Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  And then a voice, an intoxicating voice grows from the desert itself.

  “I’d ask you to stand, but you’re captivating on your knees.”

  I can’t tell if the words are in my mind alone, but with no one else around to hear them, it hardly matters. They’re meant for me.

  And they’re lovely.

  I feel the fear gurgle and slow to a trickle. I’m not alone.

  I’m not alone.

  I’d give anything to hear the strange disembodied voice again. Something deep inside my chest tells me I shouldn’t want that, that I shouldn’t entertain this speaker, but I do. I want to hear him say other things. My name. Yes! I want to hear him say my name.

  “Gabrielle, isn’t it?”

  I shove to my feet and look left and right. I spin, searching the squash-colored salt platforms. I search the sky. Where? Where?

  And then he’s before me, standing on the platform adjacent to mine. Human, but most certainly not. Black curls hang around a face so pale I fear the scorching sun will blister it. His face is perfectly symmetrical, a plump bottom lip nestled lightly between his teeth, his eyes the palest blue I’ve ever seen. He stands there, his fingers twined before him, in a shirt precisely the color of his eyes. The collar hangs open and the sleeves are folded neatly at the elbow. His pants, the same soft color, hang loosely on his hips. His feet are bare and everything about him seems to shine, even to my terrestrial eyes. Another warning trills through my body, but I’m terrified he’ll leave me. Terrified I’ll be left alone.

  I stand and walk to the edge of the platform, my toes sending a shiver of salt to the desert floor. It’s only then that I see the danger in his eyes. Beyond anything I could have imagined, he’s striking. Like a cobra, like a scorpion, like a crystal goblet& ainow full of cyanide.

  Like forbidden fruit.

  And I force myself to acknowledge what I’ve been stifling.

  This is the Prince.

  Not some handsome boy who can be trusted. Not an all-powerful Creator. On the contrary, he, too, is a created being. Like me. He’s selfish and arrogant. And he wants to destroy everything I’ve been given.

  Hatred floods me. Because it seems to be the only thing keeping the fear in check, I let it. It makes my muscles throb with a desire to lash out, to kick and flail and scratch at him, this fiend who’s stolen so much. I bite back my question—the one my heart screams in staggering little gasps. But I don’t ask him where Jake is. I won’t. I refuse to discuss the things I love with seduction itself.

  But I have to say something to this demon man. I have to say something to this desert snake staring back at me with mirrors in his eyes.

  “What do you want?” My voice shakes, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear or anger. Probably both.

  “Ironic,” he says. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” He’s not like the other angels I’ve met. He’s closer to Jake’s height than Canaan’s and has a similar boy-like charm. His eyes light up when he speaks, his tongue wetting his lips.

  “I want to go home,” I say.

  A broad smile, the contagious kind, drops dimples into his cheeks, and the hatred I’d reined in only moments ago feels less important. I remind myself to hate him. To fear every word he breathes.

  “The smell of cows and greasy diner food? That’s what you want to go home to?”

  “It’s my home,” I say.

  “I thought you couldn’t wait to leave Stratus. Perhaps I’m doing you a favor.”

  “The desert is a favor?”

  “Sure. It’s exciting. Exotic.”

  “Smells like rotten eggs.”

  He laughs, and I can’t help the smile it brings on. I’ve only known one other person whose laugh carried that kind of power. My chest is tight, sick with emotion, and the hilarity hurts. And just like that, it’s not funny anymore.

  The Prince cocks his head, his own laugh falling silent.

  “Offensive odors aside, when did that pinprick on the map become your world?”

  He wants me to talk about Jake. But I won’t.

  “There was a time when you wished for more. You wanted beauty and art. A stage. AnI’m not sure yowpD; audience.”

  He leans forward, his shoulders squared. His arms are extended just inches from his sides, but it gives him a look of power, of authority. And when he speaks, I almost believe him.

  “I can give you that.”

