“We don’t get to choose how others respond to God or His gifts; we can only pray they’ll be open. And, Jake, we may serve the Prince of Peace, but He is also a warrior.”
They’ve had this discussion before, and Jake rehearses a phrase he’s heard Canaan say many times. “War may end with peace, but it rarely starts there.”
“So we exercise faith, Jake. Faith that God has a plan and that His will is perfect.”
With a pang that has him looking away, Jake considers the missing engagement ring and can’t stop himself from wondering,
Is God’s will always perfect? Always?
He doesn’t want to talk about that now. Not with Canaan, whose faith can’t be shaken. Jake tips his head to the sky, willing the tears to stay put.
There’s not a cloud in sight, hardly any wind. The sun bounces off hundreds of city windows, turning the urban setting into a trove of gemstones. But Jake needs to get back to Stratus. To Brielle.
“Are you staying?” he asks.
“For a while. There’s been some activity at Henry’s place. Not demonic, but I’d like to see what’s going on.”
Jake opens his driver’s side door and drops into his seat. He shifts, feeling something beneath him: his phone.
Canaan lowers his face to the window. “Drive safely,” he says. “I’ll call soon.”
But Jake’s ill. His hands shake, and he can’t quite focus on the message before him.
Canaan yanks the phone from his hands and reads.
And then, without discussion, he crouches next to the car, and Jake watches the Terrestrial swallow his guardian. A blink later and Jake is lifted from his seat and secured against Canaan’s chest. If he were to open his eyes, he’d see the city of Portland passing below them in a conglomeration of light and color, but his eyes are closed in prayer.
He utters nothingness, pained fears, desperate pleas, terrified gibberish.
Is today the day?
The day he loses Brielle?
A
nything?”
“No,” Kaylee says, her fingers jumping like spastic crickets over the smooth face of her phone. Her slippered feet are drawn up, crossed on the toilet seat, her back curled against the tank. She looks small.
She looks scared.
I want to say something to reassure her, but I could use some comforting words myself.
Where is Jake?
“You girls done in there? I need to pee.”
“We’re done,” I say, opening the door and stepping past Dad into the hall.
I bump the beer he’s holding. It sloshes down his hand and onto the blue carpet.
“It’s not even nine o’clock, Dad.”
He casts a quick glance at Kaylee, but she looks away.
“Just leave it, Elle,” he growls.
“You know I won’t.”
I’m steaming, but Dad closes the bathroom door and the
conversation ends. Kaylee follows me to my room and crawls up onto my bed while I pace.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I will be.”
“What’s that mean?”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy plotting. Kaylee’s phone vibrates with a low purr.
“Who is it?” I ask, lurching to a stop.
She reads the screen, her face a smear of pink mascara and resignation.
“Delia.” She sighs. “I left the faucet on. Flooded the bathroom. She’s not very happy about it.”
“Lucky thing you’re here then.”
“Yeah. Lucky me. Palpable father-daughter tension and invisible demons.”
She has a point.
Another sigh from Kay. A big, fat, end-of-the-world kind of sigh. “Since I seem to have nothing, Elle, what about you? How’d that whole praying thing work out?”
I start walking again, back and forth, searching for words. For the right words. I know I’m supposed to be a good example—supposed to know what to say—but I don’t. I don’t know anything. And Dad’s beer—the one he’s holding right now—feels like the final straw. Not the one that breaks me, but the last one I’m willing to suffer.
“I’m glad I prayed,” I say, “and I’m going to keep praying, because I don’t know what else to do.”
“Where are you going?”
I don’t answer. I’m afraid saying the words out loud will dampen my resolve.
“Elle?”
I fling open the door and step into the hall. Three steps more and I’m in the kitchen. I grab the plastic trash can as I pass it. Three more steps take me to the door of the fridge. I take one more deep breath and then I open the door and count. Fourteen blue-labeled bottles stare back at me. Laughing.
They’ve got my dad, and we all know it.
Indignation makes my muscles and bones ache. I let it take control, let it swipe my arm across the middle shelf. I press the trash can closer, catching every last bottle. Glass shatters, and the smell of misery fills the air.
