an awareness impossible for them to ignore in the Celestial. Whether intended or not, opening their mouths in that realm sends nothing but praises into the atmosphere.

If it weren’t for the innate ability of Celestial beings to share thoughts at will, the angels of light would be unable to communicate anything but God’s holiness in their angelic form.

Damien tries to remember what it’s like to be grateful to Him, to feel indebted to the Creator. Instead, as Helene’s cries fade, hatred stirs in his spirit—hatred for what he is, disgust for the limitations of his kind, and resentment that one decision long ago numbered his days.

It’s no wonder the voices of the Fallen can do nothing but rage like beasts in the Celestial. When
their
mouths open, it’s their vile hatred that is thrown into the atmosphere: guttural cries and howls, snarling hisses and roaring growls. These are the only sounds their Celestial lips can make.

He transfers to the Terrestrial and pulls out his phone, finds the contact, and dials.

“Our position’s been compromised. We need to move the merchandise. Today.”

The idiot on the other end of the line rattles off question after question. Logistics Horacio would have been happy to work out.

Damien looks down at the man’s empty body, and he curses.

He needs a new right hand.

Someone to corrupt.

And he needs him now.

7
Brielle

S
aturday morning arrives, and I haven’t slept at all. The storm last night was brutal. Rolled in by the frigid winds of the past few days, rain and ice fell, pummeling the roof and keeping me wide awake.

Dad’s up just after dawn. He has to work today. It’s like this in the fall. He has to get in as much work as he can before the weather makes it impossible. I’m showered and eating a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles when his crew arrives. They joke and mill around the driveway while he packs his lunch.

“You call Kaylee or something, Elle. I don’t want you moping around all day by yourself.”

“I’ll do something,” I tell him. “Dishes or laundry. Movie marathon, maybe.”

“Fine, but get that vegetarian over here to do it with you, all right? Bribe her with some carrots or lettuce or something.”

I scoop another spoonful of chocolate-y yumminess into my spoon. “She’s not a rabbit, Dad.”

“Might as well be.”

“I thought you liked Kay?”

“Oh, I do. I love that kid. She’s good for you. But no meat? Come on. How she lives with Delia and her lamb fetish is beyond me.”

He slams the lid of his lunch box—an ice chest, really—and cups my chin. “I mean it, kiddo. Alone time is off the table today. Promise me.”

I want to remind him that I did perfectly well in the city without him, but that’s not entirely true, is it?

“I gotcha, Dad. I promise.”

“I’ll be back late. Call if you need me.”

My mouth is full, but I ask anyway. “You get cell phone coverage up there?”

“Not really.”

“So, you’re useless, then.”

“Pretty much.”

I kiss his cheek. “Love you, Dad. Be safe.”

“Love you too, kid. See you tonight.”

He loads into his truck with his ice chest and tool belt. Four or five other guys and their trucks back out and follow him onto the highway. A roughneck car club.

My Cocoa Pebbles are gone, so I rinse my bowl and put it in the dishwasher. I mean it when I tell Dad I’ll stay busy. The idea of spending an entire Saturday with nothing but my memories for company tastes bitter, and I decide firmly against it.

I think about calling Kaylee—it’d make Dad happy—but can’t imagine passing the day while she mitigates my failures. No, I’d rather be alone with my guilt than listen to an ignorant someone tell me it wasn’t my fault. There’s got to be something I can do to get the blood pumping. Something that doesn’t require me to wear tights and a leotard. Something active.

But this is Stratus.

Honestly.

What is there to do?

I scrounge the quilt from the living room and step out onto the porch. The sun has disappeared behind a layer of gray clouds, but the wind has mellowed and rain hardly seems imminent. My camera is in the backseat, and the storm is sure to have left some fabulous wreckage all over Stratus. I think about the old horse stables at the back of our property. Did they survive the wind and rain?

