Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  She did this. Dad was fine until he met her.

  I step to her side. “You should have cut him off.”

  “Me?” She doesn’t look nearly as offended as she should. “I hardly know him. But you—where were you?”

  I want to slap her. I’d like to say I’m above that, but I’m not. She broke my dad.

  I hold out my hand. “Keys.”

  “I can take him.”

  “No. You can’t.” I feel her gaze on me, sharp, like a knife. But I’ve been stabbed before, and I can handle the threat in her eyes.

  “And just how am I getting home?”

  “Jake,” I ask, walking toward the truck, “will you drive my car, take Marco and Olivia?”

  He looks over his shoulder, his expression tender. “Whatever you need.”

  And he means it. He’ll do anything to make this easier for me. There was a time, not long ago, when Dad was that person—the one who made it all better.

  Olivia isn’t done talking. “What if I don’t want to ride with—”

  “Then walk.” There’s a shrill edge to my words, and Dad rouses. His eyes swim in his head, but he’s aware enough to notice Jake’s hand on his chest. He swats at it.

  “Dad!”

  He leans past Marco and throws up. Jake sees it coming and tugs me out of the way, his arms the only thing tethering me to sanity.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

  “Hey,” Jake whispers, holding me tight. “It’s not a problem.”

  Tears roll down my face as I look at the wreck Dad has become. When he’s done emptying his stomach, I dig a beach towel out of my bag and mop his face, the others looking silently on. I’m ashamed. Of my dad. Of the little amber bottles that have turned him into an idiot. Of the fact that he’s turned me—his nineteen-year-old daughter—into his babysitter.

  Jake walks me to the driver’s side and opens the door for me. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, lifting me into the cab and closing me in. Dad’s snoring surrounds me, loud and obnoxious. My hands shake, but I turn the key in the ignition and leave the lake behind. Dad wakes only once on the drive home. His head rolls toward me; his face is impossible to discern in the darkness, but his hand finds my knee.

  “You missed the fireworks,” he says.

  I rest my hand on top of his, forcing the anger from my voice. “Sorry about that.”

  But he’s snoring again.

  It’s better that way, actually. I’ve nothing to say. Nothing kind, anyway. And we did miss the fireworks, Jake and I. A stitch of sadness pierces my heart. It’s been two years since I’ve seen fireworks with Dad. Two years since I’ve seen fireworks, period.

  Then I think of the Sabres and their wings of blade. I think of their song, twisting bright and fragrant, surrounding me. I think of the mountain shining in the darkness, and the Terrestrial veil hanging like a ravaged curtain, the Celestial bleeding into the night.

  I didn’t miss the fireworks after all.

  16

  Jake

  Jake’s window is open. The scent of sweltering evergreens invades his room, clings to the bedsheets. He’s cleared his bed of the books and clothes and sits cross-legged facing the window. The Scriptures lie open on the sill next to a sweating glass of ice water. A secondhand lamp casts an amber glow over the book of Daniel, and Jake’s calloused hand thumbs the thick corner of the leather tome as he reads.

  Parts of this great book feel intensely personal. A boy separated from his home, from his family. A boy with gifts and integrity. A boy who has something the powers that ruled wanted. A boy thrown to the lions.

  But above all, a boy who is a dreamer. Something he has in common with Brielle, which is why Jake is searching the pages tonight.

  He’s started marking things down so he won’t forget, so he can piece this thing together. It’s been six days since the first nightmare, three since Independence Day when the Sabres tore through the veil, and Brielle’s nightmares have done nothing but grow in intensity. It doesn’t matter if she has the halo with her or not, the dream visits every night. The girl in the hallway. Javan and Henry. Three scars marking the girl’s arm.

  The more Jake thinks about it, the less probable it seems that the Sabres and Brielle’s dreams are disconnected. The timing is just too close.

  He plays July Fourth over and over again in his mind. The Sabres—the gigantic Sabres—and their killer wings. And then the veil. Torn. It’s a thing Jake never thought he’d see, and it was over before he’d had time to really consider the significance.