  I’m not tempted. I’m not. But he’s right. There was a time when our ugly little town nauseated me. When the lights of a city—any city—held such sway I would’ve given anything to touch them. I turn my face away, looking out over the yellow desert. Things have changed. I’ve changed. And my goals are different, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss that person. The girl who believed that all dreams were within her grasp. That she controlled her own destiny. It’s an intoxicating notion, after all. But it’s a lie.

  “I know that look,” he says. “You’re writing me off.”

  “Because you’re a liar.”

  He turns his palms up and shrugs. “Placate me, will you? Let yourself believe, for just a moment, that the what-ifs in this life are attainable. That to reach them, all you need is a little help, a little assistance from someone like me.” He spreads his arms wide to match that smile of his. “Imagine this desert is my platter. Imagine that I could craft the very things you most want and offer them to you. What would you ask for?”

  I’m done listening. “I want to go home.”

  “No, you don’t,” he says with obvious disgust. “You’re much too special for Stratus. With all your potential, everything you’ve seen, you expect me to believe that the greatest desire of your heart is to go home?”

  I’ve disappointed him, and for a fleeting moment I wonder how I could have deigned to fail such a magnificent being. It’s a strange thought, an out-of-place thought, but as he continues to speak, it burrows into my mind. “Which of us is the liar now?” he asks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about desire. Need. I’m talking about that gigantic hole in your chest that leaks fear.”

  I look down at my chest. And he’s right, the fear’s back. Hatred couldn’t keep it at bay for long.

  “I’m talking about the only way to stop the bleed, the only way to cap the leak. I’m talking about satisfying the monster that keeps chewing free. Tell me what you really want. Because we both know it isn’t Smalltown, USA.”

  I want to tell him. I don’t know why I want to tell him. Maybe it’s just so I can hear Jake’s name, feel it on my lips. Maybe it’s because I want someone to tell me it’s okay to be self-centered. I don’t know, but the need to say it out loud feels like an open blister, every word he says stinging air on the wound. I want my feelings to mean something. I want my need to fit&3OowpD; into someone’s plan.

  But I know it’s the magic of his voice. The sorcery of his words.

  “You’ve heard a lot of things about me, I know, and much of it is true. But there are things they’ve glossed over, things I could help you understand. I’m sure you have questions. About your friend Ali. About your mother.”

  He’s grabbing my emotions, manipulating them like clay. I know he is, and yet I’m chained to how I feel. I don’t know how to act against it.

  “Gabrielle,” he says, stepping toward me. “Come. Sit with me.”

  His platform is three or four feet from mine. He crouches and then throws his feet over the edge, where they dangle a foot or two off the desert floor. He waits there, looking up at me, a twisted Romeo and Juliet kind of moment. I force myself to step back. It’s a small victory, considering how tired I am, how much I could use the simplicity of rest. But every inch I give him is a battle lost, I think. I know I can’t barter with the devil.

  “I said sit.” His voice never rises, his face never reddens, but I am shoved, violently shoved to the ground. I land hard on my backside, my back cracking and my left leg going numb. “Isn’t that bet
ter? Sitting. Relaxing. I’d just like to talk for a minute, Elle.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I say, repulsed—truly repulsed for the first time.

  “Your friends call you that, don’t they?” he says with a shrug. “In fact, everyone calls you that.”

  I rub at my leg. “You’re not everyone. You’re certainly not my friend.”

  He leans forward, both of his hands curling around the lip of the salt platform. “Then what am I?”

  I stare at the mirrors in his eyes. I need to see myself say the words. “You’re my enemy. The enemy of my soul.”

  His smile turns patronizing. “Do you even know what that means?”

  “It means you want death for my soul, and I want life. That makes you my enemy.”

  “Your soul is eternal, gifted one. There’s nothing you or I can do about that.”

  For a minute his words baffle me. “Don’t play games with me. I’ve told you what I want: I want to go home. Now it’s your turn. What do you want?”

