Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  As annoying as the incense is, the bookstore is far more welcoming than the dark hole of a tattoo shop next to it. Yet Jake stands in front of its windows staring at the artwork painted there. A snarling lion emerges from a heart styled of scrolling loops and curves. His heart feels an awful lot like a lion is trying to claw its way out of it, and as the minutes pass he develops a fascination for the artwork.

  He reaches out a hand and runs it along the twisting lines merging with the lion’s mane. If he can figure this out, figure out why the Throne Room sent him here, maybe he’ll understand why they took the ring. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to convince Brielle to hear him out.

  In his back pocket is the picture of the tattoo—the one they found in the chest—but he doesn’t need to pull it out to recognize just how similar the styling is to this. To this lion and its evil heart.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  Hurrying toward Jake from the south side of the street is a man wearing threadbare jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt with the sleeves shredded. A cigarette dangles from his lip, unlit, more decoration than anything else. He’s easily in his fifties, but his gray hair is plastered into a series of little spikes and he’s wearing thick black eyeliner. A chain of keys slaps against his thigh, making his approach sound like a chorus of bell-wielding children. His arms and neck bear hundreds of tattoos, his hands are decorated with an array of rings. Thick bands, silver skulls, gaudy gemstones.

  He lifts the jangling keychain from his hip, finds the correct key with remarkable ease, and jams it into the lock. He spins the key around and thrusts himself into the building.

  “Bike broke,” he says by way of apology. “You here for some ink?”

  The man drops his keys on the counter and tucks the cigarette behind his ear. He busies himself—flipping switches, turning on computers.

  “Actually, I have a question,” Jake says.

  “Little early for pop quizzes, ain’t it?” The man slides onto a barstool behind the counter and looks Jake in the eye for the first time. He must see something there he likes, because his demeanor softens. “Go ahead, kid. I’m just messing with ya.”

  Jake hesitates. The idea of knowing what this guy knows is suddenly terrifying. Still, he pulls the picture from his pocket and slides it across the counter.

  “You know this?”

  The guy picks it up and swears. “Where’d you get this, kid?”

  “So you know it?”

  “Sure, I know it. I did it, didn’t I? Haven’t seen this in forever.”

  “Can you tell me who it is?”

  “Doctor Doom,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughs again. It’s weaselly, this man’s laugh. Kind of shrill, kind of devious. But his face is kind.

  “Doctor Doom, ha! Yeah, that’s what we called him.” He taps the corner of the picture against his lip. “What was his real name? Bud, maybe? Billy? I don’t know. It’s been too long now. Don’t rightly remember.”

  Brian, Jake thinks. If it’s my dad, his first name was Brian.

  Jake’s lips have never felt so dry. He licks them, and then once more before he asks, “Do you know his last name?”

  “Nah. Just Doom, you know? He was Doom to those of us around here.”

  “Did you know Jessica? Was she his . . . wife?”

  “I don’t know if they were hitched or not, but they were together all the time. Before the fire, she worked at a pub on Burnside. Still there, if you wanna check it out. Ringlers.”

  “There was a fire at the pub?”

  “Not at the pub, but there was definitely a fire.”

  Jake’s hands are slick. He wipes them on his pants. “When?”

  “Details aren’t really my thing either. At least a decade ago, maybe more. Doctor Doom himself set the thing. Accident, by all accounts, but there’s no shirking it. The blame lies with him.”

  Jake feels the sweat break out along his hairline and down his spine. He’s never believed much in coincidences, and his stomach is sick at the scenario placed before him.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, you know that copper stuff inside of wiring? It’s worth an awful lot of money to the right people. And Doctor Doom, well, he never had a real job. Quick buck here and there. Just stuff like that, ya know? That’s all he was ever looking for. Somehow he got into this whole copper deal and started scaling buildings for the stuff. Breaking apart AC and heater units for it. Awful hard work for a guy who didn’t want a job.”

  Jake rubs at his neck, tense—tells himself it’s the lack of sleep, the long drive, but it’s more than that and he knows it.

  “And he started a fire?” he asks.

  “Yeah, man. Huge thing too.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know all the details, but if I remember correctly, the police found a soldering iron there in the rubble. If he used that, it’d been far too easy to get the sparks flying. It was an old school. Couple sparks is probably all it took before the place went up in flames.”

  It’s not just his lips now; Jake’s mouth goes dry. The morning sun beats through the glass windows pressing against his back, drawing sweat that slips down his chin.

  “Was anybody hurt?”

  “Lady, I think.”

  Jake is trembling, the pieces sliding into place, creating a horrible, horrible picture. If what this guy’s saying is true, his dad killed Olivia’s mom.

  “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah, just . . . What happened to him—to Doctor Doom?”

  “Arrested, man. Caught all burnt and blistered. Never saw him after that. Last I remember, he got sent up on charges for what he done. That school wasn’t his first, so who knows.”

  But Jake’s mind is a step ahead. There are articles online about the fire. Brielle was reading them last night. Doctor Doom’s last name has to be in there, and if it’s not there will be arrest reports. Jake’s last name could be in those reports.