  After the Sabres had broken through, Canaan set him and Brielle down on Bachelor’s summit, and they saw with their very human, very Terrestrial eyes just what anyone else would see if they were watching.

  The sky was torn. Like a tattered curtain, the veil did very little to hide the Celestial behind it. They saw jagged patches of orange sky where it should have been night. Wings of sharpened daggers flashed through the tear, widening the gap, as the Sabres’ worship rose to the Throne Room.

  “It’s their presence that thins the veil,” Canaan said.

  But it was their worship that tore it.

  Canaan used to tell him stories about the Sabres. Jake’s favorite was the one about the great rebellion.

  When the Prince of Darkness attempted to overthrow the Creator, it was the Sabres who stood staunchest against him. Canaan said it was the first time their instrumental wings were used as weapons. He’d love to have been there—to have seen the twelve of them unfurling their dagger-like feathers, locking blade into blade, keeping the Prince from the throne he so desired. While most of the ranks lost a third of their own that day, of the twelve, not a single Sabre fell.

  But the Prince’s rebellion changed their role. Before, their worship of the Creator was a thing never contested, never questioned; now, with thousands and thousands of angels standing in opposition to the light, the Sabres’ song became a weapon against the Fallen, their adoration a swift blade that kept the celestial skies free of the rebels. Free of demonic attack against the angels of light.

  Their song tore at anything that stood between the Creator and His creation.

  They were the sword of God Himself.

  But then mankind rebelled too. Darkness blossomed in the one place the Sabres could not fight—in the hearts of the woman and her husband. And the pure light of the Creator’s glory became a danger to Adam and Eve. Without the Terrestrial veil, without something to dim the light of the Creator, God’s holiness would eventually destroy them.

  And God wept at the tragedy of it.

  The Sabres were pulled from the surrounding skies. If left to worship freely, their song could tear through the veil, leaving humanity vulnerable to the unfiltered light of the Creator.

  This part of the story always saddened Jake. That the veil separated humankind from their heavenly Father. When he was young, it made him cry. But Canaan would take him on his knee and tell him the end—the part of the story that hasn’t happened yet.

  “One day,” he’d say, “a new heaven and a new earth will be established. One day the Sabres will be allowed to worship where they wish, but until the veil is no longer necessary, the Sabres worship only within the safety of the Father’s Throne Room or on the mountaintops, far from creatures who could be damaged by their song.”

  It’s a beautiful ending to a tragic story, but it doesn’t explain why they’re here now.

  In Stratus.

  Canaan told Jake he didn’t know. But as Jake sifts through the pages of Scripture, he’s more certain than ever that their presence has something to do with Brielle’s dreams. And if he can just figure it out, maybe it’ll shed light on the missing ring and the dagger that’s replaced it.

  Maybe solving one mystery will lead to solving another.

  A yellow rectangle spreads across the field outside, catching his eye. Brielle’s living room light has been flipped on, and the glow spills through the window. At first Jake thinks it’s Brielle, but sh
e never uses the front door. The one leading from the kitchen to the porch is closer to her room.

  The door opens, and Keith stumbles into the field wearing what looks like a bathrobe. He trips over something and sprawls face-first into the grass. His booming laugh makes its way across the field, and he pushes awkwardly to his feet. He’s drunk. Something else Jake’s been keeping track of. The first time Brielle noticed his uptick in drinking was Sunday, six days ago. Too many coincidences to ignore.

  Jake climbs out the window and drops to the ground. He resists the urge to holler across the yard. Brielle doesn’t need to see her dad like this, blundering around in the middle of the night.

  Jake darts across the grass, his feet catching stones and dropped pine needles, but that’s nothing to the devastation he knows Brielle will feel if he doesn’t get her dad back inside. He ducks a series of branches and emerges to see Keith standing, staring into the apple orchard behind his house. Jake draws closer, slowing his footsteps, not wanting to scare the guy. The blood runs fast in his ears now, but he swears he hears music.

  Is Keith singing?

