Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  And then Marco’s not so silent anymore.

  “You!” He pushes past Olivia, dropping his bag and lunging at Damien, the man responsible for Ali’s death.

  “Marco!” Jake yells, wincing at the pain flaring in his shoulder.

  Marco’s face turns toward Jake, but forward momentum propels him into Damien’s chest. The demon shoves him to his knees.

  “Jake?” Marco says, still seething. “What are you doing here?”

  Jake doesn’t answer. He’s too busy watching the exchange between Olivia and Damien.

  “You have it?” Damien asks.

  Olivia’s face is hard, harder than Jake’s ever seen it. Her eyes bounce from Jake to the demon before her. “Why is he here?”

  “I asked you a question,” Damien says. “Where is it?”

  Olivia stoops to grab the bag Marco dropped—Jake’s bag. “It’s in here,” she says, handing the bag to Damien. “Take it.”

  “Untie him,” Marco demands, moving closer to Jake. He looks first to Damien and then to Olivia. But no one’s listening to Marco.

  Damien tips the bag onto the floor. A collection of clothing topples out, along with a few personal things. A wallet. A leather journal.

  “What are you doing?” Marco asks. “LoWhat are you doing?owp0oking for my fifty-eight cents?” His fingers grasp and slip against the cords on Jake’s wrists. “I can’t do this. I need a knife. Cut him free.”

  But he’s ignored.

  “Where is it?” Damien asks.

  “Check the pockets,” Olivia says, slinking toward Jake. “I’m sure it’s there.”

  “You told me you had it,” Damien charges. “You haven’t checked the maggot’s bag?”

  “Didn’t need to. It’s there. I can hear the thing.”

  Jake’s so consumed by the conversation that he forgets the pain in his arm, his head.

  “You can hear it?” Damien asks, echoing Jake’s thought.

  “You can’t?” she asks with a flip of her silky black hair.

  Damien pulls at the many zippers on the bag, one pocket after another, jamming his large hand into each one before moving on.

  “It’s in the front one,” Jake says, his voice cracking, his eyes moving back to Marco’s. “Unless you removed it.”

  “Removed what?” Marco asks. Jake watches him for signs of a lie. But his gift isn’t sight, and if this actor wanted to lie to him, it’d be only too easy.

  “The halo,” Jake says.

  Marco looks to Damien, who’s finally found the front pocket of the bag.

  “I didn’t know . . . didn’t realize it was in there,” Marco says, his eyes huge, the look on his face leaving little doubt of his ignorance. “How?”

  Jake takes pity on him. “When you came by the house for your stuff, you took—”

  “The wrong bag,” Marco finishes.

  “Yeah.”

  Olivia stands behind Marco now, her hands on her hips, scrutinizing Jake with those caramel eyes of hers. “I still don’t understand why you took the boy,” she calls over her shoulder. “What do you intend to do with him?”

  But Damien’s preoccupied. His fingers fumble with a jammed zipper. He curses and yanks harder, splitting the zipper and sending the halo tumbling to the floor. Jake flinches as it lands on the concrete with a metallic chink. They all turn to look. All except Olivia.

  “I thought I’d put distance between me and that thing,” Marco says, his voice quiet. “But I’d just strapped it to my back, hadn’t I? Why does he want it?”

  For the first time since Marco entered the basement, Jake looks him over, considers him. He looks awful, tortured, his green eyes ringed red. His face is pale, and despite the extra clothing in his bag, he hasn’t changed since the last time Jake saw him. And that was what, a day ago? Two days?

  “I don’t know why he wants it, Marco.”

  They watch as Damien steps from the shadows and tosses the bag aside. He kneels and with careful fingers lifts the halo off the floor. Jake half expects it to burn him like the halo burned Elle when Olivia touched it, but the demon registers no pain. Strange, considering the supernatural heat the halo is known to give off. But it seems only Damien’s celestial form is affected by heat.

  He turns it in his hands, its glow lighting his olive skin, brightening his black eyes. When he speaks his words are laced with adrenaline and purpose of the darkest kind.

  “What happens when one of us wears the crown of the faithful?” he asks, stepping closer. “Aren’t you curious? What happens when a demon wears a halo?”