  “You,” he says, crossing his ankles as they dangle. “There. I’ve said it. I’ve been honest. You can tell me, Elle. What is it you want more than anything?”

  I’m silent.

  “It’s only polite. Come, you may not like me, but I&ing the owpD;’m not awful to look at. Not awful to talk to. And the Creator’s seen fit to let you choose. I won’t force you to do anything.”

  “But you’ll try.”

  “Like Canaan’s tried? There’s no use denying it. He’s tried to convince you to see the world the way he sees it.”

  His choice of words is ridiculous. “I do see the world the way he sees it, or haven’t you heard?”

  He ignores me. “I can’t blame him. I’ll certainly try, but the least you could do is be honest. We both know what it is you want, don’t we? You wouldn’t be telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  That ticks me off. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Well, that’s not true and you know it. I know plenty about you. Certainly not everything, but who does?”

  “The Creator. My Creator. Your Creator. He knows everything about me. He knows where I am. What I’m doing. What you’re doing.”

  A shadow passes over the Prince’s face, his expression growing tighter. “You’re deflecting. My point is that I know enough about you to be helpful.”

  I make a face.

  “Oh, but I do. For instance, I know your father’s having a rather hard time of it right now.”

  “You leave my father out of this,” I say through clenched teeth.

  He sits up and crosses his legs. “But he’s right in the middle of it, isn’t he? Now, I know you’re trying your hardest not to mention your boyfriend, but I assure you I’m less interested in him than you think. Don’t get me wrong, as a pair you two ship off rather nicely, but alone he’s nothing but a circus act, and trust me, I’ve got plenty of those. But a girl who can see into the Celestial—now that’s something special. That’s a gift. That’s useful.”

  “It’s my gift,” I say. “Useful to me and mine. Not you. Not yours.”

  “True. Very, very true. And like your soul, I couldn’t take it from you even if I tried.”

  His words are silky, confusing.

  “But I do have a proposition for you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “It’s polite to wait until I’ve made the offer to decline it. Let’s try again. I have a proposition for you.”

  I open my mouth to tell him no but find my lips sealed shut. I start to panic, but I can feel the invisible fingers pressing into my face. It’s a soI’m not sure yowpD;lid reminder that I’m not alone with the Prince. That he’s brought minions. I find myself wondering again the same thing I’ve wondered so many times over the past few days: are there really more fighting for me than for him?

  The fact that there are some steadies me. I might feel alone, but I’m not. I will my heart to slow and stare down the Prince with as much vehemence as I can muster.

  “Much better, Elle. You’re growing. I like that. Now, here’s what I have to offer. You hear me out, give me a few truthful answers, and I will save your father.”

  I still can’t speak. My lips refuse to move.

  “He’s dying,” the Prince adds quickly. “Or didn’t I say that already?”

  My heart flip-flops and I sputter. My mouth finally opens. “You’re a liar.”

  “Yes,” he says, his dimples returning, “I am, but only because I’ve seen the damage truth can cause.”

  “Truth sets you free.”

  “Does it? Do you feel free right now?” He leans forward, his sentences firing fast, giving me no time to respond. “It was truth that kept Adam and Eve locked in a garden. Truth that plunged the apostle John into boiling oil. Truth that exiled him. It was truth that saw your people stoned to death. Truth that had them chained to the floor of the coliseum. And it was the God of truth who fed them to the lions.”

  “That’s not—”

  “True? I assure you it is. And right now the truth is your father is dying.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “He didn’t take your sudden absence very well. You should have left a note.”

  “I—”

  “The police told him he couldn’t file a missing person’s report. Not just yet. You haven’t been missing nearly long enough, and what with your boyfriend being gone, and your car, well, it looks far too much like a romantic rendezvous.”