  The guy checks his watch and then stands, moving toward the back of the small shop. “You can keep asking, kid, if you got more questions, but I gotta get set up. Appointment in a few.”

  Jake follows him back, his mind moving like a trap, his eyes absently wandering the walls and the pictures plastered there. Photos of tattoos done in the shop, of clients with dragons and tigers and flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.

  “Can you tell me what happened to Jessica?”

  “Disappeared when Doctor Doom did, I think,” the guy says, setting the picture on the tray before him. He lays out a series of metal tools on a white terry cloth.

  “Was she was involved in the copper theft?”

  “Nah,” he says. “I doubt it. She was a sweet gal. Pity she got mixed up with him. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice guy—Doctor Doom—fun to be around, threw a great party. But Jessica, well, she was special. Had something of a temper, but with Doctor Doom, ya know, probably a necessary thing. She needed someone in a suit and tie, you know? Someone who could get her out of waiting tables.”

  Jake watches him prepare his workstation, his mind taking a beating, moving slow. Eventually his eyes settle on the picture.

  “How do you know them, kid—Doctor Doom and pretty little Jessica?”

  “I think they were my parents.”

  “Whoa. Didn’t know they had a kid. Here,” he says, lifting the picture off the tray and handing it back. “You keep it.”

  “Thank you.” He’s not sure how he feels about this picture now. About what his . . . dad . . . did. He doesn’t look at it as he slides it into his pocket. “I appreciate it. And your time. I know it’s early.”

  Jake extends his hand, and the guy shakes it.

  “You come back, kid, all right? Pick anything you like. Ink’s on me.”

  Jake can’t decide if he’s tempted or not. “I appreciate it.”

  “Anything for Doctor Doom’s kid.”

  Jake steps onto the sidewalk, the glorious summer
day at war with the cold winter taking up residence in his chest.

  The son of Doctor Doom.

  Go figure.

  31

  Brielle

  Redial.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  Voice mail.

  Again.

  “So he’s invisible? This demon?”

  “Kind of, yes,” I say. “Invisible to you.”

  She picks at her eyelashes. I redial again. “Why can you see him, Elle?”

  I don’t have time to consider the consequences of telling her. I don’t even have time to weigh my options. It’s not ideal, not as I imagined it would be: sipping coffee and eating cookies, poring over Scripture. But what about my life is ideal these days?

  I’ll answer her questions. Truthfully. There’s no other way to explain this morning anyway. No other way to explain my crazy response to Damien and Helene.

  “The halo. It’s not just a halo in the figurative sense. It’s an actual, literal halo. An angel’s halo.”

  Her jaw drops open, making a sucking, popping sound, but she doesn’t question my claim.

  “Where is it?” she asks, searching my wrists.

  “Marco has it,” I say. The phone at my ear rings again and again.

  “Marco’s an—”

  “No, no, no. It was in Jake’s bag—the halo—and Marco grabbed the wrong bag when he left,” I say quickly. “Pick up!”

  “Marco left?”

  “Pick up!”

  But Jake doesn’t pick up. I jam my finger on End and hand the phone back to Kaylee.

  “I might kill that boyfriend of yours,” she says.

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  I search the sky, but there’s nothing to see. Not even a cloud.

  “So he flies, then,” Kaylee says, shooting darting glances upward.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. Big black wings and all.”

  “So, if there are demons . . .” Her voice has gotten all gulpy.

  “Then there are also angels,” I say, placing my hands on her shoulders. “Good guys.”

  “Jake?”

  I shake my head. “Canaan.”

  “Oh.” She’s computing. I see it—her brain working, her eyes twitching as this new information slides into place.

  “So Jake, then. He’s the son of an angel?”

  I shake my head. “Jake’s parents abandoned him when he was young. Canaan raised him.”

  More info. More computing.

  “You have way too many secrets. Okay, then what about this demon-guy? What does he want?”

  “That’s a very, very good question.”

  “You don’t know?” Shrill. Gulpy.

  “Well, the idea of the Palatine being here freaked him out.”

  “Have we decided what the Palatine is?”

  “No,” I say, “but just before Damien—”

  “Damien? That’s his name? The demon’s name is Damien? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not kidding. Before he asked me about the Palatine, Helene fell through my roof and told me that the Palatine are coming.”

  “Helene too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she fell through your roof?” Kaylee stumbles back a step and slides down the door of her Honda. Her Tazmanian Devil slippers kick up dust as they slip out from under her, and she plops down in the gravel. I squat beside her.

  “She’ll be okay. She heals.”

  “She heals?”

  “Look,” I say, tugging on the brim of her hat. “I know this isn’t a good time to dump more info on you, but you need to know something, okay? Damien—this demon—he was the author of the whole warehouse thing. It wasn’t that Juan guy or Eddie.”

  Her face puckers at my reference to Eddie. Dimples. The guy who kidnapped her last December; he tied her up and hauled her to Damien’s warehouse intending to sell her. I hate bringing him up, but she wanted the truth and I don’t have time for a soft version of it.