  Marco inches closer to Jake. “What is he talking about?”

  But Jake shakes his head. “Damien—”

  The demon’s eyes are frenetic now, staring at the halo as it molds from crown to cuff and back again. He’s mesmerized. “I want to know if its power can be wielded. If this golden halo can be used to instill gifts at will. At my will.”

  “It was made by the Creator, Damien. You think you can corrupt it?”

  Damien pushes Olivia and Marco aside and leans into Jake’s face. “I was made by the Creator, and it took very little to corrupt me. So, yes. If it can be corrupted, I will figure out how.”

  Jake feels the blood drain from his face and watches the confused halo morph back and forth in the demon’s hand. Cuff, crown, cuff, crown. Damien’s words are true.

  Is it possible? Can the halo be used for evil?

  Jake refuses to believe it. “You’re an idiot,” he spits.

  “And you’re my prisoner,” Damien says. “My guinea pig. Only . . .” His eyes move from Jake to Marco and back again. “Ms. Holt, find me another chair.”

  Olivia laughs, but it’s hollow, forced. She’s as confused as the halo. Whatever she agreed to, it wasn’t this.

  “I got you the bracelet. You do your own legwork from here on out. Come on, Marco.”

  She reaches a hand out to her old friend, but faster than humanly possible, Damien is on top of her. He slams her against the barren shelves, press the Prince’s halole his handing her against them with his massive arms and chest.

  “What the—” Marco tries to intercede, but with a well-placed elbow Damien throws him backward. Jake watches Marco for signs of distress. He groans, but his chest rises and falls. Jake turns his attention back to Olivia.

  In one fist Damien clenches the halo, in the other a handful of Olivia’s hair. She flails against him, but Damien is not deterred. He sniffs at her face and neck, growling with delight.

  “You wear fear well, Liv. Can I call you Liv?” He grabs her chin and yanks it up and down. “Good. ’Cause I’d like us to be partners. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Partners, like you and Javan.”

  She squirms against him, terrified gurgles coming from her throat.

  “There it is again, the fear. I can smell it on you. I can taste it on the air you stir. Like an old friend, you’ve grown comfortable with it, but I’ll share a secret with you, Liv. Fear answers to me.”

  She shakes her head from side to side. Jake knows she’s doing her best to shake off the fear, to free herself from its grasp.

  “Oh yes, it does,” Damien coos. “It answers to me. With just a little direction fear itself would squeeze you tight. I could suffocate you, collapse those lungs of yours, without laying a finger on you. Did you know that? Fear would do it for me.” He grins. “That puts you in my debt . . .”

  Olivia rips her arm free and drags her nails across his face, but within a second he has her hand slammed against a splintered shelf.

  Her lips curl back. “I am not. In your debt.”

  “So independent,” Damien says, pressing his face closer to hers. “You think you’re free? Think again. Every one of us serves one master or another. I’ve spent eons dwelling on just how unfair that is. But it’s true.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.” She tries to pull her arm free, but he holds it tight.

  “It means you’re mine.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact
. He’s just laying it out for her now. “Javan made promises to you, but he’s gone now and his promises mean nothing. I’ve moved in. I own you. Every decision you’ve ever made, every deception, every crime, every wayward passion of the heart—they’ve all ensured your loyalty to Darkness. You couldn’t be free of us now if you tried.”

  “That’s not true, Olivia,” Jake says. “There’s a way. There’s always a way.”

  But Damien’s captured her attention. “And those wounds Javan promised to rid you of, those are mine too. Mine to exploit.”

  Olivia swallows. “There are just so many. Which ones are you claiming?”

  Jake watches in horror as Damien’s hand slides to Olivia’s wrist and yanks it forward. He turns it so the soft flesh of her inner arm faces out. She screams and thrashes as an invisible claw carves three lines into her skin.

  Jake yells out, but Damien just smiles.

  “Keep your eyes on the pretty lady, boy. I’m not done yet.”