“
What
are you doing?” Dad stands in the arched entryway between the kitchen and the living room. His mouth gapes. The television chatters behind him, making him look like a character in one of those foreign films whose words have been dubbed in. Unimportant. What is important is Dad’s face.
He’s mad. More than that, he looks disappointed.
In me.
That’s fine.
I hug the trash can to my chest and walk to the kitchen door.
“Gabrielle!” His face is red, his hand white around the neck of the half-empty bottle in his hand.
“That’s your last one today,” I say. My words are empty of conviction, but my legs aren’t. They take me away from him. Toward the door.
“Brielle!”
I fling the door open and step into the sunlight. I don’t check the skies. I don’t look around for Damien. If he’s there, I don’t want to know. Not now. Not until I’ve got this done. Twelve steps take me around the house and to the large garbage can
pressed against its side. It’s awkward, but I lift the lid and heft the plastic trash can in. The whole thing.
Glass breaks, amber liquid sloshing like a choppy sea as the bottles collide, but I’m relieved.
Demons from without are one thing.
In my house—in my father’s hand—they’re impossible to fight.
Adrenaline shakes my body, but I close the lid on the wet, sopping mess and fling myself against the side of the house. A sob gurgles in my throat, but I refuse to let it free.
God, be my peace. There won’t be any inside after what I’ve done.
A soft breeze tugs at my hair, at the shirt hanging loose against my body. The wind rushes faster and faster, pushing past me, and then as quickly as it arrived it abandons me to the hot sun.
It leaves behind a song—high voices that whisper soft unintelligible things and low notes that rattle my chest.
The Sabres.
I step away from the smell of alcohol and toward the voices. The melody is louder here, coming from this direction, but though I squint and crane around I see nothing. Nothing but the decaying apple orchard in the distance. The music pulls me closer, and I step carefully with my bare feet, doing my best to avoid fallen pinecones and dry prickly weeds.
And then I see it.
Spiraling from the tops of the apple trees, I see worship. Like the pianist’s song on Christmas, the melody trills in loops of colored incense toward the heavens. Greens and blues. Shades I have trouble naming, but they’re thrilling and awe inspiring. My eyes follow the streaming tendrils higher and higher, my heart swelling with the sound. With the sight of it all.
I tip my chin up, wishing my fingers could touch the ribbons of worship high above.
And then fear smacks me in the chest. It wraps me tight and pulls me to my knees.
I gasp and gasp, my eyes glued to the heavens. Rocks and gravel bite at my bare legs, but the pain is nothing to the fear pressing down on me.
My eyes—celestial eyes that have just seen worship—now see a sky black with writhing bodies. A mass of twitching wings and claws, their swords of ice steaming in the hot celestial sky.
“The Palatine. They weren’t supposed to be here for two more days. And now we’re out of time.”
Damien’s voice is in my head again. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s here and that’s enough.
If the frigid cold climbing up my back is any indication, he’s close.
But I don’t turn. I don’t move. One monster is not nearly so frightening as a sky full of them. My gaze arches across the sky from horizon to horizon, but I see nothing beyond the army. Not to the east or to the west. I look north and south, panic coating my arms in chilling sweat. I thought there were more fighting for
us
, but I was wrong.
We’re hemmed in.
Stratus is surrounded.
A
Shield, Commander, approaching from the west.”
Loyal snorts and shakes his mane, melting into the celestial sky as Michael flies to Pearla’s side.
“You’ve good eyes, Pearla. Let us see what he has to say.”
The two of them hover, one great and one small, several hundred yards in front of the army, watching as the Shield advances on their position.
“He flies with only one set of wings, Commander.”
“Well noted, little one. I do not believe our comrade is alone.”
Pearla encounters members of the Shield often enough, but it’s rare for her to see one with a charge tucked beneath his wings. It’s a curious thing to behold, and she continues to watch. He’s taller than most men—a common enough thing for Shields—but not nearly so large as Michael and the other archangels. She’s seen this Shield moving in and out of Stratus, but she’s kept her distance. Cherubic protocol. She’s to observe and report, not engage. It’s why her relationship with Michael is so strong. He’s nearly the only true friend she has.