  The long grass brushes against his shorts, a rustle that seems loud in the silence of the night, but Keith doesn’t turn around. He stands at the edge of the abandoned orchard, the grass dropping away to hardened dirt and weeds. The sound seems to be coming from within the grove.

  And it’s familiar.

  Not nearly so loud as the worship of the twelve Sabres, but similar.

  Jake steps closer. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and looks again. The trees are gnarled and the weeds growing around them tall and knotted, but there’s no sign the veil is thinning here, no sign it’s torn.

  He looks back toward Brielle’s house, wishing for her eyes. Should he wake her?

  He swivels toward the orchard once again and finds himself face-to-face with Keith. He’s tempted to take a small step back, but something in Keith’s eyes keeps him close.

  “Sir,” Jake says. Keith wobbles, and Jake reaches out a hand to steady him.

  “Hands off.” He swats at Jake with a heavy hand, but he’s slow and sloppy and he doesn’t connect.

  “Sorry, sir,” Jake says, but he doesn’t release Keith’s arm. He can’t. Keith’s leaned into him now, and Jake supports a hefty portion of the large man’s weight. Keith’s other arm swings around, pointing into the orchard. Jake’s bare feet dig into the grass and his thighs tense, keeping the two of them standing.

  “You know what it is?” Keith says. “That music?”

  Jake doesn’t answer. He’s too busy holding the man upright. But his hands and arms are damp with nervous sweat, and Keith slips free, stumbling into Jake, who steadies him.

  “I do,” Keith says, regaining his balance and standing taller. “I know who’s singing.”

  Jake doesn’t have a response to that.

  “It’s them,” Keith says, his gray eyes moist. “The ones that took her.”

  Jake turns his eyes back to the orchard. “Who? I don’t see anyone, sir.”

  “I don’t see them either. But I hear them.” He laughs, but there’s no hilarity there. It’s sad, defeated. “You don’t believe me, I know, but I heard them. Heard them that day like I hear them now.” Keith’s swollen eyes leak tears as they scrutinize Jake—as they dare him to contradict his assessment. And then he blows out a puff of air in disgust. The sour smell of yeast and vomit lingers between them. “Who cares what you think? Who are you anyway?”

  Jake knows it’s the alcohol talking, but still this man’s hatred of him tears at his chest. Scratches at the hope there.

  “It’s Jake. I’m Jake.”

  Keith pushes him off and turns back to the orchard. “I know who you are, kid. You and your dad.” Keith sinks to the ground, crosses his legs like he’s a first grader and it’s magic circle time. “And now you’re taking my little girl. Taking her away. Like them. Like they took Hannah.”

  Jake can’t help it. Compassion is who he is; it’s who he was raised to be. He knows he risks further rejection, but he sinks down next to his girlfriend’s dad anyway.

  “She’d never let that happen, sir. She loves you. More than anything.”

  Keith folds in on himself, curling into a ball of terry cloth. He rolls to his side, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapping his body.

  “Not more than anything,” he says.

  17

  Brielle

  Saturday’s turning into a day of double duty for me. Between classes at Miss Macy’s and our new program at the community center, I’m exhausted. The nightmares don’t help. I find myself scanning all my students’ faces to see if anyone resembles the girl from the marble hallway. I look for her on the street and at the supermarket. Yesterday I terrified a poor old man having lunch with his granddaughter. I’d do anything for a really good, dreamless nap.

  Since that doesn’t seem possible, I’ve been trying to pay attention to the scene that captures me when I sleep. I try to let my eyes wander, try to pick up anything that tells me what to do with what I’m seeing. So far I’ve not been able to see anything beyond the girl’s own gaze, but I’m determined. If figuring this dream out is the only way to get rid of it, I have to keep trying. Canaan did check Henry’s place for me. He’s been there several times now, to the city, to the townhouse Henry owns. The old man’s there, he says, but he swears Javan’s nowhere to be found.