  Olivia gasps. Her knees buckle and she falls forward. Even strapped to a chair, Jake tries to catch her. But the attempt is useless, and Olivia smacks the concrete floor hard, knees first and then face. Her legs curl and shake, her expensive shoes scraping against the floor before working loose and falling away. Jake watches in horror as the backs of Olivia’s legs blister and burn, an invisible fire melting the skin away.

  “No!” Jake yells. “Damien, stop! Please! Stop!”

  And then Olivia’s legs scab and scar. In just seconds the body’s healing process has completed itself. It’s not as tidy a job as Jake’s hands are capable of, the skin puckered and pink, but her screams of agony fade to whimpers, and Jake sags against the chair.

  Damien grabs Olivia under the arms and lifts her to her feet. She’s trembling, head to toe, her face streaked with tears. He tips her chin up and then dusts the dirt from her hands and face in a motion that is almost tender. Bile fills Jake’s mouth.

  “Now, Liv, go get me a chair.” Damien eyes Marco. “I like the idea of having two guinea pigs.”

  Olivia gives a spastic little nod and gingerly walks toward the stairs. With a lacquered finger she strokes the silver scars on her arm. Bare feet and scarred legs . . . it’s not hard to imagine Olivia as the singed child from Brielle’s nightmares. Jake’s heart breaks for her. For the life she’s lived. Even with head high-five

  9

  Brielle

  I brought Oreos.”

  Kaylee’s standing in the doorway of the old Miller place. She’s wearing a Snuggie with monkeys printed all over it and her Tasmanian Devil slippers.

  “Aren’t you hot?” I ask.

  “A little,” she admits. “But I’m cozy!”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I brought Oreos.” She shakes the bag in front of my face. “Hot boy better have milk.” She steps inside, tugging a bedazzled rolling backpack behind her. “I did bring my Justin Bieber collection, though, so I didn’t forget everything.”

  I’m still staring at the backpack. Surely that’s not what she plans to take when she leaves for the Peace Corps.

  “Are you under the impression that I’m throwing a sleepover?”

  “No, you’re waiting and praying,” she says—air quotes around the waiting and praying. “Did I get that right? I’m the one throwing a sleepover.”

  “Kay . . .”

  She closes the door and adopts that doe-eyed innocence she wields so easily. “Let me do this, okay? Let me make this better for you. Please, please, please. You need me.”

  I love her, that’s true, but need is such a specific kind of word.

  “Come on, Elle. I want to be here. I want to help.”

  She looks so eager and so not scared.

  “It’s just . . . it’s dangerous,” I say. “And you’re wearing a Snuggie.”

  She points at me with a sparkly blue fingernail. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And dangerous? Dangerous like the crazy demon who stabbed your dad and chucked him into the wall? I was there for that, remember. And I think I helped a bit. Right? I was helpful?”

  “You were awesome, Kay, but being close to me right now, tonight, it’s just . . . it’s not safe. I don’t want anything awful to happen to you.”

  “Funny you should say that, ’cause the only way I could get out of massaging Aunt Delia’s feet for the rest of the night—yeah, awful—was by telling her I promised you a night of juvenile frivolity. If she asks, you and Jake are having problems, which is kind of true. I mean, missing is kind of a problem. So really, by letting me stay, you’re saving me from something awful.”

  She slides the plastic tray out of the cookie bag and offers me an Oreo.

  “Don’t worry. I washed my hands.” She waggles the cookie in front of me. “Go on, take it.”

  I do. I take the cookie. How can I not?

  “You’re—”

  “Incorrigible,” she says. “I know. Delia makes sure I know.”

  “I was going to say amazing, but now my mouth is full.”

  She beams, her chest out, her eyes sparkling. “You’re more than welcome. You just have to promise to tell me if you see any more of those demon guys, okay? And if Damien comes back, I fully expect you to throw yourself between the two of us all dramatic-like. Really show off that superhero vision you’ve got there, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, a smile undoing me.

  Kaylee looks around the living room for the first time. Sun streams through the windows, lighting the furnishings. A pair of Jake’s dirty socks are still on the floor. His work schedule sits on the coffee table.

  I’m scared for him. So scared it hurts.

  “Now, where are we setting up camp?”

  “Canaan’s room,” I say, blinking back tears.