  “They were just a couple goons he worked with. Damien is the real nightmare.”

  She just stares. I hope—hope—that she’s getting this. That she’s understanding, because I have no idea where Damien is or whether he’s coming back, and I want her to be prepared.

  “He has the ability to cloak people, Kay. Make us invisible like him. He can pick us up—fly us around—do bad things to us, but you need to know this. Are you listening? Because if you don’t hear anything else I’m telling you, you need to hear this: there are more fighting for us than there are fighting against us.”

  I give it a second to sink in, but she just blinks back at me.

  “Listen, I’m going to do my best to talk to him. To understand what he wants and why he’s here.”

  “Why is he here?” And now tears pour down her face. They’re pink, her mascara running, dripping from her chin onto her pajamas.

  “He shouldn’t be. He messed up big at the warehouse, and my understanding is that his punishment should have lasted longer than this.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “We’ll talk, okay?” I tell her. “Later. All about demon punishment and . . . stuff. But promise me you won’t freak out. Promise me you’ll stay calm if he comes back.”

  “If he’s invisible, how will I know?”

  “If I can see him, I’ll tell you.”

  “If?”

  “Without the halo my sight is . . . inconsistent. I don’t know why. You don’t have Canaan’s number, do you?”

  She shakes her head. It was a long shot anyway.

  “I have Helene’s.”

  I think of Helene’s mangled body. I think of her disappearing from sight. She needs time to heal, but how long will that take? I think back to the warehouse. To the extent of her wounds there.

  “Okay,” I say. “Here’s the plan. You keep calling. Jake and Helene. Just call until one of them answers. Leave a message on their voice mail too. And text your heart out, Kay.”

  She clenches her phone to her chest. “I can do that.”

  I laugh. It’s too loud, out of place here with a demon circling, but I do it anyway.

  “Yes, I believe you can.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to pray.”

  Her face is already pale, but now it looks all green and sickly.

  “That’s it. That’s all? I’m going to text and you’re going to pray?”

  I nod, her fear grabbing hold of me as well.

  “No offense, Elle, but that’s a crappy plan.”

  She may be right.

  “Yeah, but it’s all I’ve got right now,” I say, pulling her to her feet. “You with me?”

  “Okay,” she says. “I’m in, but what are we going to tell your dad?”

  I twist around, and there, walking up the road back toward the house, is Dad.

  “Holy heck. What is he doing back here?”

  “I don’t know, but he doesn’t look happy to see you outside. You’re supposed to be in bed, remember? We’re going to have to tell him something.”

  “Sitting Dad down and telling him we had a little visit from a demon this morning might not be the best way to handle this.”

  “It’s what you did with me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not as crazy as my dad. Or as hungover.”

  “That’s saying something at least.”

  Dad crunches through the gravel toward us, his ice chest swinging against his leg, his eyes squinting in the morning light. I hold my arms out, questioning.

  “Truck broke down,” he says.

  Of course it did.

  “They’re towing it to the Auto Body.”

  “So, no work for you today,” I say, glancing at the sky once more.

  “I’m expecting an angry call from Cliff anytime now. What are you girls doing out here? Thought you were going back to bed, Elle.”

  “I was. I am. Kaylee needed something from her car.”

  “My phone,” she says. “Forgot it out her
e.”

  “And you needed an escort?”

  “You know girls,” she says. “Gotta do it all together. In fact, I think, yup, I have to pee. You wanna come, Elle?”

  “Yes!” I say. “The bathroom. Yes.”

  Dad narrows his eyes at us, but we’re around her car in a flash. We run up the porch stairs and back inside, through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I slam the door, and she falls onto the closed toilet.

  “Okay, what now?”

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Holy golden haloes, Batman. I’m hideous.

  “You start dialing,” I say. “I’m going to brush my teeth and pray at the same time.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You don’t, like, need to be on your knees or holding beads or something?”

  “I’ll be talking to an invisible God,” I tell her. “He’s all right with me brushing up while I do it.”

  I pull my toothpaste from the drawer. “But, Kay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m new at this whole praying thing, so I’m going to do it silent-like, okay? In my head.”

  “Whatever sharpens your pencil, girl. I’m pretending this is all in your head.”

  32

  Jake

  When he exits the tattoo parlor, Jake finds Canaan leaning against his car door, his face hanging with emotion.

  “I’m sorry, Jake.”

  “You heard, then? Doctor Doom.”

  “I heard,” Canaan says.

  “Do you think that’s why Olivia’s come to Stratus? For some sort of generational revenge?”

  “I’m not certain Olivia knows why she came to Stratus. I expect only time will tell.”

  “And you haven’t seen her or Marco?”

  “No,” Canaan says. “But I’ll keep an eye out for them.”

  “And the halo?”

  Canaan shrugs. Even on the phone he was strangely serene about the missing halo.

  “We have no control over that now,” he says. “You’re more like him than I, Jake. If you stumbled upon it like he did, would you let it out of your sight?”