We don’t own horses, never have. But Dad hadn’t cared enough to tear down the stables when he bought the place years ago. In fact, he rarely ventures that far onto our property anymore. He just likes having distance between himself and the neighbors. He says if he wants to run around naked on his own property, he should have the freedom to do it. So with the money Grams left him, he bought a chunk of land southeast of town in case the inclination ever strikes.

Of course, this is a man who wears two pairs of socks and Timberland boots at all times. He isn’t running naked anywhere. He just wants the option.

I grab my camera bag from the car and head out. It’s a good five miles to the stables. There’s a magnificent creek about halfway there, and when I was a kid, Dad hung a swing from one of the large oak branches dangling over it. I wonder nostalgically if it’s still there.

The hike is easy, nothing but flat land and trees the entire way: some barren oaks and some of the evergreen variety. In the spring, tall grasses will grow here, as high as my waist. Green and yellow strands blowing in the wind. But the rain and cold have them cowed. They shrink from the icy white sky, bowing so low the mud claims them.

I pass through an overgrown apple orchard, snapping several pictures of downed branches and uprooted trees. I even manage to stay quiet enough to capture a doe rooting around the orchard floor looking for apples. The cold air stings my face, but today I ignore it. I get lost in the quest for a great shot, and each time I think I’ve snapped one, I remember Jake’s earlier compliment and press on looking for another.

I have so many great shots to make up for. Rolls and rolls of them, actually. Silly pictures of our adventures in the city. Of the life I sabotaged with negligence. I don’t let my mind wander too far down that path. When I do, my hands shake and photography becomes impossible. I allow tears only once and quickly regret it. It takes forty-five minutes to regain my composure.

By midmorning I reach the creek. The
shick-shick
of my camera’s shutter sends a sparrow flying through the branches of a great red oak. Shouldn’t he have flown south by now?

Ghosts from my childhood seem to pass across the lens as I snap away. Like the sparrow, the images are out of place, but welcome. I’ve let so many things slip from remembrance. The shed, for instance, that sits not far from the creek bed. It’s a rickety old thing that cozies up to the eastern edge of our property and belongs to whoever’s living in the old Miller place these days. Why Jeb Miller built a shed way out in the middle of nowhere is anyone’s guess—fishing supplies, maybe—but Dad’s particularly fierce about land rights, and though it’s the perfect size for a fort, I was never allowed to play in it.

I get as close as I dare and take several pictures. The swing is gone, but I snap a shot of the branch it hung from. Like friendship bracelets littering the arm of a junior high girl, the remnants of several different ropes decorate the limb now. Someone else has hung their swings here—maybe many someones. I wonder who’s been on our land and then decide I don’t care. This creek and the missing swing filled hours of childhood history. Everyone deserves memories like that.

The creek is calf-deep, but I avoid getting wet by crossing it stone by stone, grasping the hanging branches above to steady myself. I continue across the flattened grasses, snapping shots here and there, but the hike’s taking longer than it should. Longer than I remember anyway. When I reach a series of rolling hills, I’m certain. I’ve gotten turned around somehow. I reach into my back pocket, thinking to call Dad, but my pocket’s empty. My cell’s at the house.

Dang it.

I scrabble to the top of the nearest hill and look around. Ah! In the distance I see the stables. I must have crossed the creek at the wrong place, because now a soggy field lies between me and my destination. I’ll have to go around.

It takes considerably longer than I thought, and what should have been a couple hours of hiking has turned into a day-long affair.

But at last I reach the stables, my face chafing with exertion. I feel alive, which is more than I can say for the stables. The years of wear and tear and harsh weather have taken their toll, and there isn’t much left. Only the north face of the aging structure remains standing; the rest leans precariously south or has fallen altogether. I begin snapping pictures and continue for over an hour. When I run out of film, I pull the digital camera from my bag and keep going. Finally, when my legs begin to ache and the camera feels heavy, I seek out a dry place to sit. It takes some looking, but I finally settle on a large, flattish rock. I climb up and lie back, looking up at the clouds. They’re getting darker. I’ll have to head back soon.