Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  Acclaim for the Angel Eyes Trilogy

  “Powerful, honest, and emotionally gripping. I read it in one sitting!”

  —CJ REDWINE, AUTHOR OF

  DEFIANCE (FOR BROKEN WINGS)

  “This is one of my favorite series! Dittemore has accomplished a rare feat with Broken Wings: she’s written a sequel that’s as good as or better than book one. Beautiful, romantic, and fascinating. I couldn’t stop reading this enthralling page-turner. I’ll be the first one in line for book three.”

  —JILL WILLIAMSON, AUTHOR

  OF BY DARKNESS HID,

  REPLICATION, AND CAPTIVES

  “A gut-wrenching plunge into the supernatural, Broken Wings reveals Dittemore’s skilled, elegant prose and her prowess with compelling characters! Tangible fear and violent beauty collide in this page-turning sequel in the Angel Eyes Trilogy. Simply unputdownable! Tear the veils from your eyes—Broken Wings is one of the best YA novels out there!”

  —RONIE KENDIG, AWARD-WINNING

  AUTHOR OF THE DISCARDED HEROES

  SERIES AND TRINITY: MILITARY WAR DOG

  “The author has spectacularly designed a supernatural setting filled with charismatic characters whose gifts are worth noting.”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES, 4½ STARS

  (FOR BROKEN WINGS)

  “Stunning. A captivating read with all the intensity necessary to keep me turning pages well into the night.”

  —HEATHER BURCH, AUTHOR

  OF THE CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED

  HALFLINGS (FOR ANGEL EYES)

  “Angel Eyes 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.”

  —MYRA MCENTIRE,

  AUTHOR OF HOURGLASS

  “Angel Eyes is a fine debut. A touching and exciting romance with celestial implications.”

  —ANDREW KLAVAN, AWARD-WINNING

  AUTHOR OF CRAZY DANGEROUS

  “Shannon Dittemore gives us a classic tale of good versus evil with an authentically contemporary feel—and the assurance that beautiful writing is back.”

  —NANCY RUE, AUTHOR OF THE

  REAL LIFE SERIES (FOR ANGEL EYES)

  “. . . teens who like paranormal, edge-of-your-seat drama with a strong Christian message will enjoy this second installment in the trilogy.”

  —RAGAN O’MALLEY, SAINT

  ANN’S SCHOOL, B

  “Where?”or wrap my arms06-01-0" class="crt">© 2013 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.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation. © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations are taken from THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION®. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  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

  Dittemore, Shannon.

  Dark halo / Shannon Dittemore.

  pages cm -- (Angel eyes trilogy ; book 3)

  Summary: Will Brielle choose demon Damien’s dark halo and the ignorance that comes with it, or will she choose to live with her eyes wide open and trust the Creator’s design—even if it means a future without Jake?

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8639-0 (trade paper)

  [1. Supernatural--Fiction. 2. Angels--Fiction. 3. Demonology--Fiction. 4.

  Love--Fiction. 5. Fate and fatalism--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D6294Dar 2013

  [Fic]--dc23

  2013011841

  Printed in the United States of America ">An Excerpt from

  A Note from the Author

  You are picking up the third and final book in the Angel Eyes Trilogy. Reading Books One and Two first would be ideal, but if you’re determined to jump right into Dark Halo, there are a few things you should know about this story.

  In Angel Eyes we were introduced to Brielle, a talented ballerina who’d been away at boarding school for the past two years. A couple of months into her senior year, her best friend, Ali, was killed, and Brielle returned to her hometown of Stratus, Oregon, to get away from the memories that haunt her.

  While she was away at school, a new boy, Jake, and his guardian moved in next door. But Jake’s guardian is no ordinary ca for the rest of your li ap Aregiver. Canaan is a Shield, an angel sent to Stratus to protect Brielle. In his possession are two supernatural items.

  He has a chest cut from onyx. Occasionally the Throne Room of heaven delivers items to Canaan by placing them inside the chest. Just before Brielle returned to Stratus, a diamond engagement ring appeared there. Engraved on the band was the phrase From hands that heal to eyes that see.

  Canaan also has a halo, a crown that was given to every angel who did not join the rebellion of the Prince of Darkness eons ago. When Jake was young, Canaan gave the halo to him. The halo comforted Jake, something he desperately needed as a child, but it also gave him the ability to heal. In an attempt to help ease Brielle’s devastation, Jake passed the halo to her. Not only does the halo provide Brielle with the strength she needs to cope, it gives her the ability to see through the terrestrial veil and into the celestial realm—a realm usually seen only by angels and their kind.

  In Angel Eyes Jake and Brielle used their gifts to dismantle a child trafficking operation and dispatch a fallen angel, Damien, who desired to corrupt their gifts.

  Jake and Brielle thought they were free of Damien. But when the engagement ring disappeared from the chest only to be replaced by Damien’s bloody dagger, Jake didn’t have the heart to tell Brielle they may not be as safe as they think.