“Canaan!” the Commander calls, his mind full of recognition. “It has been too long.”
The one called Canaan pulls up just feet from them, the smile on his face strained. “Commander, you approach Stratus?”
“We do. It’s a slow approach. The Palatine have just arrived. We mean to surround them.”
Canaan’s white eyes close. Pearla hears his mind thinking, turning over the thought again and again. Trying to make sense of it. “The Palatine are in Stratus.”
“In the skies above it.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“I can tell you what I know. Pearla”—he places a large hand on her shoulder—“a spy of the cherubic order, has been to Abaddon. In her presence the Prince received word that the Sabres had been released. He believes they’ve been asked to rend the veil over Stratus.”
“Yes, we’ve heard them, seen them. Will they rend the veil, then?”
“I’ve heard nothing from the Throne Room, but they’ve lingered here longer than would be expected if that wasn’t their aim.”
Canaan’s mind is quiet, his white eyes still.
“I’ve a charge inside. In Stratus.”
Michael indicates the boy secured in the safety of Canaan’s wings.
“Is this not your charge?”
Pearla watches the boy through Canaan’s wings. He appears to be sleeping, but even unconscious he fascinates her. Humans fascinate her. Has this one any idea the price that was paid for him? The sacrifice that was made?
“He is. They both are. And both of them have been targeted before.”
It’s a moment before the Commander’s mind speaks. “You aren’t under my command, Canaan, but I suggest you keep him out. The Palatine stand between us and the town. If they see you approaching, they will not hesitate to attack.”
Canaan’s wings push him closer, his voice tight. “We’ve heard from her, Commander. A demon stands guard over her house. One named Damien.”
The name is a light thrown into the confusion tickling Pearla’s mind. It draws her into the discussion.
“You are the boy then!” Her eyes alight on Jake once again. “The boy with healing in his hands.”
His eyes, closed until this very moment, open. His face shines with understanding, and he presses his fingers to Canaan’s wings.
“I am,” he says, his voice muffled.
“And the girl,” Pearla’s mind says. “The girl in Stratus . . .”
“Brielle,” Jake says, his eyes frantic. “Her name is Brielle.”
Pearla looks to Michael.
“She’s the one, Commander. Brielle Matthews. The girl who can see into the Celestial.”
“Well done, Pearla.” Michael turns back to Canaan. “What can you tell me about him? About this Damien?”
“Not so long ago, he was responsible for orchestrating a child trafficking ring, was responsible for the corruption of several men. One of them took the life of a young woman. His attraction to Jake seems to be based on the healing in Jake’s hands. His initial plans included corrupting the gift. Using it for darkness. I can only assume he wants the same for Brielle. For the gift instilled in her eyes.”
“Weaknesses?”
“He suffers. His eyes were damaged years ago.”
Pearla interrupts with a shake of her head. “He’s been
healed. Not long ago, by the Prince himself. The Prince sent him to Stratus. Demanded he bring your two charges to Danakil.”
Canaan flashes red with anger.
The Commander’s face turns hard, but his words are measured. “Cold-blooded creatures like the desert, friend. The dragon is no exception.”
Pearla knows Michael was one of the angels who ministered to Christ after his own time in the desert. After his own time of testing. Does the Prince have similar designs for the boy before her? For the girl with celestial eyes?
“It’s true he was sent here for the two of you, but I think Damien has designs of his own as well,” Pearla continues.
Canaan’s golden brow creases. “Do you know what they are?”
“He’s expressed interest in a bracelet. He’s engaged help to secure it. A woman by the name of . . .”
“Olivia,” Jake says, his eyes wide. “Olivia Holt.”
Pearla nods.
Jake’s voice is so very human, desperate. Pearla’s never understood such desperation. “They have the halo, Canaan. Olivia has it. They’ll be after us next. We can’t leave her. Canaan, we can’t.”
Pearla doesn’t understand Jake’s reference to the halo, but she dare not interrupt. Emotions are running high, and she’s only a Cherub. She’s to observe and report, not engage.
Canaan’s wings tighten around his charge. “We’ll leave you, Commander. It seems Jake and I have things to discuss.”