  Kaylee gestures grandly. “After you.”

  I have half an Oreo stuck in my teeth, so before we head down the hall I fill two glasses with milk and hand one to Kaylee.

  “So, this is Canaan’s chest?” she asks, stepping into his room. “I mean, obviously it’s not his chest, chest, but it’s his chest? And what does it do exactly?”

  She’s been here for four minutes and I already have milk shooting out my nose. I wipe it away and try to explain. “This is how the Throne Room communicates with Canaan. It’s where he gets his assignments from.”

  “Like you,” she says. “You’re an assignment?”

  I nod.

  “And this is where your engagement ring just appeared. All magical and stuff.”

  “It’s not magic, Kay.” But I really, really don’t want to talk about the ring right now. It’s gone anyway. There’s not much more to say about it.

  “Well, it’s nifty.” She tilts her head, staring at the chest. The lid’s still on. I don’t have the heart to open it and show her the dagger. That’s another thing I’d like to avoid for the night. “I kind of want to climb inside. You think I’d fit?”

  “Let’s not find out, okay?”

  “You’re the boss.” Kaylee busies herself with all sorts of sleepover rituals. I do my best to pray silently, and I monitor the chest every few minutes, opening the lid just wide enough for me to see inside. But so far there’s been nothing.

  “We need music,” Kaylee says, rummaging through her bag. “You pick: Justin or Taylor?”

  “Taylor,” I say.

  “You said Justin, right? I heard Justin.” She leaves, heading for Jake’s massive stereo in the living room.

  I sneak another peek inside the chest. There’s nothing new, just the dagger and a chill that latches onto me before I can stop it.

  “I’m starved. What do you want for dinner?” Kaylee hollers over the music.

  “Whatever,” I say. “You want help?”

  “Nah. Get to praying. Canaan’s got a microwave. I’ll be all right.”

  Rubbing my bare arms, I step out of Canaan’s room and into Jake’s. I’m not cold, not really. But getting lost in a sweatshirt sounds nice, and anythi
ng in Canaan’s room would swallow me. Gingerly I make my way through the chaos on Jake’s floor until I’m standing in front of the closet. I pilfer through it, finally settling on a navy blue hoodie with a gigantic pocket in the front. The seams are frayed and the drawstring is missing, but it smells like Jake.

  I wander back to Canaan’s room and crawl onto the bed. I draw my legs up under the sweatshirt and wrap my arms around my knees. Canaan’s window looks out across the highway. Somewhere the sun is setting—I can’t see it directly, but the sky is a bruise of darkest purple. Pink and orange striations ripple through it. It’s beautiful, but I close my eyes on it all, on the beauty and everything hiding beneath it.

  I pray. Silently, of course. The words are more eloquent that way. No stumbling over them, no shame when I can’t get them just right. In my head I’m very articulate. I pray for Jake. For Canaan and Helene. I pray that Jake will walk through the door and that this nightmare will be over. I pray that fear wouldn’t find a permanent home in Stratus. That the dreams finding their way into the minds of my friends and neighbors wouldn’t be tainted by darkness. I pray that Dad would choose God and love instead of hate and doubt. I pray for all kinds of miracles.

  When I open my eyes, Kaylee’s there, sitting on the floor with a tray of s

  “You did good, Kay. This is the best dinner ever,” I say, staring at my s’more and trying to decide just how best to bite it.

  “All they have in the fridge is, like, a hunk of cow and some spicy hot wings.” She swallows and continues, “There’s got to be something in that Bible of yours about an angel eating hot wings. I mean, come on!”

  I laugh, a hand clamped over my mouth to keep the crumbs inside.

  “Tell me I’m not right,” she says.

  But I can’t tell her anything, I’m laughing so hard my stomach aches. Finally, lying on my back, happy tears streaming down my face, a s’more half-eaten in my mouth, I hear it: the sound of rustling paper. It’s soft, muffled. And if my ear hadn’t been pressed against the chest, I doubt I’d have heard it at all.

  I hack and sputter, forcing myself to swallow the bite in my mouth as I sit up and spin around. I lift the lid off the chest and shove it all in one motion. It falls to the ground with a dull thud.