  In Broken Wings Damien was commissioned by the Prince of Darkness to capture and bring Jake and Brielle to him. Damien wanted the halo as well and enlisted the help of a human named Olivia Holt to track it down. But heaven had other plans for Stratus and sent another group of angels, the Sabres—whose worship has the capacity to tear through the terrestrial veil—to the tiny town with just that purpose.

  Unwilling to have the celestial realm revealed, the Prince of Darkness retaliated by sending a legion of his finest warriors, the Palatine. As Broken Wings closed, a heavenly war was ravaging the skies over Stratus. In the midst of the chaos, Damien snatched Jake from the safety of Canaan’s wings. Brielle could do nothing bum;">

  I will ascend to heaven and set my throne above God’s stars.

  I will preside on the mountain of the gods far away in the north.

  I will climb to the highest heavens and be like the Most High.

  1

  Brielle

  Jake’s gone.

  His absence races through my veins like a bomb destined to explode if it stops or slows. That’s how I feel: that the truth of what happened here yesterday will ki
ll me if I stop moving.

  So I don’t. I keep dancing. I keep praying. Moments of peace find me, sprinkled like cinnamon onto a poisoned apple.

  For the thousandth time I yank my mind away from dark things and back to the Creator, who brought Jake into my life. Back to the beauty of the Celestial. The Celestial that is coloring this grove of trees red. I open my eyes and take it in. Our neglected apple orchard, full of brittle gray wood, snarled leaves, and cobwebs, is lit up around me. Reds of every shade grace the branches and the rotting fruit below. Dead trees are transformed. Light and life expand from their center, reminding me that reality as I know it is not all there is.

  Another sprinkle of cinnamon . . .

  Jake’s been gone for eighteen hours now, and still the Sabres sing. Still they fight. Their presence has thinned the terrestrial veil here in the orchard, and it can’t be long before their worship tears through. I just . . . I don’t know what that means.

  For me. For Stratus.

  My chest heaves with exertion and my body is slick with sweat when a gigantic silver angel comes into view overhead. My celestial vision has been erratic for the last few days, but as I watch, the battle remains visible for a solid minute, if not more. It’s long enough to pull me from my dance anyway, to force my gaze through the tangle of branches above.

  A Sabre hovers there. I can’t tell if it’s Virtue; this angel’s been fighting for hours, days maybe, so his skin is too bright and his wings too fast, moving like an orchestra of bowstrings. Wings that I know are made of hundreds and hundreds of blades. They blur, sending music—sharp and staccato—into the sky. Tendrils of royal blue fill the orchard—the incense of worship. They wrap around me, lifting my arms. I breathe in the Sabre’s worship. It smells of the ocean, of briny wind and sand. The fragrance fills my chest, and I let my body mimic the ribbons of worship.

  I try not to take my eyes off the scene above for longer than a second or two, because thirty paces beyond the Sabre a gaggle of demons dodges and leaps, avoiding the shards of white light ricocheting off the Sabre’s wings. Like a well-aimed spear, lightning slices through three of them, and they disappear in a burst of ash.

  The Sabre’s music picks up and I dance fa says, looking around. or wrap my armsster, yellow incense joining the blue. Smelling of salty sunshine, it wraps around my legs, one after the other. The incense guides me; I stretch and spin, my face craned to the sky, watching. Always watching.

  A single demon moves closer, slinking past his brothers. He jabs with his crooked sword, his mouth moving in a strange animal way. But I hear nothing of it. The song of the Sabre drowns his cry. I curl into myself, backing deeper into the grove. The demon is way too close.

  The Sabre must think so too.

  He spins, ducking and then arching in one swift movement. The demon tries to evade attack, but he’s nowhere near fast enough. Wings of blade hack at the fallen monster, and I watch as with a sputter of fire and sulfur the thing is shredded. I turn slowly, embers falling around me as the remaining demons are dispatched with one graceful spin after another.

  The Sabre’s dancing too, I think.

  It’s strange. Wonderfully strange to be dancing with an angel.

  The Sabre turns toward me, his wings slowing, his music softening. He’s wrapped in tendrils of green now and he’s still far too bright. I can’t make out his features, but when I hear his voice in my head, I know it’s not Virtue, but one of his kin. This voice is more bass than tenor.

  “Your worship blesses me.”

  I’ve done little more than cower and dance. But before I can voice my thought he speeds away, a white smear across the red sky. I roll back onto my heels and stare after him. The green tendrils diffuse as he distances himself from me, the blue separating from yellow. He takes the blue with him, a vibrant tail splashing across the sky. The yellow tendrils are left with me in the orchard. They curl around this tree and that.

  My eyes retrace the path of the yellow ribbon as it snakes through the trees. Around the limb of an elm—one of many that are trying to reclaim this orchard—and through the tall grasses that surround me, right into my chest.