  “Dad, I’m home.” The cool linoleum of the kitchen floor soothes my tired toes. I tug open the fridge and feel unexpectedly violent. A wall of amber-colored beer bottles separate me from the pitcher of filtered water behind. I shove them aside and free the pitcher.

  “Seriously, Dad. This is ridiculous. You stocking up for the apocalypse?”

  When I kick the door shut with my sweaty foot, I see my father. He’s leaning against the archway separating the kitchen from the living room.

  “Am I out of beer? Can you pick me up a six-pack?” Each word carries the hint of a slur, and sick runs down his shirt. Speckles of it fleck his beard.

  “Really, Dad?” I say, shaking the pitcher at him. “Really?”

  He just stares at me, his eyes on my wrist. I plop the pitcher down and yank the halo off, shoving it into my back pocket. Dad pushes past me and grabs a half-empty beer from the counter.

  “You really think you need another one?”

  “It’s Saturday, all right?” he says, swatting at the air like a petulant child.

  “Saturday is not synonymous with ‘drink yourself stupid,’ Dad. Neither is Tuesday or Wednesday or—”

  “Independence Day.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I am sorry about that, Elle.” He takes a few wobbly steps into the kitchen and pulls a glass from the cupboard next to the sink. He presses two hands flat on the counter, steadying himself, before he picks up the pitcher. He fills the glass, sloshing water onto the counter, and hands it to me.

  “And yet here you are, drinking yourself stupid again. What is going on with you?”

  The fur lining his lip trembles. His eyes slide back and forth behind red-rimmed lids, veins blossoming like roses against the yellowing whites of his eyes.

  “I just miss you, Hannah.”

  There are moments when looking like my mom royally sucks.

  “Dad . . .”

  My phone beeps. Dad and I both turn our eyes to my pocket, where the light of my screen penetrates my jeans. It beeps again.

  “That your boyfriend?”

  “It’s probably Kaylee. We’re supposed to—”

  “Bet it’s your boyfriend.”

  I yank the phone from my pocket intending to prove him wrong, but when I look up again, he’s trundling away. He falls into his La-Z-Boy, his eyes unfocused. My phone beeps again—the call going to voice mail—but I power off the phone, watching instead as the strongest man I’ve ever known opens another bottle of beer.

  It’s still light, but the sky is streaked with pink and orange, the sun finally going down on thi
s long summer day. So I slide into an old tank top and a pair of boxers and give myself permission to call it a night.

  Turns out it was Jake on the phone earlier. I text him, promising to see him tomorrow, and crawl into bed far too aware that a nightmare is waiting for me. It doesn’t matter. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

  The halo won’t prevent the nightmare, but I slide it under my pillow anyway. I think it eases the transition, and it certainly makes drifting off more pleasant. Warm, soft. I close my eyes as the celestial heat of the halo spreads down my back, my hamstrings, my calves, even my heels. Color assaults my mind, and I surrender to it. How pleasant this used to be before the nightmares. As sleep takes me, I pray for a reprieve.

  Instead, the nightmare changes.

  It’s the girl again, her face emerging from the colors. But I’m closer and I get a better look this time. She has large, dark eyes and raven hair that frames her face. She’s young, younger than she was the last time I saw her. I ponder the impossibility of that as my ears prick at a sound.

  She’s talking to me. “Are you sick?”

  I blink, looking around. It’s bright here. Much brighter than the marble hallway. We’re in a waiting room. At a hospital, I think.

  “You look sick.”

  “Do I?”

  She nods, scribbling away at the coloring book in her lap. I feel my face stretch as I offer her a smile.

  “Daddy looked like you before he died.”

  My smile falls away. I feel that too. My stomach is sick, but I don’t know if it’s the child’s words that have done that or if it’s part of my illness.

  “The doctors think the medicine will make me better,” I say.

  “I hope so.”

  “Me too.” My voice is weak and crackles with phlegm. I want to clear my throat, but I don’t seem to have any control over my body. “Are you here to see the doctor too?”

  She shakes her head and points her red crayon at the woman in scrubs manning the reception counter. “Mama has to work. She helps people.”