  Tears threaten to spill over, but I don’t want to cry. Not here. With the Prince. I pinch my eyes shut, but I feel their coolness on my cheeks anyway. The Prince continues, his words conjuring images that rise from the darkness of my mind. I see Dad. I see his hand wrapped around the neck of an amber-colored bottle. He blunders around, confused, his eyes frenzied. I open my eyes to escape the tragedy of it, but a gust of frigid air smacks me in the face. You’d think it’d be something of a relief here in the desert, but the change is too much, too severe, and I’m light-headed. I fold in half, my hands on my thighs, my eyes on Dad.

  He’s here.

  Over the Prince’s right shoulder I sI’m not sure yowpD;ee him. I see Stratus. I jab two fists in my eyes, sand and salt stinging, scratching. But I blink them open again and the image is that much clearer. I’m still in the desert, still facing the Prince, but beyond him Dad drives down Main Street, a Vulture demon clinging to the top of his truck. His arm hangs out the truck window, a beer bottle clenched tightly in his fist. Desert sand coats the buildings of Stratus, the streets. It gathers on the sidewalks and in the gutters. More Vulture demons skitter through it, invisible, jabbering craziness as pedestrians cross.

  “Before he went out searching, your father threw a couple back. He nearly lost control of his truck as he crossed Crooked Leg Bridge. There’s a smear of paint on the railing to prove it.”

  I watch Dad leave Main, watch as his truck bumps along the highway past Delia’s, past the high school. I watch as he hangs a left onto the narrow road that leads out to the bridge. His face is pale and frightened. Fear fills the truck, pouring from the open windows.

  The Prince’s voice is soft. “He made it off the bridge, but only just.”

  “So he’s okay?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he says. “My sources tell me his truck slid down the hillside just beyond it. Your father is currently slumped over the wheel in a ditch.”

  I see it. All of it. The bridge and the truck, the ditch and the overgrown grass there. I want to disbelieve him, but I can see it so clearly. It’s there, right in front of me. It’s so probable. So likely.

  “My source tells me there’s been quite a bit of blood loss. You and I both know Crooked Leg Bridge is just far enough outside of Stratus that no one will find your old man until it’s too late.”

  I want to tell him that his words are lies, that thecan offer the

  17

  Marco

  They’ve been back in Stratus for less than a day and Marco’s d
reaming again. In fact, he can’t stop the dream that Damien started when he slammed the halo onto his head. It’s there when he closes his eyes and it’s there when he wakes. He does what he can to appear normal, for Kaylee’s sake mostly, but the scene plays out again and again, and eventually he takes to Delia’s spare bedroom to analyze it. It’s a distraction that leaves a lingering headache behind his eyes, but he almost doesn’t mind. It’s the first he’s had like this. A dream about the future, and it’s not terrifying. There’s actually hope in the images that stalk him.

  And with Jake and Brielle on the far side of the earth, with Liv nursing the scars on her arm and legs, he finds himself clinging to the promise of a better tomorrow.

  Because in that tomorrow he sees Jake. Healthy, whole. Sitting on a barstool, strumming a guitar, singing a song Marco’s never heard. The room is full—young people, old people—the smell of chocolate clinging to the curtains.

  There by the window, just past a square table, surrounded by yellow chairs so simil

  18

  Brielle

  Done.”

  Behind the Prince I watch a scene take shape and hover above the salt. From the bed of Dad’s truck a demon crawls. Small, chalky. Before his talons can hit the ground he’s taken a human form. Old, gray, bald. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and dials.

  Relief blossoms next to the guilt taking root in my stomach.

  “The sheriff himself will handle the call, I’ve made sure of that,” the Prince says, taking my chin in his hands and turning my face toward him. His hands are cold, but I’ve been bathed in fear for hours now and I hardly notice. “They’re friends, yes? The sheriff and your father. His involvement should keep this little incident out of the papers. Off the television. I know how you dislike that.”

  My lips tremble as I speak. “Th-thank you.”

  “I’ve held up my end of the bargain,” he says. “Now it’s your turn.”

  I owe him. I know I do, so I sit. I’ll listen. I’ll answer his & about ow entirely questions because he saved my father, but that’s all. I don’t owe him any more than that.