  I push to my feet and breathe deeply. Virtue said my song had power, that I could use worship against the Fallen. I just . . . It’s strange seeing it. I shouldn’t question wh//www.w3.org/1

  2

  Marco

  Marco hasn’t slept in days, but it’s not for lack of trying. Memories sit like sand beneath his eyelids, scratch stop fighting.”

  . through,ing away at the tenderness there whenever he closes his eyes. He’s never been a great sleeper—even as a kid—but once Ali died, sleep lost its appeal entirely.

  The worst of the nightmares are the ones that swallow him whole, the ones that make him forget he’s dreaming. And since the moment in Jake’s house when he put that Tron-disc-looking thing on his head, the dreams have only gotten worse.

  Brielle called it a halo, but there’s nothing angelic about what it did to him. Since touching the thing, his dreams have grown to include memories from his childhood. Memories that had been long forgotten. Dreams of his and Ali’s early days are often interrupted by images of Marco’s elementary school burning, Brielle burning with it.

  But the Brielle in his dream is too old, too sickly, too out of place. He tells himself it can’t be real, says it again and again, but still the dream comes round like a dark horse on a carousel of pink ponies, blighting everything. And carved into all of it, like it’s been branded to his retinas, are the words from Ali’s gravestone.

  There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

  Providence.

  The word frightens him.

  Alone, he straddles a chair on Olivia’s veranda, his knuckles white as they grip the porch railing. The view from the West Hills is one of the most sought after in Portland, but for Marco it’s like looking at snapshots of a funeral. All the bad that happened in his life happened here. In this city. On those streets.

  Liv’s lawn is an overgrown mess of tangled grasses as it slopes away from the million-dollar home and disappears into the evergreens that separate her property from the world-famous Rose Gardens below. Beyond the gardens, downtown Portland sprawls like a leggy spider, its bridges stretching from one side of the Willamette River to the other, Mount Hood in the distance lording over it all.

  Marco grew up not far from here. Not here in the West Hills; even when his dad’s pockets were at their fullest, his family couldn’t have afforded a house like this one. But the neighborhood he grew up in, the playgrounds he haunted, the elementary school that burned with Liv’s mom inside—none of it’s far. Just down the hillside, past the gardens. Maybe a five-minute drive.

  For hours now he’s been trying to figure out why Liv doesn’t take her money and run. Her mother died here, in that school. Why not leave? Get away from this cursed town, away from the past that destroyed her family. She could get a job anywhere. Staying makes no sense to him.

  It’s been a day and night of restless nothing. Olivia’s house is by far the grandest place he’s ever slept in. Hardwood floors run throughout the residence, and intricate millwork decorates the archways and moldings. Marble accents add an extravagant touch Marco could never get used to, and the state-of-the-art wine cellar pushes the whole thing over the top. Everything is dark and fine and very, very Liv.

  He recalls’s notowp0 the first time he saw Olivia Holt. It was summer then also, and the city was warm. His dad was perpetually jobless, so his mom had taken to babysitting every stray kid in the neighborhood for extra cash. Marco had escaped the whining and the crying by climbing out the window and settling in on their fourth-floor fire escape. Ten years old, a stack of X-Men comic books on his lap, he stared at his own reflection in the window, trying to imagine what he’d look like if he shaved his head like Professor X. But he was too thin, too gangly, too pale. The squeal of brakes and the idling of an engine pulled his attention away from the dirty glass. A moving truck sat p
arked in front of the building across the street.

  Low-income apartments lined this road, but the one across the street was the nicest: a brick building with little planter boxes full of roses outside the ground floor windows. His building was nothing but a converted hotel with chipping stucco and shaky fire escapes. Neither structure was glorious, not like the homes a few blocks over, but he was very aware that his was the worst of the bunch.

  He closed the comic book and watched as a woman climbed from the cab of the truck. Tall, thin, and curvy all at the same time. She reached her arms up and lifted a girl from the cab.

  Liv. She was the first beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time. Creamy copper skin and thick brown hair, braided back. Mother knelt before daughter, right there in the street, and spoke something in her ear. Her words were too quiet for Marco to hear, but he shifted anyway, leaning closer. The movement sent a comic book slipping from the pile in his lap, through the iron bars of the fire escape and skittering to the ground.

  Over her mother’s shoulder, Liv’s eyes found Marco’s. Embarrassed, he fought the impulse to look away, but even then the actor gene was strong, and with an audience below he couldn’t resist. He stood and waved.

  “You dropped your book,” Liv called, stepping around her mother.

  Chivalry attacked him then. Perhaps the first bout of it he’d ever had.

  “You take it,” he said. “It’s a good one. Wolverine saves the day.”

  With a light shove from her mother, Liv crossed the street.

  “Who’s Wolverine?” she asked. She was directly beneath him now, picking up the comic.

  He knelt, ignored the bars that creased his knees, and pushed his face to the grate. “He’s a mutant. He’s got retracting claws and a healing factor that keeps him alive even if you shoot him a million times.”

  “That’s gross.”

  “It’s not gross. It’s cool.”

  She flipped a few pages. “It doesn’t look cool.”